72th Ashan, 710
I
Pharan looked from the blade towards the woman holding it. The Eídisi’s face was unreadable, showing, if anything, an inert focus on him.
He looked towards the side, where Praxes busied himself with his hunting gear. The Ithecal had joined them a trial after the last hamlet had faded from view, emerging from the undergrowth beside their campsite like a ghost. He had stayed with them ever since. Some mornings he would run ahead to check their direction and surrounding others he would vanish for a break or two only to return with a hare he had caught or eggs he had plucked from this nest or that. Sometimes he would talk to his keeper in a tongue Pharan didn’t understand. Beside whatever language they used in their quiet parlance, Praxes also spoke the uncouth tongue Pharan had encountered in so many places since leaving Athart—usually to issue commands Pharan tried to ignore until a yank at his chains persuaded him otherwise.
Having felt his gaze, Praxes looked up to meet his eyes. “Don’t ye look at me like that. I told ‘er ye are too stupid to realize it would be madness to run off on ye own with no food and no equipment and no village around for miles—but she believes ye will stay for that trinket of yah.”
The Ithecal shook his head. For a beast so large, the man had a deep, melodic voice when he spoke in Common. As so often, Pharan was taken aback by the dissonance between his blunt, if soft-spoken words and animal appearance.
Pharan looked back to where the Eídisi still stood beside the fire, holding the gift his mother had made him so long ago. He straightened, drawing closer to the fire. They exchange a long glance before he lifted his bound hands.
Some bits later, he was free. The chain and iron-shackles cluttered to the ground and he stumbled backward. No one tried to stop him as he spread his wings. Muscles, unused for too long, strained as he took a few tentative beats with his wings. He rose two, three feet from the ground, then almost stumbled as he dropped back into the high grass. The Eídisi watched him dispassionately. Praxes stepped forward—to take hold of him or to keep him from falling Pharan couldn’t tell. He veered away from both. The log of a fallen tree rose from the ground nearby, where it had collapsed against some boulders. At the second try, Pharan managed to vault onto the struck down monstrosity. His talons found ample purchase in the rotting wood as he staggered higher on his make-shift ladder. The ground rushed close then slowly grew distance as he threw himself from the log.
Beneath him, the clearing shrank. He struggled against a breeze blowing hard from the south-east, carrying with it the scent of the sea. Pharan rose higher and higher, the canopies of mangroves and tall jungle trees stretching out as far as he could see. The air grew thin around him. He looked down. His keepers had turned into dots of colors moving in the high grass. Something small broke the light, shimmering blue and gold. Pharan angled closer but he knew what he was looking at before in fact seeing it.
It was the dagger, now hanging from the woman’s belt.
Pharan folded his wings. In a blur of color, the ground sprang close. He angled his arms to the side, to bring himself over the Eídisi. He could see her features now, not indifferent anymore—disappointed. She lifted a hand. A shiver of light, painted a bright blue, filled his vision, stretching out to either side beneath him. Distantly he was aware of the changing currents, then the air was knocked from his lungs when he crashed into the barrier. The shield seemed to sing as his talons racked across it, then he was already falling.
He hit the grass. Again, he felt the air forced out of him. He felt grateful for the vegetation which had eased his fall. Praxes face appeared over him as the world grew dark. “Don’t tell me I did no warn ye. All your people are…”
But whatever all his people were, Pharan didn’t catch it anymore.
