Read Online HM02 House of Moons by K.D. Wentworth - Free Book Online
Authors: K.D. Wentworth
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spark— Kisa’s slender young body tensed— and Light the Fire.
Kevisson poised, prepared to boost her spark, but this time the child’s flame was bright and true, leaping into life at the end of the sodden torch. The priest took the burning brand from her small hands and walked to the edge of the pyre. “So do we all return to the Light.” Then he leaned down and fired the wet wood, holding the torch in place until it reluctantly burned with a heavy, roiling black smoke.
Slowly the priest circled the five-cornered pyre, setting the soggy timber alight every few steps, until the flames crept toward the two biers and their untimely occupants.
Exhausted by her effort, young Kisa wavered on unsteady legs as the flames slowly ate their way upward. Kevisson sensed the child had worked beyond her strength and was about to pass out where she stood. He swept her into his arms and turned back to the main house, even though traditionally family members were supposed to remain until the pyre was fully consumed.
He heard Enissa murmur to the other girl, then follow him, slogging wearily through the muddy fields. No doubt Orcado would be angry at this flaunting of tradition, but Kevisson didn’t care. Tradition was going to be very cold comfort to this young pair of sisters in the foreseeable future.
* * *
Summerstone stepped out of the shimmering blue perfection of the nexus into sluggish, bitterly cold air in the deep forest. Behind her, the immense waterfall roared over the rocks, pouring down into the green river below, spilling kinetic energy into the ground and air and water with a recklessness that usually delighted her as much as the ilserin. But something was wrong. The anxious males had scattered, hiding in the surrounding trees, too upset even to play or swim.
Why have you called me? She assumed her most solid form to reassure them.
They crept down the scaly gray trunks, a host of slim young males, heads bowed, shoulders hunched, black eyes dull with misery. One finely grown son, with a long, narrow chin and round eyes, ventured nearer than any of the rest. Gone, gone! It is gone!
What is gone— she plucked his name from his conscious thoughts, Leafcurl?
He made a picture for her in his mind: a clear pool rimmed with ice, broad white steps leading down into the water, a scattering of dull-green shapes nestled in the half-frozen mud at the bottom, and one empty depression where another had rested. Not us, he said dejectedly. We did not take it. Not us. Not us!
No, not you. Summerstone examined the image, shuddering. The tendrils on her head went limp with dismay. So it had started again. After so many Interims, the ilseri had thought the pools safe, but it was as the current oldest, Frostvine, had often remarked, even back in the days when Summerstone herself had been but a callow ilserin: All Whens hinged on Now, and Now was a precarious balance that could be lost at any time.
Summerstone would have to summon the others and see what, if anything, they could do.
* * *
Although the air was warm in the room where she lay, Haemas shivered as consciousness seeped back through her. Opening her eyes slightly, she tried to remember how she had come to this unfamiliar round room, built of dark-grained stone and hung with shredding tapestries thick with webs and dust. A shaft of midmorning sunlight slanted in from a high, narrow window, and a meager fire had been built in the huge fireplace. Next to her cot, a woman with hair the color of Old wheat dozed, her hands curved around an open book.
Haemas moved her head tentatively, but there was only a dull ache in her temples instead of the pounding misery of the night before.
The woman stirred, then blinked down at her with eyes that were medium gold but flecked with odd dark specks. “Well, you certainly look like you’ve been to Darkness and back again. Diren’s little toy was much more effective than I’d ever dreamed.” Smoothing a threadbare fold of her
Kevisson poised, prepared to boost her spark, but this time the child’s flame was bright and true, leaping into life at the end of the sodden torch. The priest took the burning brand from her small hands and walked to the edge of the pyre. “So do we all return to the Light.” Then he leaned down and fired the wet wood, holding the torch in place until it reluctantly burned with a heavy, roiling black smoke.
Slowly the priest circled the five-cornered pyre, setting the soggy timber alight every few steps, until the flames crept toward the two biers and their untimely occupants.
Exhausted by her effort, young Kisa wavered on unsteady legs as the flames slowly ate their way upward. Kevisson sensed the child had worked beyond her strength and was about to pass out where she stood. He swept her into his arms and turned back to the main house, even though traditionally family members were supposed to remain until the pyre was fully consumed.
He heard Enissa murmur to the other girl, then follow him, slogging wearily through the muddy fields. No doubt Orcado would be angry at this flaunting of tradition, but Kevisson didn’t care. Tradition was going to be very cold comfort to this young pair of sisters in the foreseeable future.
* * *
Summerstone stepped out of the shimmering blue perfection of the nexus into sluggish, bitterly cold air in the deep forest. Behind her, the immense waterfall roared over the rocks, pouring down into the green river below, spilling kinetic energy into the ground and air and water with a recklessness that usually delighted her as much as the ilserin. But something was wrong. The anxious males had scattered, hiding in the surrounding trees, too upset even to play or swim.
Why have you called me? She assumed her most solid form to reassure them.
They crept down the scaly gray trunks, a host of slim young males, heads bowed, shoulders hunched, black eyes dull with misery. One finely grown son, with a long, narrow chin and round eyes, ventured nearer than any of the rest. Gone, gone! It is gone!
What is gone— she plucked his name from his conscious thoughts, Leafcurl?
He made a picture for her in his mind: a clear pool rimmed with ice, broad white steps leading down into the water, a scattering of dull-green shapes nestled in the half-frozen mud at the bottom, and one empty depression where another had rested. Not us, he said dejectedly. We did not take it. Not us. Not us!
No, not you. Summerstone examined the image, shuddering. The tendrils on her head went limp with dismay. So it had started again. After so many Interims, the ilseri had thought the pools safe, but it was as the current oldest, Frostvine, had often remarked, even back in the days when Summerstone herself had been but a callow ilserin: All Whens hinged on Now, and Now was a precarious balance that could be lost at any time.
Summerstone would have to summon the others and see what, if anything, they could do.
* * *
Although the air was warm in the room where she lay, Haemas shivered as consciousness seeped back through her. Opening her eyes slightly, she tried to remember how she had come to this unfamiliar round room, built of dark-grained stone and hung with shredding tapestries thick with webs and dust. A shaft of midmorning sunlight slanted in from a high, narrow window, and a meager fire had been built in the huge fireplace. Next to her cot, a woman with hair the color of Old wheat dozed, her hands curved around an open book.
Haemas moved her head tentatively, but there was only a dull ache in her temples instead of the pounding misery of the night before.
The woman stirred, then blinked down at her with eyes that were medium gold but flecked with odd dark specks. “Well, you certainly look like you’ve been to Darkness and back again. Diren’s little toy was much more effective than I’d ever dreamed.” Smoothing a threadbare fold of her
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