should have stopped to bathe
.
Stepping onto the White Road, she faced their approach. The line of marchers wound away beyond a curve in the path, hidden behind trees and a distant ridgeline. They were the same people she had seen in her dream. The man leading them wore a crested helmet unlike the animal masks worn by the other warriors. He had a proud, handsome face, terribly familiar in a way she did not understand. As they neared and saw she did not mean to move, he raised a hand and halted and the others slowed to a halt behind him. He looked Liath up and down while a fox-masked woman beside him glared, but it was Sanglant’s mother, in the front, who spoke first.
“Liathano! Where is my father?”
Liath gestured.
“This one?” asked the handsome man. “This is your son’s mate whom you spoke of?”
His gaze followed her gesture, and he looked toward the old man being helped down the steep slope by young Buzzard Mask. A cool wind out of the north rustled leaves. Out in the wasteland, dust funneled heavenward until, all at once, the wind’s hand dropped it and a thousand million particles pattered to bare rock.
“Lost to me,” he breathed. His spear clattered to the ground unheeded beside him, and he leaped forward like a hart and dashed up the hill, not many steps, after all. They were so close; they saw each other clearly. Liath ran after him, but when he stopped two paces from Eldest Uncle she stopped, too.
She stared, seeing it for the first time and understanding why the young man looked familiar. The daimones of the upper air can see forward and backward in time because time has no hold on them; they live above the middle world where time’s yoke subjugates all living creatures. She had a moment’s dislocation. For a moment, she saw as did her kinfolk: youth and age, what had been and what would become.
Eldest Uncle and the young warrior were the same man, but one was old and one was young.
Eldest Uncle covered his eyes and trembled. The other shook his head like a madman.
“Brother!”
“How can this be?”
It was only a whisper. Two whispers. She did not know which one spoke. Buzzard Mask released his hold on the old man, and the young one took a step toward the old one and as of one thought they embraced, holding tight, two creatures who in their hearts are one.
“Do you understand it yet?” asked Sanglant’s mother. As she came up beside Liath, she indicated the men with a lift of her chin. She laughed, but not kindly, sensing Liath’s bewilderment.
“Why do you dislike me so much?” Liath asked her.
“I don’t know. I just do.”
“How can you dislike someone you don’t know?”
“I had to listen to my son talk on and on about you in the days we were together—you, and battle. Those are the only two things he’s ever thought deeply about, if a man can be said to think deeply where his cock is concerned.”
“You don’t like your own son?”
“He’s not what I wanted.”
Liath smiled sharply, wishing she could intimidate others with clever words and the stiffening of her shoulders, as Sanglant could. “He’s what he is, no more and no less than that. If you don’t like it, you missed your chance to make him something else, didn’t you? He is Henry’s son, not yours.”
“Born of humankind,” said Kansi with a sneer.
“Look!” cried Falcon Mask from the wall. She had braced herself with one hand on the highest course of stone as she rose, balancing precariously with drops before and behind. She pointed at the heavens.
The two men released each other, stepping back from the embrace to stare as one at the cloudy sky. How strange it was to see a man both old and young, the same man, as if time had split him into two parts and in its circular discursion finally caught up with itself. There was a wink of light against the clouds as quickly gone.
“We saw two griffins,” said the young man. “But our arrows scared them off.”
Hope leaped in Liath’s
.
Stepping onto the White Road, she faced their approach. The line of marchers wound away beyond a curve in the path, hidden behind trees and a distant ridgeline. They were the same people she had seen in her dream. The man leading them wore a crested helmet unlike the animal masks worn by the other warriors. He had a proud, handsome face, terribly familiar in a way she did not understand. As they neared and saw she did not mean to move, he raised a hand and halted and the others slowed to a halt behind him. He looked Liath up and down while a fox-masked woman beside him glared, but it was Sanglant’s mother, in the front, who spoke first.
“Liathano! Where is my father?”
Liath gestured.
“This one?” asked the handsome man. “This is your son’s mate whom you spoke of?”
His gaze followed her gesture, and he looked toward the old man being helped down the steep slope by young Buzzard Mask. A cool wind out of the north rustled leaves. Out in the wasteland, dust funneled heavenward until, all at once, the wind’s hand dropped it and a thousand million particles pattered to bare rock.
“Lost to me,” he breathed. His spear clattered to the ground unheeded beside him, and he leaped forward like a hart and dashed up the hill, not many steps, after all. They were so close; they saw each other clearly. Liath ran after him, but when he stopped two paces from Eldest Uncle she stopped, too.
She stared, seeing it for the first time and understanding why the young man looked familiar. The daimones of the upper air can see forward and backward in time because time has no hold on them; they live above the middle world where time’s yoke subjugates all living creatures. She had a moment’s dislocation. For a moment, she saw as did her kinfolk: youth and age, what had been and what would become.
Eldest Uncle and the young warrior were the same man, but one was old and one was young.
Eldest Uncle covered his eyes and trembled. The other shook his head like a madman.
“Brother!”
“How can this be?”
It was only a whisper. Two whispers. She did not know which one spoke. Buzzard Mask released his hold on the old man, and the young one took a step toward the old one and as of one thought they embraced, holding tight, two creatures who in their hearts are one.
“Do you understand it yet?” asked Sanglant’s mother. As she came up beside Liath, she indicated the men with a lift of her chin. She laughed, but not kindly, sensing Liath’s bewilderment.
“Why do you dislike me so much?” Liath asked her.
“I don’t know. I just do.”
“How can you dislike someone you don’t know?”
“I had to listen to my son talk on and on about you in the days we were together—you, and battle. Those are the only two things he’s ever thought deeply about, if a man can be said to think deeply where his cock is concerned.”
“You don’t like your own son?”
“He’s not what I wanted.”
Liath smiled sharply, wishing she could intimidate others with clever words and the stiffening of her shoulders, as Sanglant could. “He’s what he is, no more and no less than that. If you don’t like it, you missed your chance to make him something else, didn’t you? He is Henry’s son, not yours.”
“Born of humankind,” said Kansi with a sneer.
“Look!” cried Falcon Mask from the wall. She had braced herself with one hand on the highest course of stone as she rose, balancing precariously with drops before and behind. She pointed at the heavens.
The two men released each other, stepping back from the embrace to stare as one at the cloudy sky. How strange it was to see a man both old and young, the same man, as if time had split him into two parts and in its circular discursion finally caught up with itself. There was a wink of light against the clouds as quickly gone.
“We saw two griffins,” said the young man. “But our arrows scared them off.”
Hope leaped in Liath’s
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