Read Online The Ale Boy's Feast by Jeffrey Overstreet - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Jeffrey Overstreet
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were knives and he was sculpting the air, finding the right contours.
When the gleaming lake came into view—a pink mirror of the evening sky—they began to descend.
Hearing the kite-maker’s instructions, Cal-raven and Nat-ryan raised their feet and then landed in a run. Soro guided the kites to gently scud along the pebbled beach until they stopped, their canvas sagging wearily.
The beach ran along between the rippling lake water and three dark cave mouths at the base of a cliff that rose high and smooth above them.
The high stone wall gained his full attention, for it was painted in grand, vivid stripes of color.
“Auralia,” he whispered.
4
A WAKENINGS
s the ale boy emerged from the earth’s crooked mouth, he breathed deep, relieved to escape the stagnant air of the maze below. Any light, even the sickly glow of the sun’s cold coin over a world drained of colors, was better than the subterranean dark.
Auralia’s out there somewhere
.
He looked down at himself, an unfamiliar clown. The tunic and torn trousers that Jordam had found in the Cent Regus’s plunder did nothing to muffle the bite in the breeze. Had winter lost its patience and pushed autumn aside?
How he longed for a hot bath. He thought of the wine barrel that Abascar’s brewer, Obsidia Dram, had given him for a washtub, where he could bathe after carrying heavy harvest from the forest to the Underkeep. The steam had smelled faintly of the wine that had once filled it. Obsidia would hunch over the barrel—she was always hunched—and redden his back and shoulders with a harshbristle brush while she sang a strange, comforting melody fourteen notes long.
He sang it now, limping along the river’s slick bank on his half broom-handle crutch, his body slow in remembering how to walk.
The river slithered past, its skin opaque and filthy, spilling down into the Core. Brascles crazed the sky’s brown haze, waiting for the beastmen they served to come out of their burrows and take them hunting. He could see their beady eyes.
“Sometimes,” he said, “I miss the Underkeep.”
His words startled a heap of branches. It leapt from the riverbank, shrieking. The ale boy dropped the crutch and slid on his backside down the incline to the river’s edge.
The branch-tangle pursued him, snatching up the crutch as a weapon. Then it stopped. Amid the thicket costume, a bearded face peered down at him.
The ale boy noticed the tall forehead and the wiry grey hair. A name found his voice. “Kar-balter?”
The man in the suit of twigs paused. “Rescue? Is that you?” He turned the crutch to offer the blunt end.
Relieved to recognize the former Abascar guard, the ale boy took the offer. Upright, he nearly fell again under a barrage of anxious words.
“That beastman, the good one, he went to look for you, boy, and he hasn’t come back and—forgive me—I told him you were shot or eaten or ruined, in some way dead like the rest of our people, and it’s true about them, I’ve seen them, just back in there, downstream, where you came from, but shut my jaw like a window! You’re … you’re not dead! Where’ve you been?”
“Far below,” the boy whispered. “On a different river. Jordam told me to bring you back in.”
“Go back? No, you have it wrong. We’re leaving.”
“He told me he asked you to watch over the dead.”
“You came out of there, so you’ve seen them, the bodies, back there beside the river where we started our escape. Awful, how they’re piled on top of one another, like firewood. You, you’re lucky, only a bad leg to show for it all. But, oh.” He leaned in closer. “Oh, you’re burnt like bacon on the spit too long.”
The ale boy hobbled toward a rowboat that someone—probably Kar-balter—had half covered with dead reeds. “Beastmen’re distracted for now. They’re fighting each other and digging for Essence. When they find it, they’ll be dangerous. And hungry.”
“Sure as vultures.” He brushed
When the gleaming lake came into view—a pink mirror of the evening sky—they began to descend.
Hearing the kite-maker’s instructions, Cal-raven and Nat-ryan raised their feet and then landed in a run. Soro guided the kites to gently scud along the pebbled beach until they stopped, their canvas sagging wearily.
The beach ran along between the rippling lake water and three dark cave mouths at the base of a cliff that rose high and smooth above them.
The high stone wall gained his full attention, for it was painted in grand, vivid stripes of color.
“Auralia,” he whispered.
4
A WAKENINGS
s the ale boy emerged from the earth’s crooked mouth, he breathed deep, relieved to escape the stagnant air of the maze below. Any light, even the sickly glow of the sun’s cold coin over a world drained of colors, was better than the subterranean dark.
Auralia’s out there somewhere
.
He looked down at himself, an unfamiliar clown. The tunic and torn trousers that Jordam had found in the Cent Regus’s plunder did nothing to muffle the bite in the breeze. Had winter lost its patience and pushed autumn aside?
How he longed for a hot bath. He thought of the wine barrel that Abascar’s brewer, Obsidia Dram, had given him for a washtub, where he could bathe after carrying heavy harvest from the forest to the Underkeep. The steam had smelled faintly of the wine that had once filled it. Obsidia would hunch over the barrel—she was always hunched—and redden his back and shoulders with a harshbristle brush while she sang a strange, comforting melody fourteen notes long.
He sang it now, limping along the river’s slick bank on his half broom-handle crutch, his body slow in remembering how to walk.
The river slithered past, its skin opaque and filthy, spilling down into the Core. Brascles crazed the sky’s brown haze, waiting for the beastmen they served to come out of their burrows and take them hunting. He could see their beady eyes.
“Sometimes,” he said, “I miss the Underkeep.”
His words startled a heap of branches. It leapt from the riverbank, shrieking. The ale boy dropped the crutch and slid on his backside down the incline to the river’s edge.
The branch-tangle pursued him, snatching up the crutch as a weapon. Then it stopped. Amid the thicket costume, a bearded face peered down at him.
The ale boy noticed the tall forehead and the wiry grey hair. A name found his voice. “Kar-balter?”
The man in the suit of twigs paused. “Rescue? Is that you?” He turned the crutch to offer the blunt end.
Relieved to recognize the former Abascar guard, the ale boy took the offer. Upright, he nearly fell again under a barrage of anxious words.
“That beastman, the good one, he went to look for you, boy, and he hasn’t come back and—forgive me—I told him you were shot or eaten or ruined, in some way dead like the rest of our people, and it’s true about them, I’ve seen them, just back in there, downstream, where you came from, but shut my jaw like a window! You’re … you’re not dead! Where’ve you been?”
“Far below,” the boy whispered. “On a different river. Jordam told me to bring you back in.”
“Go back? No, you have it wrong. We’re leaving.”
“He told me he asked you to watch over the dead.”
“You came out of there, so you’ve seen them, the bodies, back there beside the river where we started our escape. Awful, how they’re piled on top of one another, like firewood. You, you’re lucky, only a bad leg to show for it all. But, oh.” He leaned in closer. “Oh, you’re burnt like bacon on the spit too long.”
The ale boy hobbled toward a rowboat that someone—probably Kar-balter—had half covered with dead reeds. “Beastmen’re distracted for now. They’re fighting each other and digging for Essence. When they find it, they’ll be dangerous. And hungry.”
“Sure as vultures.” He brushed
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