Read Online The Wide World's End by James Enge - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: James Enge
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voice saying in the night, They will make that crooked man king someday. At least in the North . And she remembered another voice saying, Shut your lying mouth .
She wanted to agree with the second voice. But she began to fear that the first voice might be right.
The crowds were still cheering when Morlock turned and carried her back into the lodge. He laid her gently down in the hateful bed where she had spent so many empty hours, but it was not so bad now. Thea was still dead and Aloê still grieved for her, but the spring sunlight was pale on the windowsill, reminding her that the world itself was dying. She had work to do, while her own life lasted, however long that was.
She was alive enough to feel hungry and tired, though. A weidhkyrr named Khêtlynn brought her a bowl of broth and a mug of beer from the cooking lodge of the weidhkyrren , and she gratefully accepted them. After Khêtlynn left she napped until the woman in yellow returned to sew up Morlockâs wound. The healer wore odd metal-mesh gloves to do the work. The thin sunlight and flecks of bloody fire glittered on the metal as the healer worked patiently, and Aloê nodded off again.
When she awoke, she found that Morlock was in bed beside her. Horseman was rising, its blank eye staring through the western window of the lodge. In the unforgiving light Morlock looked uglier than ever, and so tiredâhis eyes like bruises as he snored there. She remembered with wonder what he had done for her, and what he had said about her as she was dying. Now part of her life was his. She felt the honor; she felt also the burden. She kissed him gently on his weary eyes and slipped out of bed.
It was chilly for a spring night, but she wore her red vocateâs cloak, wrapping it close around her. The grass on the slope was winter-dry and sparse, hissing against her shoes. Horseman was not in the sky, but great Chariot stood somber in the east, and little Trumpeter was high in the western sky, still full of light and hope. The major and minor moon gave her plenty of light to pick her way down the slope. She wasnât sure where she was headed but she had to get out and see something.
There was a camp in the valley below, almost like a town full of lights and people. She drifted toward it.
There was a fire surrounded by fire-eyed Gray Folk at the edge of the camp. They rose and spoke to her politely in their crunchy language, called her harven , and asked her to sit with them. She begged off, saying she wanted to shake her legs a bit. The idiom made their eyes stretch wide and she had the sense they were about to laugh. But they didnât laugh, and when one of them said, âOur word of respect to your husband, Ruthen Morlock,â they all bowed their serpentine heads and touched their scaly chests. A voice whispered in her ear, They will make that crooked man a king someday . She turned away from them and it, striding deeper into the camp.
She saw Naevros syr Tol coming toward her up the narrow path between shelters, and she wondered what they would say to each other. Had he been among the crowd, cheering with the rest, when Morlock had held her up triumphantly in the sun? Had he been wounded in the battle? Who else that they knew and loved had been killed in the stupid war now ended?
He brushed past her without speaking. That astonished her. She almost turned and spoke to him, but then strode proudly on instead. Perhaps the bond between them was finally broken. Perhaps it was time for that: it was a time of endings.
Suddenly weary, she leaned against a wooden booth. She felt tears on her face, but only an emptiness inside her, frighteningly like the grayness of despair and near-death she had recently escaped.
âWhat brings you wandering into the night, Rokhlan ?â asked a familiar voice.
She opened her eyes to see Deor looking up at her.
â Ath, Rokhlan! â she replied politely. âI needed to walk and breathe some fresh
She wanted to agree with the second voice. But she began to fear that the first voice might be right.
The crowds were still cheering when Morlock turned and carried her back into the lodge. He laid her gently down in the hateful bed where she had spent so many empty hours, but it was not so bad now. Thea was still dead and Aloê still grieved for her, but the spring sunlight was pale on the windowsill, reminding her that the world itself was dying. She had work to do, while her own life lasted, however long that was.
She was alive enough to feel hungry and tired, though. A weidhkyrr named Khêtlynn brought her a bowl of broth and a mug of beer from the cooking lodge of the weidhkyrren , and she gratefully accepted them. After Khêtlynn left she napped until the woman in yellow returned to sew up Morlockâs wound. The healer wore odd metal-mesh gloves to do the work. The thin sunlight and flecks of bloody fire glittered on the metal as the healer worked patiently, and Aloê nodded off again.
When she awoke, she found that Morlock was in bed beside her. Horseman was rising, its blank eye staring through the western window of the lodge. In the unforgiving light Morlock looked uglier than ever, and so tiredâhis eyes like bruises as he snored there. She remembered with wonder what he had done for her, and what he had said about her as she was dying. Now part of her life was his. She felt the honor; she felt also the burden. She kissed him gently on his weary eyes and slipped out of bed.
It was chilly for a spring night, but she wore her red vocateâs cloak, wrapping it close around her. The grass on the slope was winter-dry and sparse, hissing against her shoes. Horseman was not in the sky, but great Chariot stood somber in the east, and little Trumpeter was high in the western sky, still full of light and hope. The major and minor moon gave her plenty of light to pick her way down the slope. She wasnât sure where she was headed but she had to get out and see something.
There was a camp in the valley below, almost like a town full of lights and people. She drifted toward it.
There was a fire surrounded by fire-eyed Gray Folk at the edge of the camp. They rose and spoke to her politely in their crunchy language, called her harven , and asked her to sit with them. She begged off, saying she wanted to shake her legs a bit. The idiom made their eyes stretch wide and she had the sense they were about to laugh. But they didnât laugh, and when one of them said, âOur word of respect to your husband, Ruthen Morlock,â they all bowed their serpentine heads and touched their scaly chests. A voice whispered in her ear, They will make that crooked man a king someday . She turned away from them and it, striding deeper into the camp.
She saw Naevros syr Tol coming toward her up the narrow path between shelters, and she wondered what they would say to each other. Had he been among the crowd, cheering with the rest, when Morlock had held her up triumphantly in the sun? Had he been wounded in the battle? Who else that they knew and loved had been killed in the stupid war now ended?
He brushed past her without speaking. That astonished her. She almost turned and spoke to him, but then strode proudly on instead. Perhaps the bond between them was finally broken. Perhaps it was time for that: it was a time of endings.
Suddenly weary, she leaned against a wooden booth. She felt tears on her face, but only an emptiness inside her, frighteningly like the grayness of despair and near-death she had recently escaped.
âWhat brings you wandering into the night, Rokhlan ?â asked a familiar voice.
She opened her eyes to see Deor looking up at her.
â Ath, Rokhlan! â she replied politely. âI needed to walk and breathe some fresh
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