Chapter 65: Neville – Tomorrow
Neville woke up in a wooden hut with a fire in the middle. Beside him was the grey, nameless man he had dragged from the darkness. Across the fire was the black Wraith Sáeril Quepentorne and a young man who drank something hot from a cup. Neville assumed he was Gregoire, who, according to Sáeril, had found them on the road.
The Wraith stirred, Gregoire choked, jumped like a scared cat, glued his back to the wall. The cup he had thrown in his fright rolled close to the fire. Gregoire took another fright when Neville raised his hand to study his own fingers.
Black fingers. Yes, Neville was black and proud of it; proud of his Satironese blood. The texture of his own fingerprints, calouses, joints, the muscles on his forearms, lean and swit like the string of a bow. The bow, where was it? Always by his side. It had the power of dreams, that Satironese bow: it was always where it was supposed to be, at Neville’s reach.
Neville use the wall for support, hauled his body, climbed his own bones to the peak of his height. As he moved, the grey detached like snake skin, crumbled, vanished.
Gregoire of the Frontier was still glued to the wall. He must be twenty, judging by his unused-to-the-sun soft skin, his smooth, brown hair, fingers smudged with lead. He forced himself to stand straight and said with a very small voice:
‘Hello. Um, I’m Gregoire. Hello.’
‘Neville of Fabec.’
At that instant, the man Neville had saved from the darkness raised his head – the rest of his body remained still – and studied Neville without blinking.
‘Captain Neville of Fabec?’ he asked.
‘That’s right.’
‘You killed my brother.’
Neville accepted that like he accepted that the sun went down every evening. He had killed brothers, fathers, mothers, sons and daughters.
‘Killed my brother but won’t let me die. What’s the sense in that.’
‘I don’t know.’
Across the fire, Sáeril tried to stand, a solid blackness leaking upwards like shadow before night. He staggered, leaned against the wall, put a knee to the ground. Gregoire automatically reached out to help him, but just as quickly stepped back as though he was afraid to get burnt. Instead, he picked up the cup from the floor, reached for a bottle, and raised it to Neville and the gray man:
‘Drink?;
The grey one still looked at Neville with darkness in his eyes.
‘I should kill you.’
Neville pulled a dagger frpm his boot and offered it to the other man. The grey one moved quickly away from the dagger as though he had been stabbed by it. He crawled backwards on the floor until he reached a wall and sat up against it. Not once did he blink, his eyes fixed on the handle – not the blade. Suddenly, he began to laugh. An almost hysterical laugh mixed with sobs and tears.
‘Is that what darkness do to a man?’ asked Gregoire.
‘That’s what War does to a man,’ said Sáeril Quepentorne. He tried to stand up again.
Neville went around the fire and supported the black cloak.
‘You are weak.’
‘I am,’ said the mage. Then he fainted.
Neville covered him with his own cloak.
‘He saved our lives.’
‘What for?’ asked the grey one.’
‘It’s late,’ said Gregoire. ‘I suggest we rest here. Tomorrow we can take the mage to my step father’s house in Carlaje. Meanwhile,’ he raised the bottle again, ‘drink?’
He poured three cups. They toasted in silence. It was an Eslarian wine, and it tasted like Debur, Thaila’s laughter, the Eslarian’s bread. The Eslarian. Neville had invaded Patire to save his mother and the Eslarian, only to abandon them in the ashes of Fabec with the Skeleton from Anuré.
Neville’s memories from right febore he got lost in darkness were still fogged, but his mind was fixed on Tuen. Why? Soldiers who were loyal to Neville and Robert would be in Debur, if there were any still alive. Olivier would have hunted them all.
Olivier. He had kidnapped Thaila. Neville got lost in darkness when he was going to Tuen to look for Thaila. He jumped up.
‘I have to be in Tuen.’
‘Tomorrow,’ said Gregoire.