Chapter 73: Neville – The Eagle’s Voice
A butterfly landed on Neville’s shoulder. The slanted light of spring was already fattening into summer, buzzing insects courting flowers, dying in the beaks of yellow-chested birds. The butterfly was a very pale green. How long had it been since Neville left Fabec? His mother and the Eslarian, where were they now? In Debur? Was Thaila still with Olivier? Was she dead?
It wasn’t a butterfly, it was a leaf. Through a gap on the wooden wall, a black twig came in, bringing with it the morning light. Young Gregoire of the Frontier was snoring. Even his snore was soft and thin. The grey man was crumbling in a corner, nailed to reality by the black twig Neville had tied to his arm. The Wraith was still unconscious.
Neville poked Gregoire. ‘I have to go to Tuen.’
‘Tomorrow,’ whimpered Gregoire.
‘It is the morrow.’
Neville picked the grey man by the nape of the neck. Gregoire jumped up before he suffered the same treatment. Sáeril didn’t wake.
‘We’ll have to carry him,’ said Neville. ‘Take his legs.’
Gregoire crept away. The Grey One tried to help, but grey hands have no strength. Neville tsked and lifted the mage alone. He prepared his arms to carry the weight of a grown man and almost threw Sáeril in the air. The mage had no weight, as though he was just a skeleton of dry twigs under the cloak. Neville was very careful not to break him when he placed the mage at the back of Gregoire’s wagon. He hitched the mules while Gregoire trembled at the cabin’s door.
‘Why are you scared?’ asked Neville.
‘Well, you know, I’m not used to being woken up so brusquely, or to be dragged to the road, especially without breakfast.’
‘And I’m not used to waiting. We’ll eat on the way.’
‘But it is so much better to eat still.’
‘You can stay if you want. I’m taking Sáeril somewhere safe.’
‘I thought you had to go to Tuen,’ said Gregoire.
‘This mage saved my life. Our lives,’ he pointed to the Grey One. ‘You’re coming with me.’
‘You seem very fond of my company,’ said the Grey One.
‘We’re attached to one another.’ Neville pointed to the Grey One’s arm, with the black twig, which was still attached to the black tree.
During the night, the tree had taken root around the cabin, on the cabin, like a spider hugging a fly. Gregoire, still at the door, turned to see what Neville was pointint at. As soon as he saw the spider-looking tree, he jumped to the wagon.
‘I thought this kind of tree was common here in the Frontier,’ said Neville.
‘No,’ said Gregoire. ‘There’s only the one.’
Neville thought the people of the Frontier would be used to the darkness from beyond the Blood, but Gregoire was terrifeid of the tree. In fact, Gregoire wasn’t exactly what Neville expected of a Frontierman. The other one, Pierre, was more like it: with a skin tone Neville had never seen elsewhere, a Satironese sword at his back, silent like the wind, capable of taking Neville by surprise.
The Grey One seemed to agree with Neville. He said:
‘You’re not exactly what I thought a Frontierman would be.’
‘Do you know the meaning of that tree?’ asked Gregoire. ‘Death. When it was born, here in the Frontier, an entire village was devastated.’
‘Did the tree destroy the village?’ asked Neville.
‘I don’t know,’ said Gregoire. ‘All I know is the village was destroyed by darkness.’
‘Darkness is a very vague word,’ said Neville.
‘Well, we can’t always see what shape it takes,’ said Gregoire, ‘or what creature was born from them. Sometimes in the morning there are only corpses where there was a village the night before, and there is a trail leading back to the Blood. A trail of something no one has ever seen before. Sometimes the morning finds nothing where there was once a city. Not even a trail. It is worse now that the dragon is gone.’
Gregoire pointed at the black tree.
‘On the day everyone in Lenás died, that tree sprouted. It was a long time ago, before I was born. Lenás was rebuilt and the tree roamed our forest. I’ve never seen it come so close to people before.’
‘It must be fond of you,’ said the Grey One to Neville, ‘because of all the killing you cause.’
Neville remembered when his mother came home from the South, a long time ago, talking about colours and a black tree. It was watching me.
If it was death what moved that tree, why would his mother have attracted it? It could be that his mother was wrong, but up to now, everything Maëlle had said proved to be true.
The Grey One poked the twig around his arm, then climbed the wagon to sit beside Gregoire. He moved slowly, like he was going against a storm. Neville sat beside the Wraith.
‘Gregoire Frontierman, take us somewhere safe, where I can leave this mage.’
‘There is no mare safe place in the Frontier,’ said Gregoire, clucking his tongue to the mules.
‘Or in Franária,’ mumbled the Grey One.
