A Road to Larkhen's Hold (1)

Barely two days since arriving in that world, and already Ol-Lozen was leaving home.

Home – it felt only yesterday he had called it a hovel. Seeking greener pastures, his people had called it, this exodus onto a new chapter in one’s life. The clichéd line tasted wrong on his tongue. Those who sought new pastures did so of their own will, desiring to leave behind lands that were barren and fruitless of opportunities for growth in any number of senses: a new occupation, a new relationship, a new road, a new start, whereas he was leaving in tow with a new master like a newborn pup.

And not only was his thought strange, but it was also wrong; he had decided on that title “hovel” that very day. And now that he was being made to leave he felt greater attachment to the dingy place. There was an adage for that too about the grass being greener where you water it. With some tools and more time he could have built a room of his own free of books on the floor or piles of scrolls waiting to be knocked over. Given the spiders new homes outside and far away from him. A shame he hadn’t come to this world with a watering can.

With a grunt, he hefted the first burlap sack from the floor and tossed it over his shoulder, keeping a grip on the tied end. Being full of books that would crush anything lighter, this sack would go first. After peering through a crack in the door to ensure no one was on the other side, he kicked at the corner so it flew open, nudging a stone into the spot a doorstop would have fit.

Daigay’s eyes flicked up from her own work, the brush in her hand never stopping. “I would prefer you not go about destroying my home,” she called from the stable, a wooden overhang with a single post and a sizeable pile of hay for its sole occupant to find sleep in a fenced square. Mouse sat atop the fence, an open book in her lap from which she mouthed words silently to herself.

“Sorry. Old habit.” Ol-Lozen replied, ears drooping with embarrassment. “Door is still in once piece, though,” he added, attempting to salvage the moment. Daigay only made a noncommittal noise in her throat.

“Books, I assume?” Ol-Lozen nodded. “Hang it there. Bring the clothes next so we can balance out the weight, else Jackbee’s back will give.” She pointed with the brush to an open hook on the saddle near the donkey’s rear. He was as grey as his owner, a lighter patch halfway to white frosting his muzzle. Odor of oats and old grasses hung about the animal, and his winter coat had already started to come in to further swell his hanging belly. One ear had turned permanently outward, like his attention was always half on you and half elsewhere. His tail flickered as Ol-Lozen hung and tied the book sack. A curt snort blew out his shiny black nose as their clothes were added. More and more weight was piled onto Jackbee – food, oats, saddlebags with tools and ingredients and glassware – but his knees never buckled. At the end, he received another oatcake.

“I don’t see that sword on you.” Daigay said, wiping animal spit onto her traveling clothes. Gone was the apron of before; she had donned a cloak of green so deep it was almost black, and breeches more suitable for riding. So too had Mouse. Her cloak was simple black with a hood when raised would envelop her entire head.

“My sword weighs heavy, Daigay, and I am asked to carry clothes and books besides. Now, I may be strong, but even I need relief now and again. I will carry it again before we depart.” A fluttering of parchment sounded near his ear. Daigay held out the note she’d written in one hand, a wooden mallet and nails in the other.

“Be on your way then, we’ll be leaving after you’ve finished. Leave it on the door. Rain looks unlikely, so it should stay dry.”

He eyed the tool she held. “Hammer’s a bit small for me.”

“You can punch the nails in if you’d prefer, so long as my door remains intact.”

As suspected, the mallet was comically tiny for his hands, and his knuckles left shallow dents in the wood each time he swung, one blow per nail, a nail for each corner of the note ensuring the soldiers found Daigay’s message. For all he knew it was another string of insults to which he’d been made accomplice. How was the magic of this world any fair? Mouse was allowed to understand his words – and he hers – a sort of mental link between the girl and the not-man, but knowledge of its written language was left out of the transaction, the burden of learning intended for him to make a job out of. One more checkbox on his list, importance solidly between cleaning chamber pots and cooking supper. Free time slipped between his fingers like loose sand.

From the garden he reclaimed the sword now protected in a sheath, a lengthy strap attached. Like his clothing, the sheath was black; all his possessions nowadays were. Thin, white channels ending in raised tori decorated the sheath’s surface, and carried a glow visible only in complete darkness, ostensibly to find the otherwise featureless knife block should it be lost at night. Teeth grit, he slung across his back the gargantuan weapon hoping the technology bore no ill will, or inconvenient bugs in its design. He held his breath as it bounced against him. Heat bloomed where the sheath touched, no more than the warmth of a comfortable shower – another facet this world lacked. Working as intended, he thought, exhaling slowly.

Plumbing. One more box in need of ticking, second after language.

Daigay, contrary to her earlier words, was midst last minute packing when he returned. The door to her house stood ajar, doorstop kicked away. In her arms she carried jars with powders and pastes, and one with a wet, organic mass whose singular eye yet turned to the not-man and narrowed before clinking into a satchel with all the rest.

“One more pass,” she muttered. “One more pass,” she repeated. Ol-Lozen was ignored as she strode back inside, her mouth a line terse with thought. Mouse made a hmph from her perch, a finger tapping frustrations into her tome.

“I hope you won’t ask me to help her search,” Ol-Lozen said, quickly, as the girl’s eye fell upon him.

“I’m not stupid, demon. You know nothing of our home. What help would you be there?” She spoke with a child’s conviction in that her worlds carried no malice, only certainty, though Ol-Lozen felt slighted all the same.

Who spat in your porridge, he thought. “Run into some trouble with your studies?”

“Never. I’m Grandmama’s best student, now and forever.”

“You’re her only student, girl.” Meaning you, by default, are also her worst.

“I summoned you. Not many alive can say they’ve completed a summoning without transforming into fish, or… obliterating half a country.”

“Half a country, you say?” She grinned at that. “What frightening talent you wield. All the more comfort to know I will be serving two powerful mages for the rest of my days.”

“Magi,” she corrected. “Magus, for one. And you’ll not be serving me, only my grandmama.”

“By extension my serving her – is – serving you. She isn’t the one with the glowing hands that choke me. Speaking of which, I don’t suppose you can remove that?”

“No.” The words left her tongue matter-of-factly.

“And why is that?”

“Because you are a demon. Demon.”

“Does ‘demon’ carry the same connotations here as it does my home, because I have read many, many tales with demons and devils and djinns and imps and other such monstrosities, and I just do not believe that definition applies to me.”

“Ask grandmama. She’s got an entire book filled with demons just like you.” Then she paused, her eyes turning down to her book. “But you’ve been nicer than them. Grandmama seems better with you around. Those demons murdered people. They stole bread and money and burned crops because they were stronger than everyone else. When casting the ritual, I prayed for the kindest demon to be brought for my grandmama.”

The naivety of the girl astounded the not-man. He turned away, his mouth suddenly too dry to speak. Mouse returned to her book, and the silence hung thick between them until Daigay appeared, a covered knife in one hand, dropping it onto Mouse’s open book with a muffled thump. Its twin, Ol-Lozen caught as her robe’s sleeve slipped down, was strapped to Daigay’s forearm, handle towards her wrist. To a post by the cart’s driver bench she hung the other item, a lantern, securing its iron loop to the wood.

“Time to go?” Mouse asked, hooking the knife to her belt.

Daigay nodded. “Time to leave.”

Mouse slammed shut her book. “Demon, help my grandmother to her saddle.”

“Oh, Riversworn preserve me,” Daigay groaned, arms springing out straight for ease of lifting. “Go on, get this malarky over with.”

“And secure her belt!”

“I am not an invalid, Mouse! Jackbee and I were riding since before you were capable of speech. My belt – no, you oaf, the belt curves around this buckle and comes out that end – is a friend to me.” She gave the leather a test for good measure and found it sufficiently snug. “And now for the daffodil.” With a snap of her fingers, an invisible hook snagged Mouse by her cloak, hoisting her bodily from the ground onto the saddle. Unseen hands pushed her feet in the second set of stirrups.

“Grandmama, I wanted to climb Jackbee.”

“And I hadn’t needed to be handled, so annoyance will claim both our companies.” She leaned onto the donkey’s neck, one hand at his throat for support, and whispered words Ol-Lozen failed to grasp. A shimmer, like the heat of summer on concrete, passed from her lips into her pet’s turned ear and followed down, down, down, and his hair rose sharp before falling again, traveling in waves from muzzle to tail. If you’d put your face to his, so close you’d disturb the other’s eyes with your respective blinks, you could have watched a green spark pierce up from the murkiness of his gaze before nestling into the reflection caught when a camera flashes nearby. She turned to Ol-Lozen, exhaustion plain on her face. “Hope you won’t mind walking.”

“Jackbee would crumble under my weight anyhow, so I’ll spare your steed an early grave. Distance shouldn’t be an issue if that’s our pace.” He looked at the girl with hands wrapped around Daigay’s stomach. “Further with motivation.”

“That’s the spirit.”