Jashandar's Wake: Book Three: Jashandar's Wake

By L. S. Kyles

In this third and final installment, Brine and Jaysh discover the true source of the kingdom’s ails. Both have a chance to be heroes, but not without price. As Brine struggles with his faith, Jaysh begins to lose his mind.

• Language: English
• Publisher: L. S. Kyles
• Release date: Jun 8, 2015
• ISBN: 9781311238177

L. S. Kyles

L.S. Kyles lives in the north central Midwest with his wife and children. If you would like to contact the author, you may do so at [e-mail] .

Book preview

Chapter 1

When Jaysh heard the voices, he thought he was dreaming. And why wouldn’t he? There was a spectacular, nearly palpable darkness hanging before his eyes, he could feel nothing against his flesh—no clothing, no bedding, not even a floor—and to top it off there wasn’t a smell or taste of which to speak.

There were only the voices, faint and ghostly and wafting far above, in the clouds.

Unable to see them, he imagined them as oily streaks of smoke floating through the white, and seeing them as such, he envied their form. His body, in addition to the cuts and bruises, was much too heavy to reach them.

Or was it...

He tried to move—tried to swim towards the floating voices—and the world of black remained fixed on all sides. In fact, the only change he noticed was a terrible ache throughout his bones. Had he been mugged? Had he been beaten?

Deciding to find out, he stirred once more and felt the ache intensify. After that, he decided to remain still.

Interestingly enough, as he lay there in limbo and waited for the discomfort to pass, he was aware of a numbness in his back. Wondering how that could be, he explored the development further and found his back facing the voices.

I’m on my stomach, he thought. I’m layin’ on my stomach, with my back to the sky.

Realizing this, he began to have doubts about his dream theory. The woodsman made it a habit of sleeping on his back. This way he could see the position of the moon and the stars as soon as he awoke.

But if I ain’t sleepin...an’ this ain’t no dream...what am I hearin?

Before he could find out, the voices grew loud in his ears. He still couldn’t decipher what was being said, but he could decipher that one sounded scared.

He tried to remember where he’d been before waking. It was hazy, but he thought he could recall banks of fog and burrows of mud and maybe sliding through the burrows, on his back. He thought a moment more and remembered where he was.

The Bottoms!

He tried to stir again—this time from alarm rather than curiosity—and the ache went rumbling through his forehead. As the pain settled into a dull roar, it reminded him of the dehydration headaches he associated with sweat-soaked clothes and hot summer days. He forced his thick, bloated tongue from the pasty confines of his mouth and licked his lips.

Yeah, he thought, continuing to stir. I need a drink.

He cracked open an eye and took a look at his surroundings. Two hovering planes stared back at him, one on top and one on the bottom. The one on top was an ephemeral white, like fog, the one on bottom was an abysmal black, like oil.

He blinked open his other eye, waited for the haziness to give way to clarity, and three shapes formed in the mist. The first was a figure moving through the mist, the second was a figure seated in the oil, and the third was a mound of what appeared to be snow. The shape on its feet appeared to be digging through it.

Jaysh slid his hands from waist to shoulders and was aware of a tingling sensation on the surface of his back. Pushing harder still, he felt the tingling sensation give way to stinging and the stinging to anguish. He dropped his head and moaned.

Did you hear that? said the figure in the oil.

The figure on its feet grabbed another armful of snow, ignoring the question. It carried the snow across the way and dumped it in a heap. The figure in the oil—the one that looked like a scarecrow—came slowly to its feet.

I heard something that time, the scarecrow said, rubbing at its chest.

Jaysh lay still for a time, wondering why the scarecrow wasn’t helping him. The man had clearly heard him and yet he hadn’t taken one step closer. He wasn’t even looking in at him.

Holding his body completely still, scared to think about what was happening to his back, Jaysh said, ...help...

There it is again, the scarecrow said, his eyes directed at the snow. "Something is in there."

…here…, Jaysh groaned, …over here…

The scarecrow stopped backing and cocked his head over his shoulder, peeking behind him in the manner of one who does not wish to see.

Young Jaysh? he said, taking a wary step towards the woodsman. "Young Jaysh, please tell me that was you?"

Jaysh did, and then asked for water.

The frightened scarecrow, who turned out to be Serit Branmore (General of the Jashian Military), went scurrying for his water skin. Hearing it slosh in the old man’s hands, Jaysh rolled onto his side and twisted up his mouth.

He was not disappointed. The water tasted like something in a Wogol lesson. He drank until his stomach was about to burst then grunted for the old man to stop.

Serit drew the skin away and tied off the pouch. He waited for the young man to finish gasping then asked if he needed anything else. Jaysh nodded and said he did.

Although the thought of food made him feel nauseated—not surprising, considering the horse trough of water he’d just guzzled—the idea of more cauvah root sounded like a winner, and maybe a handful of keepers salve while they were at it.

Serit winced, and shook his head.

Jaysh winced as well, thinking this an odd response. He had quite a supply in his pack and he imagined the old man had some tucked away as well. Serit wasn’t a trapper, or a foot soldier, but Jaysh was sure the old man came prepared.

Jaysh began describing the items, hoping this was a simple case of mistaken identity. He quickly discovered that Serit was very familiar with cauvah root and keepers salve. The general had exhausted both the night before, applying them to the woodsman’s unconscious form.

Apparently, as the final crash of the worm was still fading from the Bottoms, Serit was curled in a fetal position behind one of the burrows. He remained like that for a very long time, or until he felt the handle of a weapon poke him in the side.

Only it wasn’t the handle of a weapon. It was the finger of a kryst.

Serit looked up and the crystal creature gestured for him to stand. Serit did so and was promptly led to the woodsman, where his harrowing night began.

According to Serit, the woodsman was as pale as goat cheese and as still as a tomb. In his opinion, Jaysh was beyond the cares of this world, but the kryst wouldn’t hear it. It began shaking its head and signing with its hands, which Serit did not understand.

Serit could tell, from the repeated gestures to himself and the woodsman, that the kryst wanted him to do something, but unless that something involved a shovel and a coffin, he was afraid the creature was just wasting its time.

He tried explaining this to the kryst, but the kryst simply clapped him on the shoulder and sent him down to his knees. After that, Serit decided to replace words with actions and placed two fingers to the young man’s neck, showing the kryst once and for all that the woodsman...

...had a pulse?

Serit dropped his eyes to the eyelids of the young man and checked for movement. Neither lid so much as twitched, but there was a pulse. A weak pulse, but a pulse none the less. He looked up at the kryst, his expression begging for answers, but the carved figure had none to give. It only stared at the young man on the ground, as it had the previous three moon cycles.

Seeing this, Serit released a defeated sigh and went to work. He stripped off the remains of Jaysh’s shirt and exposed the raya underneath. It glowed like a tiny purple moon, and seeing it Serit felt his hope slip away.

As historian extraordinaire, he knew what this meant. He knew the raya was a warning beckon for the king’s wellbeing, a purple lighthouse, of sorts, that burned brightest as the king approached the shoals of life’s sea.

He held it up for the kryst’s inspection, as if to say, See, even the amulet knows he’s finished, but the kryst refused to look. It kept its eyes on the woodsman, intervening only when the general tried to stop.

So in one respect, Serit said, finishing his tale, the kryst saved you twice: once from the dru’gye and once from your wounds.

Jaysh considered this without expression, then said, So no cauvah?

I’m afraid not, Serit said. I slid the last stick in your mouth well before morning. He directed his gaze at the ground, unable to maintain eye contact. I used the last of the keepers sometime after that.

Jaysh dropped his own gaze, but not to the ground. He was looking at the lavender stone between thumb and forefinger. He twirled it thoughtfully and reflected on the dull ache between his neck and tailbone. Without the cauvah, it would soon grow worse.

With that unsettling thought, he laid the pulsing rock on his chest and propped himself on his elbow. Wanna gimme a hand?

Oh, yes, Serit said, moving around behind. Let me check you bindings first. I was short on fabric from the start, using both of my sleeves and the remains of your shirt. Of course, once the light came back, and I found those in your pack, I changed them immediately. But needless to say even those articles weren’t choice material; you’ll want these replaced just as soon as we reach Onador.

Jaysh nodded and brought a hand to the cloth around his chest. Still bleedin?

Serit didn’t answer. He reached forward instead, indicated by a light pressure along the woodsman’s armpit.

Jaysh had a moment to wonder what was going on back there, then a bright stitch of pain slid inside his back, followed by a white sheet of pain, and a full-body spasm. After that, he lost track of time and his mind entered a state of paralysis. When the pain subsided, he felt a tugging at his ribs and realized Serit had simply adjusting a loose strap.

There’s some bleeding, the old man said, as if Jaysh hadn’t just leapt from his skin, but nothing like last night. He groaned as he hobbled back to where the woodsman could see him. All the same, I’ll feel much better once you’re back at Castle Arn and Kowin’s has a look at you.

I guess, Jaysh said, cringing at the thought. If they’d truly depleted the cauvah, the healer was his only chance. Bynum’s mercantile, the place he used to trade for keepers—and for cauvah, when he was too busy to dig it himself—had left the land a cycle ago.

Raising the arm he wasn’t laying on, he said, "Can yeh help me—Ssss!" He sucked air between gritted teeth, a fresh starburst of pain tearing at his back.

Now, young Jaysh, Serit warned. Do be careful.

Jaysh felt the old man take hold and began to pull, hoisting himself to his knees. Once there, he took hold of Serit’s bony shoulders and made it to a squatting position. The flesh on his back felt like someone was raking it with a pitchfork. When the discomfort was bearable, he resumed his trek up the old man’s shirt, one fistful at a time.

Much later that day, when his pain was less and he had ample time to reflect, Jaysh would look back on this intimate encounter and cringe. For now, however, he gave the matter no thought, his emotional discomfort devoured by the pain.

"Okay, he hissed, his eyes clamped shut, his head on the general. I’m gona lean back from yeh."

Be careful, Serit warned, speaking between breaths.

Jaysh detached himself from the old man and leaned back. Then, with a hand on Serit’s shoulder, he turned toward the kryst and began skating through mucus.

As promised, the wreckage of the worm rose in the distance, its details gaining clarity with every sliding step. As they did, Jaysh couldn’t believe he’d mistaken it for a snowdrift. It was clearly a fat and bloated monster, the very one he’d seen coiled around the kryst.

The worm wasn’t coiled any more. It was all over the place. A length of it here, a section of it there, the head stretched out to the right, the tail tossed to the left.

Seeing it like this, its segmented lengths sprawled among the dens, it looked more like an annelid than ever before...Well, except for the tusks around the maw, and the flaps on the sides.

Jaysh supposed the latter were wings, but they were like no wings he’d ever seen. Within those gray folds, there were streaks of purple and spines of pink; the former were probably veins, the latter probably tendons.

It turned his stomach to see them, so he directed his gaze to the other monster, the one racing around worm like a giant crystal ant.

What this monster was doing, Jaysh could only guess. Well, no…he couldn’t even do that. He could only stand there and stare, trying to remember if the big, blue statue had ever been this active.

Admittedly, the kryst had been active while killing the biters, and while slaying the worm, but those instances had been different. Jaysh had been in danger then and the kryst was under an unspoken obligation. Now, however—without one iota of hostility directed towards the magistrate—the creature was armpit-deep in a dead worm, like a ghoul with a sweet tooth.

As his nerves slipped towards panic, he turned to Serit and said, What’s it doin’?

Watching the kryst grab another section of worm—bear-hugging it like a tree and hoisting it overhead—Serit said, It shouldn’t be long, young Jaysh. He waited until the king’s protector dragged the armful from the main pile, then added, It’s been at this for quite some time.

Jaysh sneered. Been at what?

Serit glanced at him. Oh, that’s right, he said. Before you came to, the kryst heard a noise coming from the dru’gye. It was right before dawn, I remember that much. The fog was still black and it was the kryst’s footfalls that first woke me.

Serit cleared his throat. Naturally, when I heard the kryst moving about, I took after it, fearing it was abandoning us once more. Before I could lay hands on it, though, the creature had stopped at the dru’gye and…, he trailed off, his shoulders beginning to shake, "…by then I could hear it."

Tightening his grip on Serit’s shirt, Jaysh said, Hear what?

Serit’s mouth parted, but just then the kryst lifted another section of worm. Serit waited until it was clear nothing was underneath, then said, Something calling to us.

Jaysh’s fist went slack, the memory of the disembodied voices still fresh in his mind. What he’d mistaken as black whispering in the world of dreams was really the voice of some creature trapped beneath the worm.

But don’t distress, young Jaysh, Serit said. There can’t be anything alive under there. If anything, it’s one of the speaking mists. Are you familiar with speaking mists?

Jaysh shook his head.

Well, Serit said. From time to time, the shepherds in the Southern Sway will report to the council that they hear voices coming from the Bottoms. No one knows why they make these reports. It’s not as though the voices harm anyone and it’s not as though the council could do anything about it, even if they had, but at any rate there are apparently these black mists floating in the fog and, on occasion, they take it upon themselves to visit the rim and whisper to the shepherds, trying to lure them in, I suppose.

Jaysh turned to the kryst and watched as it bent at the knees. It wrapped its chiseled arms around another section of worm, straightened its prismed knees, and hoisted the sagging cargo. As it took a step back, the part of the worm on the ground emitted a cry.

Jaysh’s eyebrows rose up his face, and the shoulder in his grasp took a shaky step back. The noise was muffled, but the woodsman could hear its curt quality. It sounded like a small dog barking into a pillow.

The kryst, as though it had heard nothing, continued to back away, its arms full of limp, gray meat. About seven strides later, it dropped the coil on the ground and repeated the process. This time, as it lifted a new section of worm, the quality of the voice improved dramatically, so much that Jaysh could almost deciphered the sharp, barking words.

Young Jaysh? Serit asked.

Yeah, Jaysh said. I hear it.

The kryst, however, acted as though it heard nothing. It moved seven strides away, dumped its cargo in the slime, and strode back for another load. Once there, it bent on its knees, grabbed another segment of worm, and lifted.

On the ground beneath the coil, something flailed in the slime.

Chapter 2

Until a very hard and callused hand came slapping across his face, Brine was having the God Dream, the very dream he’d been having for as far back as he could recall.

If he were hazarding a guess, he supposed he’d been six or seven ages when the dream first came. He’d been young enough that he was still sharing a room with big brother, however old that made him.

He knew this last part because he distinctly recalled waking from one of these dreams—his chest still tingling from the raw emotion that crossed over—and wanting to share it with someone. Even his older brother, who hated him.

In the end, Brine had decided against waking his brother. He decided, instead, to roll onto his back and stare at the ceiling. He could recall his body buzzing with the emotion.

There were several minor emotions threaded through the dream, but the primary emotion was one of peace, like coming home after a long journey, or taking a nap after a hard day’s work.

Often times, Brine felt like an unheard voice was speaking to him from the dream, a voice he could not hear with ears, but with a special ‘dream sense’ deep within his mind.

...almost there, my friend, the unheard voice would soothe, the peace that surpasseth all human understanding is just around the corner…

That was how Brine knew it was Owndiah speaking to him, because of how the unheard voice made him feel, and because of what the unheard voice would say.

The imagery was no small clue, either.

In the dream, Brine stood with his back to Shun Gate and his eyes to the south. In the sky, the clouds were dim with the threat of storm. On the horizon, the Lathian Road was a sqiggle within the Sway.

To the best of Brine’s memory, he’d never stood outside the Shun Gate at the southern end of the city. To the best of his recollection, he had never stood in the grasses to the side of the road and stared into the Sway. The fact that he dreamed about doing so—and dreamed about it repeatedly—was all the proof he needed.

His God had planted these images in his mind. His God was giving him a taste of the peace that surpasseth all human understanding.

As to why his God was doing this, Brine had only half-baked conjectures, usually concocted in the moments immediately following the dream. He would roll onto his back, he would stare into the ceiling, and he would contemplate the dream.

On this occasion, however, there was no contemplation. On this occasion, the sensation of perfect peace was obliterated by the sensation of stinging flesh. All that mattered was the hand to the right of his face.

Brine blinked at the hand and sat up.

Are yeh ‘wake? the owner of the hand said, his voice laced with malice. Yeh want me to have a go on the other side?

There was a pale light in the chamber where Brine sat. He used it to focus on the redheaded mercenary squatting before him. As he focused, the crunching of sand came from his right and the light vanished. An instant more, and the crunching sound faded, the light blinked back on.

Brine raised a hand to the burning of his right cheek and said, I’m up.

At-a-boy, Ardose said, rising to his feet. Now, le’s go. On your feet. You too, old man.

Brine turned to Godfry, the old man to whom Ardose had spoken, and watched him stir. For a moment, Brine could see his old teacher—dirty yellow robes, bristling white beard—and then the crunching sound came and the cavern blinked with darkness.

"I said move," Ardose hissed, putting a boot to Godfry’s shoulder and giving him a not-so-gentle nudge.

The elderly adviser, who’d woke at the sound of the hand popping on Brine’s face, began scrambling to his feet. Beside him, sliding up the irregular cavern wall, Brine watched the exchange very carefully, ready to intercede if the aggression escalated.

Slapping Godfry arms in the air, Ardose said, Hands up, old man. He padded his hands down the adviser’s yellow robes, moving from collar to hem, then checking the recesses of his ample beard.

Watching this, a horrible feeling overcame Brine. He didn’t know why—couldn’t imagine why—but the mercenary was obviously searching Godfry for valuables. Once the search was over, Godfry would be ejected from the cave.

Brine jerked his head to the right, in the direction of the strobing light. As he watched, he could hear the approach of the bole beast’s pawfalls (pomp-pomp-pomp). A moment more and the creature’s bulk passed before the entrance, the light blinking out.

Brine turned to Ardose and raised his hand. Hey, I’m not real sure what’s going on right now, but could I plea—

Shut it, Ardose snapped, finishing with Godfry and giving him a shove towards the interior of the cave, away from the entrance.

Brine breathed a sigh of relief and raised his arms over his head, bracing himself for his own pat-down. Instead, Ardose placed a hand to his shoulder and shoved him after the man in the yellow robes, replacing the disciple’s dread of being eaten with the fear of the unknown.

Move, Ardose barked, giving Brine another shove.

The disciple went tripping through the cave like a new born foal in a pasture. To either side, he could see Lathians lining the walls. Some turned to stare, others kept their heads down.

Brine couldn’t be certain, not without his monocle, but the men who didn’t look up appeared to be whittling on the wooden handles of various weapons, chipping them into a tiny haystack of splinters. Others appeared to be holding brown squares of fabric and pinching at the edges.

Again, Brine’s eyes were fighting him, but the very motion of the men’s hands reminded him of someone picking hairs from their food. It was this meticulous symbolism that made him think they were tearing out the threads.

Why they would vandalize their weapons and clothes, Brine could not fathom. He chalked it up to stress relief and decided to spend his time planning an escape, which he had been doing for quite some time.

Actually, this sudden relocation couldn’t have worked better. He was now on the passage-side of the mercenaries and in a much better position to flee. All he needed now was to bide his time, wait for his captors to lose interest, and slip away.

With this thought in mind, he moved surreptitiously to Godfry’s side and took hold of his sleeve. He would not leave without Godfry.

As though sensing Brine’s motives, Ardose pushed between the two Jashians and said, Right here.

Brine stopped and looked around. Behind him, the queue of Lathians was still at work. Ahead, a figure materialized from the gloom. It was wearing baggy sleeping attire and leaning on a cane.

Brine recognized him immediately.

Welp, Ardose said, speaking to the hunched figure, I still doan’ believe it, but you was right. Somehow they made it in.

Balthus grinned at Brine, a look that made the disciple’s skin crawl. Blathus had known the Jashians had made it. He had known because he had done something to intervene, perhaps as he had done something to the minds of Sladge and Ardose, or as he had done to Brine in the king’s anteroom.

But this’un here, Ardose said, hooking a thumb at Godfry, I checked im and he ain’t got no book, so I doan’ know what were gona do. I reckon he dropped it outside. His gaze flicked to Brine, eyes narrowing. Less’n that’uns got it. I din’t check him. He made eye contact with a big man behind Brine. Prayne, check this puke fer a boo—

That is not necessary, Balthus interrupted, gray eyes gliding from Ardose to Prayne. Beneath that empty stare, Prayne quickly backed away. His redheaded superior did not.

Wha’ yeh mean it ain’t necessary? Ardose balled. I’m here to tell yeh them rags and splinters ain’t gona do it.

Like a boy in a nightmare, Brine watched as the bald head of the hunchback glided towards him. This one, Blathus said, gesturing to the disciple with the head of his cane, makes light without fire.

Ardose sneered at Brine, then at Balthus. How yeh fig’er?

Show him, Balthus said, never moving his eyes from the disciple.

Brine stared at him, dumbfounded. Outside of Valley Rock, the only two people who’d seen the glow spell were Jaysh and his father. The former was a diehard recluse who spent his days in the woods, the latter was a corpse now buried on the Hill.

In his cold and raspy voice, Blathus said, Show him.

Brine’s head began to shake. I don’t know what you’re talking about, he said, turning to Ardose. I don’t. Honestly. I have no idea what he’s—

He lies, Blathus said, and Brine didn’t have time to contradict him. Ardose lunged across the passage, pinned Godfry to a wall, and pressed a knife to the old man’s cheek, just below the eye.

Whatever he’s talkin bout, Ardose growled, yeh best get to doin’ it. Cause they doan’ want paps here. I’d be doin’ us all a big favor by drivin this—

"Okay! Okay! Brine said, raising his right arm. I’ll do it! I’ll show you! Just...Just don’t hurt him, please!"

He held his hand between his face and Ardose’s glare. When the sleeve had slid to the elbow, Brine uttered a beautiful word in another man’s language and white light spread from the center of his palm. The light filled his fingers, then his nails.

In the rest of the cavern, the Lathians went deathly still. The whittling stopped, the plucking ceased. All that sounded was the pomp-pomp-pomp outside the entrance. Brine muttered a different word, also beautiful and also foreign, and the light receded.

There, he said, looking to Ardose, I did it. Now, please, let him be.

For one awful moment, Brine didn’t think the sadistic redhead would comply. Ardose’s eyes were now bulging, his whites revealed.

I did what he wanted, Brine said. I made the light. Now, please, let hi—

Ardose moved in a blur, dropping Godfry and latching onto Brine. Sweet mother of mud, he breathed, holding the hand before his nose. How’d you do that? How’d you make it glow?

Tugging in vain from the other man’s grip, Brine said, I don’t know.

"You made light, Ardose intoned. You made light come out of your hand."

Brine felt his heart sink. They had discovered his special talent and they aimed to use him as a human torch...he was never going to escape.

With his hand still clasped over Brine’s wrist, Ardose spun to Balthus and said, Yeh still think you can find the way? He nodded to the blackness beyond the counselor.

Balthus stood from his crouch and grinned lasciviously, his head gliding to the impenetrable dark. The spurs of the Harriun are many, he said, and each is linked.

Ardose scratched his cheek with the blade of his knife. An’ yeh know that whatever made the crap out there..., he poked his knife in the direction of the entrance, ...it’s prob’ly livin in these caves.

There was a pause as the rest of the Lathians began to gather around, attracted either to the brief glow of the hand or to the current words of their leaders. Brine listened to the approach of their footfalls.

Ahead of him, Balthus ran his flat eyes to the entrance and pointed with his cane. You would prefer the path behind?

"No, Ardose snapped. But you sure you can find the way?"

Balthus grinned like an eel. Did I not find the clearing? Did I not find the cave?

The mercenaries around them began to grunt their approval. Brine, however, kept his grunts to himself. He was staring at the darkness about his ankles and wondering if there was any truth to the Vulture Man’s words.

Mulling these thoughts over, Brine felt something in his psyche lurch as though struck. If the clearing and the caverns were provisions from God—and clearly they must be, since he was pursuing his purpose—was his God working through Balthus?

On his right, Brine heard a voice whispering in his ear. He turned to the voice and met with whiskers and bad breath.

I meant to tell you, Godfry whispered, pushing himself close, "but that man is correct. I dropped your book last night, in the dark. I’m terribly sorry."

Brine grabbed the loose skin and bones of the old man’s hand. "Never mind that, he whispered. It’s just a book. Right now, I need you to try and stay close. We’re going—"

Before Brine could finish, Ardose yanked him towards Balthus. Brine turned and clutched for his teacher, trying to keep hold, but it was too late. The mercenaries drove them apart.

Chapter 3

In Jaysh’s opinion, the thing beneath the worm looked like a lump of fresh dough. It was soft like dough, it was pale like dough, and it was thrashing against the ground. Admittedly, he wasn’t sure about the thrashing, or the little black hairs.

Taking a tighter grip on the man beside him, he said, "What is it?"

General Branmore, the man whose shoulder Jaysh grasped, was stammering out an answer, something that started with, "Eh-eh-eh," but never moved forward.

Before Serit could finish, the wad of flesh stopped flailing.

Jaysh held his breath, waiting for something to happen. On the wrinkled side of the lump, he spied two pink holes. They might have been gouges, glistening with fluid, but there was something about the way they were darting back and forth...as though they were eyes.

"You! the lump screamed, and now Jaysh could see a vertical split forming beneath the eyes. I sees you there! the split screamed. I sees you there! And you sees me!"

Jaysh started and took a step back, horrified to see the lump flopping towards him. Something was unfolding from the lump’s creases, something like an arm. Something else was sticking out from the lump’s back, sort of like a leg.

"You gets me out!’" the lump screamed.

Jaysh took another step back and finally looked away, his eyes searching for the kryst. When he found it, the kryst was standing behind him, staring at nothing.

Hey, he called, raising his voice. You seein’ this?

The kryst did not move, or acknowledge him.

Jaysh said, Can yeh cover this up?

On the ground, the screaming lump of flesh gasped. "Oh, no you not! it wailed. You not covers me up! You gets me out! You gets me out now! This all you—’"

Before the pale mass could finish, the words died in its mouth and both eyes bulged. It was staring at the kryst, which was now moving towards it.

"No, no, no, no, no—"

Ignoring the high-pitched pleas, the thing called Lorn knelt before the screaming ball. Then, shoving a shoulder into the worm, it extended its sparkling legs and pushed the worm back.

The thing with pink flecks for eyes began to flail. "No, no, no, no, you not touches me! You not! You keeps you filthy stinking ha—"

The kryst plucked the screaming lump from its prison and let the loop of worm thump against the ground. Turning back around, it presented the wriggling mass to its companions, holding it like a prize.

Jaysh wrinkled his face.

Serit issued a groan.

"—off me! You not touches me, you bad, bad, stupid, ugly, bad, stupid—!"

The kryst opened its fingers and dropped the rude lump in the slime. It landed with a plop and went still, or almost still. There was a hissing intake of air and then it was cursing the crystal man once more, cursing its hands, cursing its fingers.

The kryst ignored the imprecations, lifting its glittering head and laying both blue eyes on the woodsman.

Jaysh stared back, his simple mind awhirl. The thing Serit called Lorn had exhibited more activity in the last few moments than it had in the last three moon cycles. What was more—and this was the real kicker—the King of Jashandar had not been in danger, which meant this whole arcane demonstration had been part of the kryst’s personal agenda.

Jaysh stared down at the twitching grotesquery on the ground and dreaded to think of how this affected him. Before he could ask, the thing on the ground came hopping towards him.

"Hey! Hey, you! it whined. You helps me! This you fault! You do this to me! You say go and I go! Now looks! Looks what happen!"

Without turning to the old man tethered in his fist, Jaysh said, This one’a them speakin mists?

He felt Serit shake his head.

"I not speaking mist! the thing wailed. It me! It Kowin! It me, it me, it me!"

Jaysh felt his blood turn cold, now squinting at the lump. There were little black strands that could have been sackcloth, and there were tiny black squiggles that might have been tattoos. More than anything, there was the voice. He wasn’t sure how he’d missed that voice.

Over the barrage of, "it me," flooding the air, Jaysh said, You think it’s him?

I’m not certain, Serit said, pursing his lips. It could be a were-imp—

The lump gasped.

—although it is beyond me why a were-imp, a creature capable of assuming any form, would assume one as decadent as this. His eyebrows arched as the tips of his mustache fell. I don’t think this is a were-imp, he said. Honestly, now that I think about it, reflecting in particular on the numerous complaints lodged against the healer for his use of dark arts…, his voice trailed off, his hands scratching at his chest, "…it could be him."

Yeh think? Jaysh said, watching a third extremity unfold from the lump. Can yeh ask it questions? To be sure?

Serit exchanged a look with the woodsman and said, That sounds reasonable enou—

"No, no, no! the Kowin-thing shrieked. I not haves the time. You takes me home now! You picks me up and you takes me HOME!"

Fidgeting with the place on his shirt where his medals had once been, Serit waited for the vertical slit to go still before saying, "Yes, and where exactly is your home, if you don’t mind me asking?"

There was irritated huff from the thing on the ground, then: "In castle, you stupid man! You knows that! You not asks me the stupid questions! You takes me ho—"

"Eh...what part of the castle, if you please?"

The Kowin-thing groaned again. "Basement! I have chamber in basement! There! You happys? You takes me home now?"

Serit raised his eyebrows