第 007 Chapter| Soren's Bowstring

The 25th of the Cold Moon. Late afternoon.

Fenn the surgeon came up the tower.

"Kael. Dressing."

Kael held out his left shin. Fenn unwound the bandage, looked at the wound, pressed lightly around it with two fingers—

"No itch?" Fenn said.

"No."

"No itch is good," Fenn said. "But not fully healed. Three more days."

"Fenn—" Kael said.

"Mm."

"Watchtower No. 49—"

Fenn stopped.

"I asked," Fenn said. "The man who died at Watchtower No. 49 last night. Surname Lin. Twenty-eight. Third-watch patrolman."

Kael fixed the name in his mind.

"Lin. Watchtower No. 49. A quarter-hour before dawn," he murmured.

Fenn looked at him. Did not ask.

Fenn finished binding the wound, stood, made to go.

"Fenn." Kael called him again.

"Mm."

"Soren's bowstring, the one that snapped—the one bitten through last night—"

Fenn paused. "How do you know it was bitten?"

"Soren came down the tower last night. Showed me," Kael said.

"Right," Fenn said. "I saw that string too. Not worn through. Bitten through."

"Bitten by what?"

Fenn did not answer at once.

A second passed. Then Fenn said, "Six years I held Watchtower No. 46. I've seen plenty of broken bowstrings—worn, pulled, cut. I can tell at a glance. This one was different. Something that could bite through a bowstring in one bite—six years, and I've never had my hands on it."

"Does Soren know?"

"He knows," Fenn said. "He told me not to spread it."

"But you told me?"

"You're Kael," Fenn said. "Soren said, if you ask, tell you."

Kael said nothing.

Fenn left.

---

End of the late afternoon. Soren came up the tower.

Soren came up today with his right shoulder sagging, one hand on the tower wall for the last few steps.

"Soren," Kael said.

"Kael." Soren sat down. "Held the wall last night. Shoulder hurts."

"You should go—"

"I won't," Soren said. "Fenn looked at it. Shoulder pain—not a wound. Too much bow. You get old, the shoulder remembers every shaft."

Kael did not answer.

Soren held out his right hand—four fingers—pointed at the wall.

"Kael, that stretch of wall—" he meant the stretch with the third crack-stroke, "—the lower half, the whole word, it's gone now."

Kael looked at the wall.

The third crack-stroke—the one Soren had pointed out yesterday—by this morning had widened into a hollow filling the word's lower half, and now—

—the whole word was gone.

That stretch of wall held only the two strokes of the upper half, and below them a sheet of blank.

"Soren—" Kael said.

"Stop calling me 'Soren' like that." Soren said. "Just Soren."

"Soren," Kael said. "The lower half—when did it go?"

"Noon," Soren said. "The moment Fenn came up to change your dressing—the whole lower half of the word, suddenly gone. No sound."

"No sound?"

"No sound," Soren said. "In four hundred years, the script on the wall has flaked. Some of it makes a sound. The kind that makes a sound flakes slow—you can still watch it drop, stroke by stroke. This one made no sound. The soundless kind goes fast. By the time you look back, it's already gone."

"What does 'can't be tracked' mean?"

"It means that stretch of script was pulled away all at once, by some force," Soren said. "The thing that was pulled—it's on the other side now."

"Which side?"

Soren looked at him. Looked for a second.

"Kael. Your father. What was his surname?"

Kael went still.

"Soren—Soren—I don't know my father's surname," Kael said. "The Wallwardens dug me out of the rubble."

"I know," Soren said. "But your mother—you may not know this—your mother. Her surname was Ravenfeather."

Kael said nothing.

"Twenty-seven years on the wall. I've seen every branch of House Ravenfeather," Soren said. "Your eyes, your jaw, the way you stand—you're the westernmost branch of House Ravenfeather. Blood from twelve generations back."

"Soren—"

"I don't tell others," Soren said. "Fenn doesn't know. Gorm doesn't know. Before my father died he told me, 'Soren, if one day you see a sixteen-year-old recruit—the surname is wrong, but the eyes are right—say nothing. Just watch him.' My father died twenty-seven years ago. I watched twenty-seven years and saw no one. This year I saw."

Something in Kael's chest bent.

"Why did your father want you to watch me?"

Soren looked at him.

"Because your father and my father were men pulled out of the same dynasty," Soren said.

"Which dynasty?"

Soren did not answer.

A long while passed. Then Soren said, "Kael, look at that stretch of wall—the word with no lower half—that word is your father's surname."

Kael stared at the wall.

Kael could no longer make out what the lower half of that word should look like—the patch on the wall was empty. He looked down at his own left palm. The mark was still there. The way it ran, the place it curved—it matched the stretch the wall had lost.

Kael opened his left hand.

Soren looked for a second.

Said nothing.

A long while passed. Then Soren said, "Third wave tonight. Could be many. Go down the tower."

"Soren—"

"Kael, go down the tower," Soren said. "I'll wait for Gorm to come back, then tell you more. Tonight, go down first."

Kael went down the tower.

---

Evening. Outside, the first howl.

Kael, inside the tower, listened.

Third wave: eighteen of them. Soren alone. One of his longbow strings had snapped last night. Today Fenn brought him a new one. Soren didn't change it. He made do with the broken string—"A new string feels wrong" was what Soren said.

Midnight. Soren shot eleven dead.

Three-quarters past midnight, the remaining seven withdrew.

Before dawn, Soren came down the tower. Unhurt. His longbow string—snapped a second time.

"Kael. Come out."

Kael stepped out from inside the tower.

Below the tower, on the ground, eleven hound corpses. Two of them were missing large chunks of flesh. The wounds left by arrows Kael knew—their edges were clean. These two were different: the edges of the gaps curled with tooth-marks, something had gnawed at the flesh, had even carried off a length of bone.

"Not bitten by a hound," Soren said.

"I can tell," Kael said.

"Right," Soren said. "I can tell too."

The two of them looked at the two incomplete corpses.

A long while passed. Then Soren said, "Kael, go inside and sleep. I have to think about some things tonight."

Kael went back inside the tower.

Before he stepped inside, he opened his left hand. The mark on his palm—yesterday it was three strokes, today it had a fourth. He traced the new stroke with his right forefinger; under the skin it was hard, as if something were pushing out from within. The four strokes together made exactly the left half of the word's lower part.

Kael closed his left hand, went inside the tower, turned the little ledger to its second page. On the second page, the four characters he'd written last night—I will not forget—the ink still there.

Beneath I will not forget, he added a line:

Lin. Watchtower No. 49. A quarter-hour before dawn.

Finished writing. Closed the ledger.

Tucked it back beside his pillow.

Outside the tower came the sound of Soren's steps, dragging the bow as he walked, heavy then light, the sagging-shoulder side coming down hard. The second night's snow fell to the top of the tower and melted on his armor, not yet gone cold.

【Ch. 007 End · Watchtower No. 47 · 25th of the Cold Moon, late afternoon → 26th, before dawn】