Chapter 010| Ming Ravenfeather

The 26th of the Cold Moon, a quarter-hour before dawn, Watchtower No. 47.

Kael woke.

His left shin had stopped itching. Even the wound under the bandage no longer hurt.

Fenn the surgeon had said "three more days" yesterday. Counting from the night of the injury, today was the fourth day. Fenn always reported the days on the generous side, Kael knew. But this time it was off — he had felt it himself, the wound was healing faster than Fenn had said.

He sat up, slow, keeping the weight off his left leg, and reached for the pillow's edge —

— the little scrap of paper Gorm had pressed on him before leaving the tower was still there, deeper under the pillow. He had not opened it.

Gorm should have come back yesterday.

Gorm had not come back.

Kael, thinking why hasn't Gorm come back, rose, pulled on his outer robe, and walked out of the tower.

Outside, below Watchtower No. 47, a man stood there — not Soren.

The man was past forty, in the regular uniform of House Ravenfeather of the Mute March. Three blue stripes on the left sleeve — a regular soldier of House Ravenfeather, not a border-tower warden. His beard was trimmed even. His left hand rested on his sword-hilt, his right hung empty at his side. Only a left-handed man stood like that.

"And you are?" Kael asked.

The man turned, looked at him.

"Ming Ravenfeather," the man said. "Current sergeant of Watchtower No. 46. Sergeant Gorm's elder brother in the craft."

Kael was startled for a moment. "Sergeant Ming?"

"You're Kael." Ming gave him a glance, looked at his left shin. "Fenn the surgeon sent word to Watchtower No. 46 yesterday, said your wound was nearly healed."

"Yes."

"Kael, come up the tower with me," Ming said. "I need to speak with the elder, Soren. You stay at the top. Don't come down."

"Yes, sir."

The two went up the tower.

Soren was at the top this morning, the longbow string — replaced for the third time last night — now the silver-thread line Fenn had brought. Soren had not strung it. He stood, looking at the wall.

"Elder Soren." Ming saluted — the March manner, half-clenched fist touched lightly to the left breast.

"Ming Ravenfeather." Soren did not turn. "You've come to see those two corpses?"

"Yes," Ming said. "Fenn the surgeon wrote to Watchtower No. 46 yesterday. I came to see for myself."

"Below." Soren pointed down the tower.

Ming went down.

Kael stayed at the top, looking at Soren.

Soren — at this moment —

— Soren's right shoulder had slumped lower than yesterday.

"Soren —" Kael said.

"Kael, sit down," Soren said. "Ming will look at the corpses, come up when he's done, and the three of us will talk."

Kael sat down.

The tower-top was quiet. Soren looked at the wall. Kael looked at Soren.

A quarter-hour passed. Ming came up.

"Elder Soren," Ming said.

"Ming, speak," Soren said, and finally turned his head.

"Both corpses had large pieces of flesh bitten away," Ming said. "The tooth-marks aren't a hound of the gods'. Nor any kind of great beast's. The shape of the marks —" Ming paused a second — "like a human's."

Soren did not react at once.

A second passed. Soren said, "Like a human's?"

"Yes," Ming said. "But — the teeth are bigger than a human's, the spacing wider than a human's, and the force of the bite is more than a human has."

"What kind of thing has human-shaped teeth, but bigger than a human's?"

Ming did not answer.

Soren looked at the wall.

A long time passed. Soren said, "Ming, do you remember the record my father left in the days before he died, twenty-seven years ago?"

Ming thought a moment, then said, "Your father wrote —"

Some things walk out of the wall. Not like beasts. Like people who've been forgotten.

"Yes," Soren said. "When my father wrote that, twenty-seven years ago, I was eighteen. I thought he was talking in his sleep."

"And now you don't think he was talking in his sleep?"

"No."

Soren paused a second.

"Ming, Watchtower No. 47 isn't safe," Soren said. "I've known since last night. You came today, and it's confirmed."

"Elder Soren —"

"I won't leave," Soren said. "I've held twenty-seven years. If I don't die here, where do I die?"

"And Kael?" Ming asked.

Soren looked at Kael.

Kael's chest tightened, once.

"Kael doesn't leave," Soren said. "Kael stays here. I'll watch him."

"Soren —"

"I said, I'll watch him," Soren said.

Ming asked nothing more.

A quarter-hour passed. Ming said to Soren, "Sergeant Gorm should have come back yesterday. He didn't."

"I know," Soren said.

"On my way down to Ironhold, I'll ask after him," Ming said. "If he's on the road, I'll bring him back."

"My thanks to you."

Ming saluted, stepped back, turned, made to go down the tower.

Before going down, he stopped, turned back, looked at Kael.

"Kael."

"Here."

"Your left palm. Show me."

Kael did not ask why. He opened his left hand.

That mark —

— last night it had grown to a fourth stroke —

— this morning — there was a fifth.

Five strokes.

A word, written halfway.

Ming looked for five seconds.

"Kael, put your left hand away," Ming said. "Don't show it to anyone."

"Why?"

Ming did not answer.

A second passed. Ming said, "Don't show it to anyone. Remember that."

Kael closed his left hand.

Ming went down the tower, took the small southern path, vanished into the snow.

---

At noon, Fenn the surgeon came up the tower.

"Kael. The bandage."

Fenn unwound the bandage, looked at the wound, then —

— he stopped.

"Kael —" Fenn said.

"Mm."

"Your leg —"

"Nearly healed."

"Not nearly," Fenn said. "Your wound — it's already gone."

Kael lowered his head, looked at his own left shin.

The seven stitches the surgeon had sewn yesterday were still there. The thread, still knotted the way Fenn had tied it. Under the thread, the skin had already closed over. Kael pressed a finger to that stretch of skin, pressed hard — no pain beneath it, not a scar, not even the redness left.

"Impossible," Fenn said. "Under stitches, four days, it can't heal."

Kael did not answer.

Fenn — this surgeon of forty-five, who had seen at least several hundred wounds —

— Fenn's hand shook, a little.

"Kael, I won't change the bandage yet," Fenn said. "I'll go to Watchtower No. 46 and fetch another kind of medicine to look at this."

"Yes."

Fenn went down the tower.

Kael sat inside the tower, opened his left palm.

The five strokes were there. The wound was gone.

He set the two things side by side. The wound was from the hound of the gods, last night; the fifth stroke had come this morning. The night before, the mark had grown to a fourth stroke; that same night seven stitches had gone into his left leg. With every stroke added, the leg healed a measure.

He sat a while, working out where it didn't add up.

Flesh does not grow back on its own. Something had grown it for him. And what that something wanted was cut into his palm, stroke by stroke.

He did not know the word. Written to a fifth stroke, he still did not know it.

But he was beginning to feel that this leg of his had not healed for nothing.

---

At dusk, Kael walked out of the tower, down to the foot of the wall.

Soren was not at the tower-top — Soren had gone down in the afternoon to follow the lead Ming had left.

At the foot of the tower, on the snow, were footprints.

Kael crouched, looked at the prints.

Not large, about the length of his own foot. At first he took them for some warden's tread.

But the row of toe-hollows at the front of the print — he counted them once, and again. Six.

Kael ran a fingertip along the edge of a print.

The prints were fresh, their edges not yet dried by the wind.

The prints went from the foot of the wall, southward, to directly behind Watchtower No. 47, and then —

— stopped.

The prints did not step into the tower, nor go around it. They walked on, and then, all at once, there were no more feet.

Kael raised his head, looked at the Mute Wall.

That stretch of wall Soren had pointed out — the stretch with the third-stroke crack.

Yesterday, when Kael had looked, the lower half of the word was already gone. Now, as he raised his head, the upper half was going too. Flake by small flake, the basalt fell down the face of the wall, into the snow at its foot.

The third stroke, stripped clean. Beside it, the second stroke — a crack had opened at the tail of one line.

Kael stood, looking at the wall, for a long time.

His left palm went hot.

It was not the heat of a hand held closed too long. It pushed up from the bone of his palm, up into those five strokes, the edges of the word burning in flickers. Kael laid his hand open on the snow. A small ring of it melted.

He closed his left hand, walked back into the tower.

Outside, the fourth night was coming.

【Ch. 010 End · Watchtower No. 47 · the 26th of the Cold Moon, dawn → dusk】