Silk

Deadwatch

 They are brimming at this very hour—

Waiting for someone to take.

The lights are embers—

Something is burning...

          THE SUN HAD FALLEN, but I was without fear. There was no one here; nothing here. But the thing which had spoken still lingered. Just yesterday I passed my shanty—taking whatever goods I still had stored there. The small water flask I had nearly exhausted, the little stones and sticks I used for fires, a lean strip of venison I would have to stretch to last over several long days. I shuddered suddenly. It had been silent for too long. No birds, no insects trilling through the night, no foreign voice waving through my mind. The absence seemed a premonition—as animals are known to scatter whenever predators are near. I wrapped my fabric sheet about my body and continued walking. The nights had grown colder. Winter was nigh. Again, a frigid sensation tickled the nape of my neck. I heard a high-pitched sound sweep through the air ominously. And then I knew what it was. A sandstorm. I fell to the ground.

The wind only came in trickles at first, but soon the sand had erupted into teeming clouds of smoke. I pulled my blanket over my head, but it could not defend against the stones that were caught in the torrent and flung wildly overhead. The sand had invaded my eyes, my mouth—any opening it could find. A projectile had even drawn blood from my cheek. Something near me bristled. The satchel.

"Waiting for someone to take..." It whispered.

I shook my head.

"They are brimming at this very hour..."

I realised it then. The voice was speaking of the rocks in my satchel. They shook wildly, almost caustically now, mimicking the motion of my heart—the fear tightening in my chest.

"I understand," I told it.

But the fear kept me motionless a moment longer.

I ripped the satchel open and took the rocks up in my hands. The wind seared my bare cheek and the sand clouded my vision.

"Please, tell me what to do," I said to them as if they might hear.

But the wind only picked up. The sand collected in thicker clouds to choke me once more.

"Where are your lights? Where are your embers? What's burning?! What in hell are you?!"

"Absolution."

It sounded like death. It sounded like Poshti after the bells had tolled to signal a person's passing—all of the silence clinging to the skin of those still living. The wind was still ripping through the air but I could not hear it. The sand and the wild breath of the wind arched its back and went around me. The rocks glowed and shook in my arms. It was as if I had forged a tunnel with which I could pass through the centre of the storm. I said nothing and called out to the voice no longer. It sounded different this time; darker. I was afraid. I was no longer sure about going toward it, but I found no reason to refrain—even with the possibility of death looming.  

          Two men of the Kingsguard stood as sentries, clutching halberds and watching all who entered. The King made an appearance first, seating himself at the head of the table. He was followed closely by his advisor, Seitchel. Then came the Commander of the Infantry: Ser Tomlin, the Exchequer: Lord Albrecht, the Archbishop: Lord Tudor, The Herald: William the Second, and the leader of the knightsmen: Lord Randolf White.

After the men were seated there was a slight bustle, then the shifting of uncomfortable gazes toward Lord White.

Ser Tomlin was the only one who dared to ask, "What business has he here?"