The De'Nauguath Chronicles - Book 1: The Summoner's Daughter

Chapter 9: Roused

Stavi, near the south central plains of Adica

Being in striking distance of a creature like Triga wasn't exactly comforting. Her peaceable mood since leaving Krócia was even more unsettling.

I couldn't decide how much to hide from her. I didn't know her full powers yet. I tried to spot patterns, but she was hardly ever talkative, even when I plied her to it. Trifling details sent her into an airy giggle or a somber stare. I spent hours wondering her true age, but I knew it was all pointless.

Even so, something changed after a few weeks. We watched each other, but there was a kind of sport about it. Most of my tasks every day involved food. There wasn't anything to hide from, except maybe the odd wolf, but they were rare this time of year. Urgency vanished. My sleep stopped being so broken, but strange little thoughts interrupted my waking hours. They were visions of sorts. They didn't seem to do any harm. Gods knew they wouldn't have been the first time it had happened. Maybe the shewla was shaking old memories loose when I wasn't watching.

The details were so swirled. There were grand, vast places filled with grand, grim people. Glittering sunsets and swift dawns mingled with laughter and melancholy smiles. In these other lands, danger was quieter – nothing like Krócia. Most of all, there was color everywhere. The cloth people wore was brighter, the sky was a blue I didn't have a word for, the hills were so green that they almost buzzed.

Animals weren't sorry-looking future meals. There were bouncy dogs with jaunty tails and gleaming coats, the kind of beasts that made their owners brag instead of kick them. Thick ribbons of fine horses sprinted in the spray of a quartz-white beach, ridden by plucky children who didn't look afraid of falling off.

The ending was always the same: rain. It wasn't some ugly slashing downpour. This was a fine mist gentle enough to look up at and feel on my face.

Triga usually disappeared at night, and I was glad: sometimes I wept a little when I woke.

I didn't try to ask her about them. She had a way of explaining things in her own way and her own time. She kept up her habit of watching just out of sight, and not just me. The world didn't get in her way but didn't seem to compel her either. After a month, I expected her to age, grow, change in some way, but she didn't.

I spent most days fending for food, which Triga never seemed to need and I always seemed to need ever more of. Now and then, part of a muscle in one of my limbs turned warm for awhile, like it was growing right there and then, instantly instead of gradually. I still dealt with the charnel air, but a full stomach made that easier to do. Even the telltale rash quieted down.

On an especially warm afternoon, my gullet rumbled earlier than usual and I set off to the river. I cast my line out and got comfortable on a large, flat rock. The sun wasn't bright, but I must've dozed off because I jerked awake awhile later to find Triga sitting near me. I cleared my throat in a hurry. "And where have you been?" I called out.

She waited awhile. "The winds are changing again."

"Where?"

"Near the western mountain ridge."

I huffed over the water's drone. "If Kinya's Peak is so important, why don't you just tell me what's there?"

"You've had troubled sleep."

The noise of the river's current seemed louder. It was comforting, but it set me thinking about other things. "Did you ever notice a roar to life?"

"The world is full of sound."

I shook my head. "I mean a damn bludgeoning. I mean a bloody pointless roar as the day passes." I shifted a leg. "Give it long enough a roar can numb. You start to go funny and forget. Big things look small and small things look big. Time can stutter if you let it."