"there is a patience of the wild -dogged, tireless, persistent as life itself- that holds motionless for endless hours the spider in its web, the snake in its coils, the panther in its ambuscade. this patience belongs peculiarly to life when it hunts its living food; and it belonged to buck as he clung to the flank of the herd, retarding its march, irritating the young bulls, worrying the cows with their half-grown calves, and driving the wounded bull mad with helpless rage.
for half a day this continued. buck multiplied himself, attacking from all sides, enveloping the herd in a whirlwind of menace, cutting out his victim as fast as it could rejoin its mates, wearing out the patience of creatures preyed upon, which is a lesser patience than that of creatures preying. as the day wore along and the sun dropped to its bed in the northwest (the darkness had come back and the fall nights were six hours long), the young bulls retraced their steps more and more reluctantly to the aid of their beset leader. the down-coming winter was harrying them on to the lower levels, and it seemed they could never shake off this tireless creature that held them back. besides, it was not the life of the herd, or of the young bulls, that was threatened. the life of only one member was demanded, which was a remoter interest than their lives, and in the end they were content to pay the toll.
as twilight fell the old bull stood with lowered head, watching his mates -the cows he had known, the calves he had fathered, the bulls he had mastered- as they shambled on at a rapid pace through the fading light. he could not follow, for before his nose leaped the merciless fanged terror that would not let him go. three hundredweight more than half a ton he weighed; he had lived a long, strong life,
Reklam
BUSTED
With Nivene’s arm looped through mine, we walk into the snowy forest.
I’m wearing a cloak over my shoulders, and the sun has started to break
through the winter clouds. Still, the cold bites my skin.
Griflet stands by an oak tree and waves to us as we approach. We reach
him, and he leads us beneath a canopy of gnarled branches. Sunlight pierces
the twisted boughs, and icicles hang from the hawthorn trees like jewels.
As I walk, the ferns curling from the snow brush against my gown.
Talan stands by a wooden altar carved from an enormous oak trunk with
intricate swirls and twisting vines. It must have been here for ages because
it is clearly worn by time.
He looks perfect, as always. He’s wearing a perfectly fitted black suit
and a silver collar of order draped over his broad chest. In the center of the
collar is his ouroboros sigil. The midnight blue fabric of his garments looks
soft and seems to absorb the light.
His dark eyes find mine, and as they do, the air feels warmer, heavier.
Sometimes, when I look at him, it’s hard to remember that I’ve seen him
slit a man’s throat during dinner.
Branches arch overhead, forming a living cathedral that shielded the
ground from the snowfall. A carpet of moss leads to the altar. Glowing blue
butterflies perch on the boughs around us, and crimson berries dapple the
grove, vivid against the snowy branches.
As I step closer to Talan, he reaches for my hands. I slide mine into his.
I can’t quite read the expression in his eyes beneath those dark
eyelashes, just the faintest curve of his lips. Almost playful. I wonder how
much of this is simple rebellion, marrying a penniless peasant to piss off the
father he hates.
Griflet stands before the altar with a large book in his hands. He flips
through it, clearing his throat. “We are
What did you get into
The torchlight dances in his dark eyes as he stares down at me. “Let’s
start with your name.”
“I’m Severine.”
“No. Your real name.”
“That is my real name.”
He cocks his head, and a lock of ebony hair falls before one of his eyes.
“If I desire, I can wrap you in a dream, girl. And in that dream, you will feel
compelled to say your real name a thousand times. You will say it for days,
for weeks, until you starve half to death, until the word no longer has
meaning. So, let’s try this again. What’s your name?”
Thunder rumbles outside, rattling the diamond-shaped glass panes.
I feel it then, a touch of his velvety power, brushing at the edges of my
mind. Threatening to wrap around me, to envelop my reality. He really will
do it unless I act fast. The shield in my mind isn’t strong enough. There
wasn’t enough time to practice.
Lying works best when it is laced with truth. I can give this evil fucker a
crumb.
I narrow my eyes at him, jaw tightening.
I should be acting like a meek girl, intimidated by the crown prince. But
Raphael’s words still echo in my mind, and the state of his ravaged, tortured
body burns my thoughts like a brand.
“Fine, it’s Nia.” I spit out the words. “Vaillancourt.” My words come
out sharper than they should, while my mind is whirring, making up a story
that would work, that would convince him I’m not worth his time.
“So, Nia. What are you doing here?” His voice is so uncannily familiar,
and the sound of his deep, velvety voice as he speaks my name sends a
strange rush of heat through my blood.
My pulse is racing out of control. Some Fey can hear a heartbeat while
standing nearby. I wonder if he’s one of them.
I lift my chin. “My family and I are tenants on farmland we don’t own.
End of WinterŞiir
Over the still world, a bird calls
waking solitary among black boughs.
You wanted to be born; I let you be born.
When has my grief ever gotten
in the way your pleasure?
Plunging ahead
into the dark and light at the same time
eager for sensation
as though you were some new thing, wanting
to express yourselves
all brilliance, all vivacity
never thinking
this would cost you anything,
never imagining the sound of my voice
as anything but part of you—
you won't hear it in the other world,
not cleary again,
not in birdcall or human cry,
not the clear sound, only
persistent echoing
in all sound that means good-bye, good-bye—
the one continuous line
that binds us to each other.
Reklam
Reklam