Acquainted with the Night

[Seven Xu]

Winter 60, 511 AV

The moon had managed to turn almost three times, before an Ekytolian aristocrat met Lhavit’s bastard beneath its hoary face again. Neither could place or carry the weight of blame; such was the nature of the city two foreigners left behind, turning their backs to the comfortable orange twilight of street lamps and the din of civilization in favor of silver-lined hills, impossible darkness, and a night’s sky unmarred by a Trickster god.

Seven had not come unprepared. In a satchel slung over one shoulder, he’d neatly packed away his leather-covered notebook of star charts and land maps; flint and steel; a rolled up blanket, bare with holes and smelling of age; three apples, what remained of a slab of salted jerky; and finally, his dagger, fastened at his hip and tucked inside its scabbard. The scarf that had been tied around his pale neck had been forfeited in the heat of his efforts, and had been coiled half-assed around one taut leather strap.

Winter had already taken its toll on the halfblood by the time the dust road that snaked up the foothills turned into little more than a root-riddled path. Ashy skin not covered in thick swaths of wool had been whipped pink by wind, but was still stark and distinguishable in the atrous embrace of night; the whites of his eyes still gleaned silver moonlight, fueling the crimson that swam within. Every so often he would pause, to steal a cursory glance over his shoulder at the gathering of russet-topped buildings beneath a haze of night fog that had rolled in, low and thick, from the sea.

They had walked in silence for a long time, their footfalls eating up the ground in uneven rhythm. The further they went, the more Seven’s lungs craved the winter air, and he soon found himself filling the void no voice had taken initiative to fill with the sound of labored breathing. A hand groped blindly at his hairline, where white had begun to sprout up beneath a blanket of ebony dye, and where sticky sweat had glued his bangs to his forehead. Once, he tried to mask his panting with a hard swallow, a sigh; he wagered he was doing a better job at fooling himself than the Eypharian two strides ahead, so on his third attempt, he spoke.

“Quiet out here,” he observed, that mountain-raised lilt worming its way over his tongue. Despite the sweat on his brow and the hunger in his lungs, the halfblood clung to his dark wit. “At least with eight arms between us, we should survive the night.”

[Ifran]

That a deal of time had passed between the promised excursion and its execution did not seem to bother the statuesque Eypharian, nor did the trek itself seem to tax him, but his body was honed to the proper strength and tone with extreme discipline and precision. His art was his life, and his body supported both voice and action. This hike was, however, a different sort of exercise than he was used to and the muscle confusion was welcome. His body was swathed in softer things between his skin and the leather of his boots, the layers of wool he had filched from the costume shop keeping the winter chill away. Even in the foothills outside Alvadas, he was not in his element, far from the deserts of his home. He glanced back at Seven when the man spoke, judging whether or not he should force a short halt. Though it would not be a terrible burden, he did not really want to carry him back to his lover at the Sun and Stars. "Far from the bustle of Alvadas, yes," he agreed. The hilts of his khopeshes peeked over his shoulders. They would be safe. "How much farther should you like to go?"

[Seven Xu]

Seven’s feet praised the rest, but his face did its best not to show it. “As far as we can, and as high as we can.” He had not realized how badly he hungered for the thin, cool air the mountains afforded, and their intimacy with the sky. Lhavit itself had been plunged into the stars long ago, her people were meant to live in the sky; Seven had spent too long amidst stone and sea.

He took a knee and drew in another deep breath, exhaling it into a clump of tall grass and watching its blades dance. Cold white fingers worked to tighten the laces of a boot, before he straightened.

“I’ve been busy,” Seven admitted, skirting a boulder as he trudged on, ahead of six-armed Ifran and his daunting blades. “The tavern has been taxing—more grief than it’s worth, really—and Ionu keeps Itself amused by throwing me false patterns. Two jobs and both are as unsatisfying as they are tiring.” Away from Ionu’s realm of influence, though, Seven felt a strange sense of emptiness. The wilderness was dark, and crawling with sounds he could not identify: thumps, cracks, trills from birds, and trees that groaned when the wind tousled their branches. Alvadas had claimed him, but another had intrigued him.

And She was here, as She was everywhere, every night. “Has the Playhouse treated you well?”

[Ifran]

Ifran made an agreeable sound of assent; he would climb as high as Seven wished. It was cold, and he was swathed in wool to protect his desert-bred limbs from the chill in the air. But he did not ask the obvious question, why Seven continued with two jobs that gave him no joy. At least Ifran found some communion with his higher self in the theater, even if it was not run as he would have it. "I am fed, clothed, sheltered, and paid," he said. "I still do not see eye to eye with Master Fabel on all things and still Ionu does not smile upon me, but I cannot complain in good conscience. I am learning things there everyday."

[Seven Xu]

“It is good to learn,” Seven’s fingers groped at his pack for the borrowed scarf he had abandoned, as winter nipped at his pale neck and tempted his resolve. “If you stop learning, you run the risk of thinking you know everything.”

Short laughter cut the dark, chilly air. Seven reached for a low-hanging branch, yanked free a handful of dead and resilient leaves, before letting it spring back into place, and the crushed brown remains of flora waft through his fingers. Was this what it was, to be a noble on a leisurely hike, with the luxury of a guard? Ifran was a friend, though a quiet one; concise, young, and wise, he never seemed to want to say more than what was necessary. He felt as if the former was more accurate to any onlooker, and, for a moment, wordlessly indulged the fantasy.

An unsettling snap-crack through thickening bush drew Seven from his reverie, and he swivelled his head in the direction of the sound and narrowed his eyes, as if his bastard blood could pierce the darkness half as well as his cave-dwelling ancestors. “Did you hear that?” His voice dropped to a whisper, and a hand wrung knitted wool newly wrapped over his shoulders. “What was that?”

[Ifran]

"Indeed," Ifran agreed. He would stop learning when he died, but this was an idea upon which they had already agreed and he saw no reason to belabor the night's air with redundant chatter. When the branch became an obstacle, he did not move it, but moved around it, his body contorting, swinging under it in a feat impressive for one so tall, though it was dark so perhaps there was no audience. "I hear that," he agreed very, very quietly. "I do not know what it is." Those words were likely inaudible beyond a few yards away from them, and he soon had a bronze khopesh loosed from the well-oiled leather scabbard, unheard, but ready for anything. "Were you expecting company?"

[Seven Xu]

The thrum of a crossbow rang in unison with a loosed bolt, that had lodged itself in a nearby tree before Seven had time to blink. Still, nothing made itself known in the crushing darkness that surrounded the pair, and the only thing the craven halfblood could think to do was collapse in a heap on the ground and grope wildly for the comforting safety of a fell log.

Then, voices emerged from shadow: muffled and distant, they were the unmistakable baritones of men. There was a short exchange; Seven could pick out enough from inflection to discern a question and a short answer, even if the words themselves were unclear. Dead leaves crackled again beneath the soles of boots. Seven dared steal a glance in Ifran’s direction, to see silvered moonlight glint from a sharpened blade. Hot fear caught in his throat and burned a hole in his gut. No, he wanted to tear at the eypharian’s leg, drag him into hiding, and let whatever had shot at them to pass.

Hunters. They had to be hunters. Who the petch hunts in the dead of night? A canvas haversack had become a choking burden. Blind fingers wrapped themselves around the haft of his dagger and squeezed until he trembled, as if some comfort or courage could be wrung from it. It only made his hand hurt. Seconds passed like tiny lifetimes, and Seven’s guilty legs itched. Gods, you craven bastard. He stood, shrugged off the satchel, drifted behind a wall of wool-wrapped muscle.

He licked his lips. They were hot and cracked dry, as if he had just woken up. He trained his reds on nebulous, shambling lumps on a black canvas, and tried to ignore the knots in his stomach.

[Ifran]

Seven might have mistook his blade for bravery, when really it was just a precaution. He too sank low toward the ground, though he moved slowly, quietly, and urged Seven under cover, and himself too. His khopesh was held such that it was ready, but would catch no light, would not give them away. He had spent so much time within the walls of mad Alvadas that he had forgotten, perhaps, some of the dangers that lay beyond. The thought occurred to him that all those night-time strolls down the beach and swims in the surf might have been begging for trouble, but that was how he had found an Ethaefal to nurse back to health, and there had never been signs of true danger so close to Ionu's city. But for now he waited in the darkness with Seven and Seven's cowardice, wondering how many there were and whether he would have to deal with them all by himself or deal with them at all.

[Seven Xu]

“I told you there was nothing here,” one voice growled at the other. “You’re apt to kill someone with that thing; be sure, the next time you waste a good bolt on a hunch.”

Seven brushed a trickle of cold wetness from beneath his nose with a sleeve, nestled behind the bulk of an eypharian and his twin blades. His bastard eyes could see the pair, now. They were dressed in leather and fur and the one that spoke carried a knife that put Seven’s skin-prick of a dagger to shame. His breathing had slowed; fell in line with Ifran’s.

“No one is stupid enough to come out here in the dead of night. And if they are, they’re the sort that deserves a bolt between the eyes. Come on, town’s calling us. See if we can make our way through to find a drink before the sun rises again.”

It felt like a lifetime passed before two sets of footsteps faded into sweet nothingness. Seven savored a long exhale, and rolled onto his back to stare at a sky, its upturned black bowl spilling over with diamonds. For another short lifetime, he said nothing, just kept his doe-eyed face tuned on the night above. Then, the white apple in his throat bobbed as he swallowed, and parched lips tightened around a frown. Seven sat up, laid his hands in his lap, and forfeited his staring contest with the heavens to look at Ifran. “Do you think I’m stupid, for wanting to come out here?”

[Ifran]

For more than half his life, Ifran had been disciplining his breath as the support to his voice. The benefit of this breath control was that the adrenaline pumping through his veins did not made his breathing heavy, ragged, or noisy. He was silent and invisible in the darkness, unless the shadows had eyes to see. With his nerves on heightened alert, he could sense Seven behind him easily, and their pursuers came into what light the night provided. Through stealth and stillness, they remained hidden, and the men left them for their drink. While Seven breathed and lolled about, Ifran kept his eyes and ears on the darkness in case it was all a clever ruse, but having grown to manhood in the courts of Ahnatep, he was used to plots within plots, even from simple brigands and highwaymen. But then Seven spoke, and he decided his vigilance would have to be divided with his attention to the half-breed. "Sometimes," he said, "the line between foolishness and bravery is a swimming one."