‘Over here! I see Tal! I see Tal!’
More of the lights began to move, until they had picked Sa-at from the darkness. He squinted his eyes against the sudden glare and waved. Tal raised his hands over his face and groaned.
‘He’s in pain! And what’s that feathered thing next to him?’
Sa-at tried to think of something to say but, again, the words would not come.
Others were speaking though. ‘Something has him!’
‘Don’t let it take Tal!’
There was movement at the fence, though Sa-at couldn’t make out what it was. He wanted to say his name the way the Gatherers had back in the Wild. That he was Sa-at and he was safe. And then they would smile at him and touch his arm. He wanted it so badly but he could not find the words. It was as if all the breath for speaking had fled his body.
So instead he smiled and gave Tal a gentle push towards Sagan. The young man managed several awkward steps before tripping and falling over.
‘It’s killed Tal!’ shrieked a voice.
‘Get it!’ shouted another.
A stone landed in the dust by Sa-at’s feet. Then another. He held up his hands in surprise and felt something sharp smack into his palm. It stung and he cried out.
‘Good shot, Rin! Keep at it.’
He took a step back as another stone hit his shoulder. That stung too, and his eyes pricked with tears.
Fear overcame shock, making him turn and run. The stones and shouts followed him, back across the barren ground and into the dark of the Wild.
Satyendra strolled across the courtyard, slowing as he reached the centre. On cloudy days this was his favourite place in the castle. An open space as far from the oppressive walls and the hated crystals as it was possible to be.
It would be even better if there was nobody else here.
He was good with people, but they brought out the worst in him, and he often wished he had been born elsewhere. A quiet settlement on the edge of a Godroad, or one of the watchtowers on the border where he’d only have the landscape for company. Within the confines of Lord Rochant Sapphire’s floating castle, privacy was hard to come by.
Some of the apprentice hunters were playing ‘snare the demon’, a game in which one person was the titular demon and had to get from one side of the courtyard to the other. The other players were the hunters, and their job was to grab the demon. If three hunters got hold of the demon at once, they won.
When they saw Satyendra they called out to him, begging that he join them. It had always been like this. As the Honoured Vessel for Lord Rochant Sapphire’s next life, he was special, elevated above the others. Everyone wanted to sit next to him at mealtimes or pair up with him while training. He was an auspicious being, a lucky charm, and they loved him for it.
Almost as much as he loathed them in return.
Apparently, he had impressed even as a baby. He was born under the same alignment of the suns as the Sapphire High Lord, Yadavendra, and had impressed the man so much, that he had been gifted with a name of equal status and length as the other high lords. Clearly, Yadavendra had low standards. As best Satyendra could tell, he had been honoured for not crying. His mother always went on about how quiet and brave he was as a baby. How ridiculous. They praised me because I did nothing. That’s no achievement. Perhaps they’re hoping I’ll be just as quiet at the end, when I’m sacrificed for the good of the house.
And with the next proper alignment of the suns only a day away, the end seemed far too close for comfort. He had to find a way to postpone.
One of the apprentices moved into his path. Though he’d known them all for years, in his head he referred to them by feature rather than name. This apprentice was called Pik, but he had dubbed them Nose, for obvious reasons. ‘Want to play, Satyendra?’
He buried his irritation deep, and put on a mask of reluctance. ‘I’d love to but Story-singer Ban is expecting me.’
‘Just one game, please.’
‘Please!’ echoed the other apprentices.
‘I don’t know. He won’t like it if I’m late. Lord Rochant was known for his punctuality.’
His primary duty as an Honoured Vessel was to be like a mirror to Lord Rochant in thought and deed in order to enable an easy rebirth. It was implicitly understood that everyone in the castle was supposed to assist him in this, and for years Satyendra had been using it to his advantage.
As he expected, the apprentice hunters backed off, disappointment plain on their faces, and, for a delicious moment, their shared sadness washed over him, like the scent of cooking from another room, making his mouth water. A secret part of him stirred, and demanded to be fed.
I should move on, he thought. Ban hates it when I’m late, and if I play, I’ll need to win.
There was a terrible pressure in being Lord Rochant’s Honoured Vessel. For it seemed Rochant had been hatefully good at everything: flying, tactics, lawmaking, diplomacy, hunting, art. His legacy was like a shadow that dwarfed Satyendra’s achievements. How was he supposed to match somebody with lifetimes of experience? Somebody known for their wisdom. Who never lost.
It was impossible. Better to sidestep the issue of the game entirely and go to his lesson.
He walked on a few paces, pretending reluctance, before stopping. It was too late. He wanted to feed. Needed to. He would play and win and make them sad. Then he would drink it in. The plan had already formed, any flaws hidden by an irresistible need. His back was to them now and he could not help but lick his lips in anticipation.
‘Could I play the demon?’ he asked.
‘Of course,’ they replied, a little eagerness returning to their eyes.
He made a show of thinking it over. ‘I suppose I could stay for one game, but it would have to be quick.’
The apprentices rushed to their starting positions, spreading out across the courtyard, while Satyendra walked to the far wall.
‘Ready?’ they asked.
‘Yes,’ he replied, then, as they started to run towards him, added: ‘No. Which demon am I going to be?’
The apprentices stopped, confused. One of them said, ‘What?’
‘I need to know which demon I am.’
Though the game did not normally require the demon to be named, all of the apprentice hunters had grown up being taught about the inhabitants of the Wild. Suggestions came thick and fast:
‘Be one of the Red Brothers.’
‘Be a Watcher!’
‘Be a Kindly Father!’
‘Be the Stranger!’
‘Be Murderkind!’
Satyendra shook his head. ‘No, I’m going to be the Scuttling Corpseman.’
‘But, the Corpseman is dead,’ replied Nose. ‘Lord Vasin killed it.’
‘No he didn’t, he cut off its arm, and anyway, this is a game so I can be who I want. Be careful though,’ he warned, ‘the Corpseman kills any hunter it catches alone.’
While they were digesting that, he started running down the left side of the courtyard, and with a whoop, they came after him.
Most of the apprentices were full grown, with adult frames that hadn’t yet filled out, and faces that still contained