(TLO) Chapter 65: The Silence of The Sentient (Patreon)

There was a momentary flame as Seth’s guest set the lit match to the wood before it dwindled to embers. The first embers of light were not enough to see with but they were a start. Unsatisfied, his guest bent at his waist, executing a full bow as he rested on both knees and blew at the embers. With each breath the embers rose, birthing flames. Each growth gave better sight, flaring and dimming with each burst. It gave Seth something to work with and revealed patches and spots of his guest. He noted Caucasian blue eyes first because he was looking for them. They proved his guest unsouled.

At the edges of the eyes were crow-feet, wrinkles that marked his age. He wasn’t ancient, not like grandfathers or grandmothers, but he was old. Seth put the man somewhere in his fifties, maybe sixties. He was of fair complexion with black spots across his cheeks that inflated with each breath. In this way, Seth pieced the man’s face together until a full fire was kindling and a full portrait was presented before him.

The man looked up from his accomplished task to give him a toothy grin. “Nice to finally meet you.”

Seth did not return his grin. Instead, he watched as it wavered on the man’s face.

“You talk quite mature for your age,” the man went on, skeptical. “I almost thought you were closer to twenty. Just how old are….” He let his words trail off as though realizing their wrongness, then corrected himself. “I apologize. That was rude of me.” He reached a hand around the fire and offered it. “I’m Dazda.”

Seth noted a slight accent on the man. It was evident in the way he said the name: Da-az-da.

If anything, the name was not English. Neither was it like anything he’d ever heard before.

He stared at the man’s face, well aware of the hand that still hovered, outstretched for a handshake. He did not take the hand, did not accept the offer, but he did offer the man a response.

“And what are you doing here, Dazda?”

He had no reason to fear an old man, especially an unsouled.

We’ve been spending too much time around mages, one of his minds thought. Seth thought he heard a touch of scolding in it.

If Dazda felt disrespected, he didn’t show it. He gestured at the entrance to the shelter with his ignored hand. “Didn’t want to be caught in that so I dipped into the nearest shelter I could find.” He brought the same hand back to scratch a beardless cheek. “Didn’t really think much of it. In hindsight, I should’ve expected it to have an occupant.”

Seth gave no response to this. The man was right, he should’ve expected an occupant. But he was here, and that was all there was to it. He certainly wasn’t going to drive the man from his shelter now. Not out into the blistering cold.

So he remained lying down, staring at his frozen ceiling now lit with countless shades of red and orange and yellow from the light of the fire. He traced them in his mind as a child would trace a cascade of brightly lit colors on a book. One swirled and turned and another spread like a splotch. There was a sway and a turn of a color that looked like an angry orange venting to the turn of pink.

He tilted his head to the side, looked at it from another angle.

Is that a fly? A mind asked.

“Huh.” Seth squinted his eyes for a better look. It was. Trapped beneath the ice, a background amusement behind the dancing lights, was a fly.

Never thought we’d ever see a fly trapped in amber, another mind thought.

Seth smiled softly. “It’s not amber. It’s ice.”

You sure?

“Certain.” His smile did not leave his lips, and the warmth did not flee his skin.

Check again.

“There’s no need to.” He turned on his side, a subconscious act, and nestled his head into the crook of his elbow. His hand served the part of a pillow and he made himself comfortable.

Certainly looked like amber to us.

Seth nodded quietly. It certainly did. With the lightshow the undulating flames cast onto the ceiling, it had looked like amber. But looking like something, no matter how closely, was not the same as being something.

Perhaps, another mind offered, we shouldn’t turn our back on our guest.

The reminder was enough to return Seth to alertness. The mild reprieve was gone. His gentle enjoyment of the moment dashed like a broken plate. He turned again. He laid on his back, staring at the fly that should’ve been trapped in amber.

Silence stretched for a while after that. He listened to the blizzard blow and the sound of his heart beat. He watched the colors flitter across the once blue-white interior of his shelter and listened to the breathing of an old man on the other side. A false sense of peace threatened to fall over him. It wanted him to forget what he was, where he was.

It wanted him to forget that there was no peace here.

He did not.

It was a while longer before Dazda spoke.

“What exactly do you do for water around here?” he asked, turning his head from side to side. “I don’t thin—”

Seth reached a lazy hand beside him, scooped up a small portion of the little snow still around and pressed it against his lips. The process was slow and unsatisfactory as ice turned to water. It melted in his mouth and wet his tongue in small droplets. It wasn’t much but it was something.

It also tasted horrible.

“I don’t reckon that’s healthy.” Dazda frowned. “Especially for someone like me.”

Seth did not disagree. Among the things the seminary’s healer had taught him and his brothers, the elderly weren’t as immune or readily capable of fighting off diseases as the young.

“Haven’t seen a mage as young as you before,” Dazda continued. He did not turn his head to the side, and if there had been another person in the room they would’ve been confused as to who he was speaking to. “It’s usually those sixteen and older. You’re just so—” he sighed. “My apologies, it’s really none of my business.”

Seth nodded to himself. Curiosity remained in the man’s voice but there was a touch of something there too, something as old as man. Something he hadn’t seen or heard from anyone but his brothers and himself in a while.

Fear.

Humans feared mages. It wasn’t necessarily an illogical fear neither was it one they were good at hiding. But before meeting Jabari, Seth had only known of it. He had never truly appreciated it. Being around mages from the moment of birth was to blame for this. It gave him an awareness of just how powerful they were. But it never allowed him fear that power.

Then Jabari had come along and he learned just how easily it could be turned on him. He saw how easily it was turned on others. How devastating it could be.

Noting the fear in Dazda’s voice gave a tingle in his mind. It made him feel powerful. To wield such a hold over another being was a new feeling. He’d had a glimpse of it enough times; seen how easily the priests wielded it over him and his brothers. A frown creased his lips, unbidden. He did not like this power.

His frown deepened. “I’m n—”

Shush! All three minds silenced him, cutting off his truth. Let’s not go rushing into some self-righteous decision. It’s not our fault he went jumping to conclusions, and it does us good. He’ll be less inclined to do a mage any harm.

Seth wanted to protest. Power was good at any given time, but not power that would make him like the priests. He wanted no part of this farce. If the man chose to believe him a mage for whatever reason, he was disinclined to let the misunderstanding continue. But how would he argue with his minds without Dazda realizing something was wrong with him?

A moment ago he had cared naught for the man’s opinion. But now, sharing a space with him and knowing he made the man afraid, he felt different, cautious. The man’s fear would only deepen at the thought of him as a mage that spoke to himself. A mage was terrifying. So what would be said of a mad mage.

Without leeway or a chance at an argument, he kept his peace. Over the space of a few breaths his frown eased from tightened lips and his guilt of having the man believe a lie faded.

Silence filled the small space again. It was the silence of one part. The kind present only in nature. The blizzard kept at its wailing, drumming against the sides of his shelter and whistling into it like an enthusiastic drunk. The wood crackled and popped under the beating of fire. The air smelled of wood-smoke and snow and spice. Words remained unsaid.

It was the silence of the sentient.