Talsy crept through the forest, her eyes scanning the undergrowth for her quarry. The snow hare had come this way. Its tracks wandered amongst the trees, small marks that must lead to their maker. A snow hare would make a good meal for herself and her father. She pushed through a clump of frozen bushes, flinching at the icy leaves' chill touch. A thick fur jacket and leather leggings kept her warm and protected her from sharp branches, but her fingers were stiff and her feet numb with cold. As soon as she had killed the snow hare, she could return to the cabin's warmth to defrost.
Emerging into a clearing, she followed the tracks across it, then froze as the hare appeared on the far side, nibbling the withered grass that poked through the thin layer of snow. Notching a hunting arrow into her bow, she took aim and loosed it with a soft buzz. The arrow impaled the hare with a thud, and it screamed piteously, kicking up puffs of snow. She headed towards it, stopping as low humming whine came from the bushes ahead. It rose to a frenzied scream, and a bog sow burst from the undergrowth, scattering ice. The sow's engorged udder told Talsy that she had young, and the hare's scream had sounded like a distressed piglet.
Talsy leapt aside as the bog sow charged, but the huge tusked pig's armoured snout struck Talsy's leg, sending her sprawling. She lay still, hoping that, since the sow was a herbivore, she would leave once she was certain that there was no threat to her piglets. The sow scraped the ground with her tusks, snuffling as she circled the girl, prodding her. Talsy winced, but remained immobile. Her jacket protected her torso from the bruising tusks, but her legs would be blue tomorrow. Still, if she moved, she would be dead.
Four fat piglets trotted into the clearing, and their mother turned to them with a low maternal grunt. Talsy's mouth watered as she remembered the taste of bog boar piglet. Their two hundred pound mother loomed over them, however, a killer when aroused. The bog sow, apparently satisfied that her babies were safe, turned and led them away, and Talsy relaxed with a sigh. As she tried to stand up, however, a lance of pain stabbed up her leg, and she sank down again with a cry. From its unnatural angle, her left leg was broken between knee and ankle, and the slightest movement sent shafts of pain through her. She lay panting steam, waiting for the agony to subside so she could think.
When it dulled, she raised her head and looked around, knowing that to lie on the frozen ground for too long was certain death. Gritting her teeth, she crawled towards the trees. Two pieces of wood to splint her leg, another for a crutch, and she would be able to make it home. By the time she reached the trees, she shivered, cold sweat sliming her skin. Shock made her giddy, and she stopped often to rest so she would not faint.
Amongst the trees, she found a sapling and cut through the bark with her skinning knife, snapped it off and set to work stripping off the branches and shaping it into a splint. She worked quickly, for the day waned and she still had a long journey home. At dusk, her father would search for her, but after dark the wolves would be hunting too. Her arrow pinned the dead hare to a tree, and the scent of its blood would attract predators.
After binding two sticks to her leg with the leather thong from her jacket, she looked for a larger sapling to use as a crutch. A rustle of wings made her swing around in alarm, wrenching her leg. Stifling a whimper, she stared at the huge barred daltar eagle that had landed in the clearing, its black talons sunk into the hare's fur. After a moment of stunned surprise, she pulled another arrow from her quiver and notched it. Eagles were tough and stringy, but it would be a long time before she could hunt again. The raptor's wings remained spread as it tried to tug the hare free. Beautiful though the bird was, she and her father had to eat. The eagle would provide two meals, in a stew. Although its great black and white barred wings blocked her view, she aimed for where the body should be and let fly.
The arrow's vicious hiss ended in a meaty thud that warmed her heart. The eagle leapt into the air with a powerful downbeat, then fell, it long pinions splayed across the snow. Talsy smiled. If she waited long enough, she could probably bag a few ravens too. She returned to her task of finding a crutch, spotting a suitable sapling not far off.
By the time she had cut the wood to the right length, her hands were numb and shivers cramped her gut. Lying on the icy ground was definitely unpleasant. With the crutch's help, she pulled herself upright, hopping. She hobbled over to her kills and tied the hare to her belt, then pulled the eagle closer by one wing. The bird flapped, jerking free, and Talsy reached for her knife. The eagle turned its head to look up at her, not with the hot yellow glare of a daltar, but with piercing, brilliant blue eyes. A rush of wind rustled the bushes and the air filled with the sound of beating wings. Talsy recoiled in shock, her crutch skidded and she fell, twisting her broken leg. Dizziness washed over her in a sickening wave, and she clasped her thigh with a groan, striving to stem the wave of pain that washed up it.
When the world stopped spinning, she stared at the golden-skinned man dressed in black leather who sat where the eagle had been. His silver-studded tunic hung open to reveal a smooth, muscular chest, and her arrow protruded from it, oozing a thin red line down his belly. Worn trousers hugged his slender legs and narrow, scuffed boots shod his feet. His straight jet hair framed a scowling, fine-featured face with a sensual mouth and high cheekbones. He pulled her arrow out, studied it and tossed it aside. She gaped at him, awestruck by his wild beauty. He glanced at her without interest, and Talsy swallowed hard. He was Mujar. Her father had told her about the strange unmen, and armed her against them. Once, there had been quite a lot of them, but now only legends remained. The hatred of them had not faded from older minds, but hardly any of her generation had ever seen one. They were all supposed to be in the Pits.
The Mujar scooped up a handful of snow and rubbed it on his wound, grimacing as it melted. After a few seconds, he relaxed and glanced down at his chest. The wound had vanished. The Mujar rose to his feet, regarded her indifferently for a moment, and turned away.
Talsy raised a hand. "Hey! Wait! Help me, please!"
The Mujar looked at her, pursing his lips. "No Wish."
Talsy shook her head in confusion. "Please, my leg is broken."
The unman gazed at her with flat, empty eyes, clearly unmoved by her plight. He glanced around, measuring the clearing, and she knew he was going to leave her to the wolves. Reaching into her quiver, she found the white-fletched arrow and pulled it out. Her numb fingers fumbled with the bow as she struggled to notch it. The air seemed to swell, and the Mujar took a few light, running steps, then leapt high. A rush of wind and the sound of beating wings filled the clearing, and a daltar eagle rose into the air, each deep downbeat carrying it higher. She took careful aim, her heart in her throat. She must not miss this shot.
The bowstring twanged, sending the arrow hissing on its deadly course. It struck the eagle with a thud, making it stagger in mid-air. Its wings folded, and it plummeted to the ground in a spray of snow a few yards from her, where it lay still. Talsy crawled towards it, hoping it was not too badly hurt. Her father had told her to use the gold-tipped arrow on Mujar, but had not detailed its effect. To her relief, the eagle appeared only to be stunned, and glared at her when she neared it.
Mujar, the accursed undying. She reached for the arrow, then hesitated. What would happen when she removed it? What had her father said? She had not been listening that closely, and now wished she had. Something about owing debts? When she had asked the Mujar for help he had said 'no wish', and 'wish' was one of the words her father had used. If you helped a Mujar, he would grant you a wish. What was the other word? Gratitude. Yes, that was it.
Sitting up with a grimace, she bent over the bird, which watched her with fierce defiance.
"If I take out the arrow, you owe me, Mujar," she said. "If I leave it in, you can't change. You'll stay a wounded eagle, won't you? Maybe the wolves will find you and tear you into little bits. You can't die, so what happens? Do all the little bits go on living? In a wolf's intestines?" She shuddered. "Now you need help too. So, if I help you, you help me, agreed?"
The eagle glared at her, and she realised that he could not reply whilst in bird form. With some misgivings, she grasped the arrow and pulled it out, holding it threateningly, ready to stab him again if necessary. The daltar's eyes followed her hand, and its wings quivered. She wondered if it was too badly injured after all. It looked helpless on its back, so she lifted it by one wing and turned it over. It flopped down on its breast, its blood staining the snow, then raised its head and stood up. Its talons dug into the snow, and its wings rested on the ground as if to support it.
Wind rushed around her, making her gasp and raise the arrow. The sound of beating wings filled the clearing again, and the eagle vanished. The golden-skinned man reappeared and fell to his knees, his head bowed. His long hair hid his face as he sagged forward onto all fours.
Chanter sat back on his haunches and clasped the throbbing ache in his chest, blood oozing between his fingers. The few moments of utter powerlessness and agony had frightened him. Never had he been cut off from all the Powers, even Dolana. The girl's arrow had made him helpless, trapped within his mind. Her words had been a meaningless gabble, muffled and slurred, and his sight had darkened and blurred. As the ache receded, he raised his head to look at the Lowman girl. The bloody arrow she had pulled from his chest was notched in the bow again, aimed at his heart. He raised his hands and spread them in a gesture of appeasement and reassurance.
"Gratitude."
Her eyes wavered. "For pulling out the arrow?"
He nodded.
"I need help. You were about to leave me."
"Wish."
She slumped, lowering her bow. "Any funny stuff and I'll shoot you again, understand?"
He inclined his head. "Wish."
"Take me to my father's house."
Chanter studied her. It was a small wish for such a great service, even though the fact that she had shot him in the first place diluted his gratitude somewhat. Still, without her help he would have been trapped as a wounded bird, unable to change or escape. She had shown mercy by releasing him from the arrow’s terrible effect, instead of leaving him to suffer. Her blue-green eyes shone with the feral fear of a survivor born into a harsh world and used to its dangers, but afraid to die. Blonde hair escaped the untidy plait down her back and straggled around her face, which was pinched and blue with cold. A Lowman male, he mused, might have thought her pretty, with her small nose and large eyes, generous mouth and firm chin.
Shivers racked her, and she tugged at the front of her fur jacket, which was missing the thong that held it closed. Odd how Lowmen felt the cold, he reflected. With so little Crayash to warm them, they even died of it. He picked up a handful of snow and rubbed it on his wound, stiffening with a soft grunt as Shissar's healing power swept through him. The pain ebbed quickly, for the wound was slight, and he rose to his feet and stepped towards her, intending to carry her as she had asked. Her eyes glinted, and she raised the arrow, forcing him to retreat. He gazed at her in confusion, cocking his head to one side. How was he supposed to help her if she would not let him near her?
The girl eyed him, looking uncertain and distrustful. "If you hurt me, I'll stick you with this."
Chanter nodded, and she lowered the arrow.
The Mujar approached Talsy and knelt to slide his arms under her knees and back. He picked her up as if she was weightless, and she wound her arms around his neck, the arrow poised close to his skin. Up close, his matt skin glowed with health and his hair, although tangled, appeared freshly washed.
He glanced at her, his breath steaming. "Which way?"
"Oh." Talsy's cheeks warmed with embarrassment at being so enraptured as to forget this simple necessity. She pointed. "Over there."
The Mujar strode across the clearing and entered the forest, moving with a smooth gliding gait that hardly jolted her leg. His feet made no sound, and the frozen undergrowth seemed to part before him and close behind. He gazed ahead as if she did not exist. A thousand questions clamoured in her mind, and she asked the most pressing one.
"What would have happened if I hadn't pulled out the arrow?"
"I would have stayed a bird."
"And the wolves would have eaten you."
He shook his head. "No."
"Why not?"
"I am Mujar."
Talsy frowned. "What's your name?"
He hesitated. "No name."
"You don't have a name?"
"No name."
She sighed. "All right. Why didn't you want to help me at first? Why did I have to make you?"
"I owed you nothing."
Talsy scowled at him. "You don't have to owe a favour before you help someone, you know. It's a basic Trueman kindness."
"I'm not Trueman."
Talsy was about to ask him what difference that made, then remembered all the Mujar who had been thrown into the Pits over the years. They had a right to hate Truemen, but she did not understand why Truemen hated Mujar. He seemed a god-like creature to her. A beautiful, perfect man endowed with magical powers, like a fairy tale wizard. Perhaps he would stay with them if she was nice to him. She found him far more attractive than any man she had ever met before. Talsy tore her eyes from his face to look around.
Shadows crept across the land to darken tree trunks and undergrowth, turning the snow grey. The Mujar's long strides ate up the miles with amazing speed, but a fair distance still remained. A wolf's mournful, wailing howl made her shiver, but it was a long way off. The Mujar exuded wonderful warmth that sent a rosy glow into her bones, and the pain in her leg seemed to have vanished, too.
Chanter longed to answer the wolves' cry and run for a while with his lupine brothers across the frosty, moonlit land. The chase, however, would end with the death of his brother the deer, with which he shared just as much affinity. He could only hope that this unfortunate situation, which his inattention had brought about, would not become any worse.
As soon as he had fulfilled her wish, he would be free to go. The girl indicated that he should turn to the left and he did, his feet sinking into deeper snow. He shared his warmth with his burden, whose shivers had long since stopped. She held him tighter, and he flinched as the arrowhead touched the back of his neck. He sensed the wolves' approach. They had detected him, and ran to greet him.
The sight of the pack rushing towards them made the girl stiffen in alarm and reach for the knife in her belt. Chanter forged a brief mind-lock with the lead wolf, warning him away, and the pack veered off, vanishing into the forest as quickly and soundlessly as they had appeared. The girl scanned the forest with wide, fearful eyes, the knife glinting in her fist.
"Where did they go?" she demanded.
"To hunt."
"But they were attacking us!"
"No."
She glared at him, looking suspicious and edgy. "I suppose you made them leave?"
"Yes."
Talsy studied the Mujar's impassive face, torn between disbelief and awe. Moonlight threw pale fingers over the snow when at last her home came into view, a cabin huddled between a shed and a log pile, all covered with snow. As the Mujar headed towards it, her father emerged, armed with a spear. He stared at them for several moments before calling, "Talsy, is that you?"
"Yes, Papa." She waved, immensely proud of herself.
"Are you all right?" Her father hurried closer, lowering the spear.
"I broke my leg, that's all. A bog boar attacked me, but I still got supper." She waved the hare. "This nice man helped me." With a quick smile at her saviour, she explained, "This is my father, Borak."
Her father fell into step beside them, glancing at the Mujar, but clearly unable to see much in the gloom. Flinging open the cabin door, he admitted them into a cosy room that a roaring fire in a crude stone hearth and several oil lamps lighted. Dried clay filled the gaps between the logs that formed the walls, and two fur coats hung on hooks beside the door.
A soot-blackened stove stood in one corner, next to a barrel of water and a basin atop a scarred table. Battered tin cups and bowls filled the shelves on the wall beside it. A curtained alcove housed a copper tub, and a narrow bed covered with a patchwork quilt was visible through the solitary interior doorway. A pair of overstuffed, cloth-covered chairs faced the hearth, and another table stood beside the stove with a chair on either side of it.
Borak gestured to a bed against the far wall, and the Mujar lowered Talsy onto it, stepping back. Borak leant over his daughter to examine her splinted leg.
"I'm very grateful to you, stranger." He said over his shoulder. "You'll stay the night, of course. It's bitter outside, and not safe with the wolves about."
Chanter frowned at the Lowman's strange offer of free comforts, and hesitated when he would have turned to leave. Borak, a vast bear of a man with a bushy brown beard and thick brows, straightened and swung around, apparently made suspicious by Chanter's silence. His brown eyes raked Chanter, and he stepped back.
"Mujar!"
Chanter raised his hands and retreated towards the door, wishing only to escape the cabin and the implied threat of the Lowman's horrified tone.
"Stop right there, buster!" Borak snatched the arrow from his daughter and brandished it, circling to cut Chanter off. The lamps and fire flared as the Mujar reached for Crayash, but Borak leapt at him and stabbed the arrow into his arm. Chanter gave a soft cry and collapsed, all the Powers once more out of his reach. He panted, his eyes unfocussed, the agony transfixing him.
Borak leant over him and spoke garbled words, and Chanter stared at him in confusion. He writhed as Borak yanked the arrow out and the world sprang back into focus, fresh agony shooting up his arm. The Lowman pinned him to the floor with a boot on his throat and brandished the arrow in his face.
"Now you owe me, Mujar," he snarled, "Gratitude, right?"
Chanter nodded, shivering as the Earthpower sank frigid tendrils into his flesh. "Wish."
Borak grunted and lifted his foot, brushing his mustard yellow leggings as if touching a Mujar had soiled him. The girl sat up and stared at Chanter with wide eyes, clearly surprised by her father's cruelty.
"Did you have to hurt him, papa?"
Borak kicked Chanter in the ribs, making him grunt. "Mujar scum. He can do much more than carry you home, lass. You had to make him do that, didn't you?"
"Yes," she admitted.
"He'd have left you to the wolves, girl. Mujar have no feelings. I'm glad you got him. Another one for the Pit."
Chanter sat up, freeing himself from most of the Dolana. The slight warmth of Crayash ignited in his bones, dispelling the numbing cold that had so swiftly invaded him whilst the man's boot had held him down. Trapped again by gratitude, he looked up at the Lowman.
"Wish."
"Shut up, damned Mujar scum," Borak snarled.
Chanter bowed his head so his hair fell forward and blocked out his tormentor's hateful expression.
The Mujar’s meek acceptance amazed Talsy. Surely he could see he need not be grateful to people who kept sticking a gold-headed arrow into him and then demanding a wish when they pulled it out? She turned to her father as he sat beside her to remove her splints.
"Watch him," Borak admonished. "He might try to slip away."
"Why did all the lamps and the fire get so bright just now?"
"He reached for the Power of Fire, probably to burn a hole in the door so he could escape."
She shivered. "Or to burn you."
"No, Mujar don't kill. In fact, they don't like to harm anything. That's why they leave the forest and come into towns looking for food." Borak chuckled as he undid her leggings. "Ironic, isn't it? They can do anything, kill at a touch, but they're cowards. Damned yellow-bellied beggars. Imagine if a Trueman had their powers, what he could do with them. Hell, they can't even be killed."
"Yes, I imagine a Trueman would rule the world with those powers."
"Damn right!" He met her accusing gaze. "Well, he could do a lot of good in this world."
"And a lot of bad. It's lucky for us they don't like to harm others, or they'd rule the world."
Borak tugged at her leggings. "Damned yellow monkeys. They don't have the brains to use what they're given. It's wasted on them. They're no better than animals, remember that. They're freaks. Useless, brainless, spineless freaks."
Talsy glanced at the Mujar. "I think he's beautiful."
"Oh, sure, but only on the surface. Deep down, they're empty, just living shells."
"That's hard to believe. He doesn't seem stupid, only very gentle."
Borak grunted. "Why isn't he saying something in his defence, then? He'd have left you in the forest, make no mistake. He wouldn't have helped you if you hadn't used the arrow to make him." Her father peeled aside her leggings to reveal a swollen, discoloured limb.
"I asked him about that. He said that he didn't owe me anything. After all, we throw them in the Pits. Why should they help us?"
"They never helped, even before that. Don't waste your pity on him. He doesn't deserve it. He wouldn't even understand it."
Borak patted his daughter's hand, then rose and kicked the Mujar, making him flinch and look up. "Wish, you damned monkey."
Chanter nodded. "Wish."
"Heal my daughter's leg."
Chanter glanced at the girl, confused. Why did they not use the Power of Shissar to heal her? The shaman of his clan had never asked him to heal the sick, and he had always assumed that Lowmen could do it themselves. Still, if they wanted him to do it, he owed gratitude, and healing was easy. He went over to the bed and knelt beside it, and Borak crossed the room to rummage in a drawer. Chanter examined the girl’s swollen limb, running his slender hands over it in a feather-light touch that made her shiver. Glancing around, he spied a water jug on the table and rose to fetch it. Borak stepped into his path and brandished the arrow, making Chanter step back in alarm.
"Where do you think you're going, Mujar?"
Chanter pointed at the jug. "Shissar."
Borak eyed him. "Water, eh? All right, take it."
Chanter poured a cup of water, giving Borak a wide berth as he returned to the girl's side. He dipped his hand into the cup, and the cool Power flowed into him in a liquid tingle. Pain shot up his arm, and he bowed his head to hide his grimace. As soon as it passed, he scooped up a handful of water and trickled it onto the girl's leg, then laid his hand on it and let the Shissar flow through him in a river of glittering sweetness. It brought visions of waves and spume, rain and running brooks, the silken touch of water.
Talsy gasped as the room seemed to fill with mist and her sight blurred as if she was under water. The faint thunder of surf mixed with the trilling gurgle of a running creek and the soft whispering hiss of falling rain. It vanished, leaving her mouth filled with the sweet, clean taste of water, and she stared at the Mujar. He sat back, removed his hand and met her gaze. The gentle glow in the depths of his eyes struck her. The softness bespoke infinite compassion and unspoken wisdom, mixed with a strange, passive emptiness.
Borak stepped up behind him, whipped a thin rope around his neck and pulled it tight. The Mujar's hands flashed up to grip it, then he released it with a hiss, as if burnt. He slumped, his eyes closed and his hands fell to his sides.
Borak chuckled as he tied the rope. "Now he's not going anywhere."
"What's wrong with him?" she demanded, concerned that the Mujar sat so still, his head bowed.
"I heard about this method, and it certainly works, wouldn't you say?"
Talsy shook her head, became aware that her leg no longer hurt and glanced at it. Her limb was slim and straight once more, as if it had never been hurt. She flexed it, finding it as good as it ever was. The Mujar had healed her completely and painlessly, and his reward had been entrapment and cruelty.
"What have you done to him?"
Borak settled into a chair in front of the fire, filled his pipe and lighted it, his eyes twinkling. "Gold, lass. There's a thread of gold in that rope, and now he's trapped by it. Odd effect it has on them. Makes them all sleepy and helpless. We'd have used it to enslave the useless bastards, but they turn into zombies at the touch of gold, no good for anything. Still, as long as that's around his neck, he can't do anything. Come spring, I'll take him to the Pit over at Mercher's Crossing."
Talsy stared at the Mujar, who seemed oblivious to his fate. Her father's cruelty shocked her, and she did not understand his hatred. "Why can't we just let him go? He's done nothing to us. In fact, he helped us."
"Helped us?" Borak made a rude noise. "We helped ourselves, lass. He wouldn't have done anything if we hadn't made him. These damned yellow monkeys don't deserve to live, and we can't even kill them. Only a few years ago, we discovered that gold has this effect on them, but now they're almost all in the Pits." He puffed a cloud of smoke. "Maybe the medical school will pay to cut this one up and find out what makes them tick before they throw him in the Pit."
"No, papa! Please let him go!"
Borak shook his head. "You're too young to remember how we tried to bring them into our society. We offered them money, luxuries, anything they wanted, just for their help. The bastards weren't interested. They wouldn't use their damned Powers unless they owed us, and they don't need our help."
"But…" Talsy glanced at the Mujar again. "We can't feed another person until spring. It's hard enough finding food for us."
"We don't need to feed him. Mujar can't die. Not of anything. Believe me, we tried. No poison works on them, and you can't drown, suffocate, strangle – hell, nothing works. Why do you think we throw them in the Pits? Even then they don't die until their hundred years are up. They just can't get out, that's all."
"But… why do they eat then? And why don't they fly out of the Pits as birds?"
Borak tapped his pipe. "We don't know. We know very little about them, except that they can control the elements and can't be killed."
Talsy chewed her fingernails. "And change their shape."
"Yeah, that too."
"But if you could force him to help me by using the arrow, why didn't people do that before, if offering them money didn't work?"
"It's been tried. Everything has, even blackmail and torture. The trick with the gold will work once or twice, maybe three times tops, then they get wise to it. After I stuck him with the arrow, he was watching me. That's why I left the arrow on the table and used the rope instead. The manifestation of their powers gives a little bit of warning, but not always enough. If I'd come near him with that arrow again, he'd have turned into something really small, a bird maybe, then used fire to burn a hole in the door and escape."
Talsy nodded. "Then they're not stupid."
"Stupid enough to be grateful in the first place. A Trueman wouldn't be grateful if you'd done that to him, he'd be bloody furious."
Chanter listened to the distant beating of his heart and the swish of blood rushing through his veins on its endless errand. The sounds were the only comfort in the strange, dead world in which he found himself. The rope made it hard to breathe, but he did not need to. He could sense the Powers, but they were all beyond his reach, shying away as if a wall blocked them. Dolana flowed under him, its cold tendrils denied. No Crayash warmed him, allowing his flesh to cool, and Ashmar swirled around him, out of reach.
For someone who had used the Powers all his life, called on them whenever he needed them and, in moments of extreme danger, unwittingly invoked them, their absence was frightening and strange. The instant the rope had tightened around his neck, the world had blurred and receded. Not as bad as the arrow in his flesh, for there was no pain this time, but similar. Time had become meaningless, just another part of the world with which he had no contact. The two Lowmen mumbled in the distance, and a calm, helpless rage dwelt in him.
Vaguely, he was aware of someone dragging him across the floor and dumping him in a corner, his head banging against something hard. He no longer breathed, for the rope had closed his throat, and his lungs burnt for air. His heartbeat marked the time, but the beats were trackless, numberless, and uncountable. Isolated from the world, he had no way of knowing how long he lay in the corner. Only his memory provided an image of his surroundings. Sounds reached him through the numbness and the rush of blood in his brain.
The sharp clang of a pot jabbed his ears, making his neck muscles jerk and his eyelids flicker. Banging and scraping sounds sawed at his nerves, but they were faint, intangible, and not sufficiently real to break the bonds of stillness. At times, long stretches of silence entombed him further in his lost world, letting him sink into a numb abyss. His tenuous hold on reality slipped a little more each time, until a sound mercifully awakened him once more to the fact that something else did exist outside. This slight assurance gave him little comfort when his senses cried out for stimulation. The fire's crackle made him long for Crayash, but its lack chilled him.