The Gray Isles by F. T. McKinstry

Author:F. T. McKinstry [McKinstry, F. T.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2017-04-16T23:00:00+00:00

The Netweaver’s Tale

A man and his wife rocked upon the vastness like a final breath.

“It’s fey out here today,” she said, nervously fingering the red scarf at her throat.

The fisherman tied off the foresail and looked up. “The sea is always fey.” He sniffed the breeze. “There’ll be a storm come in, ‘fore long.”

“How long?”

“Who can ken.”

Her gaze swept the empty horizon. “She’s watchin’ us.”

Voices rippled the surface above like the wings of a mayfly, an irritating vibration caught in the rays of the rising sun filtering into the surrounding darkness. One voice she knew; the other, she knew as the blood of an offering cast into the infinite flow of her creatures. Untold shades, hunter and hunted, the souls of drowned sailors, thousands of pearly eggs for every one that breathed, they whispered of chaos in balance.

The tiny, tooth-shaped hull of a boat stained the surface far above. In it, the mother of a dead child buried in the earth huddled, trembling with the knowledge of all mothers. Her blood knew death; it spread into the waters like a tear, and it did not ask. But her man had asked. His voice had rent the Void like a sword, bright, sharp and strong against the flesh of mortals, yet no more than a reed to the sea.

The Destroyer curled her body with supple grace, caressing the depths. She moved up towards the shimmering surface in a silent spiral, hungry and inexorable. To be worthy of providing a vessel in which to hide her child, these mortals would surrender to the forces that gave him life.

*

For a time, Hemlock just ran, to distance himself from Dirala’s house. Once he realized nothing came after him, he stopped and leaned over to catch his breath. Dirala’s tea had grounded him but not given him any additional strength; he winded easily, his thighs burned, and he ached everywhere. His throat tightened around the wound, causing him to wish he had fetched something to wrap around his neck. He would be easy to identify.

He began walking in the direction of the sea. He couldn’t return to Urd, and he couldn’t be seen around here, as the word would be out against him. He wished he hadn’t gone to Dirala’s house. Now they knew he was here.

If Eadred had spoken the truth about knowing the movements of the loerfalos, then he might know Hemlock had called to her—and now walked on Mimir.

He slammed a hand into his forehead. Stop it you fool. Loerfalos never had anything to do with this. Damned wizard is mad.

The sky flashed with lightning, followed by a crash of thunder that shook the ground. A drop of rain struck his face as he stumbled over the rocky, brushy terrain. He walked for an hour or two, avoiding houses and farms. He spooked every time the sky lit up, a dog barked, or the wind rustled the brush around him. Once, he thought a pair of eyes gazed at him through the blowing leaves of a stunted tree.

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