This is Chapter 9-1 of a serial fantasy novel.
Head of Root Ottrah of Bit stared Frix down, his monstrous jaw grinding slowly. Frix wasn’t sure if it was anger or disbelief, but knew it wasn’t good. The old campmaster had at first seemed somewhat spirited at the news of a duel, if a little bothered that Frix had not been the victor.
Then he had asked to take a look at the cuts.
“How do you let Tel filth… be doing this?” he asked again.
Frix had already explained, so he decided to just wait it out until his great uncle got around to telling him what he wanted. They were alone, sitting cross legged in a small tent near the residential treeline of one of the smaller triads. It looked like it was usually reserved for breeding. An odd place to meet, but all Frix cared about was getting home and getting some salve on his injuries.
“This timing, just ridiculous,” said Ottrah. “If you’re weak and losing, why be dueling? Why?”
Frix ran his tongue along the back of his teeth, staying the suicidal urge to fire back with something sarcastic. Instead, he said, “Hobb told me you had something to tell me, Head of Root.”
For a moment, it looked as if Ottrah might whack him about the head. But then he turned his stare to the little fire in the centre of the room. “Was going to have you be eyes and ears. For Bit family. But now you branded Tel.”
“I’m still of Bit, uncle. What’s the assignment?”
Ottrah only shook his head.
“Look, I’ll carve a ‘B’ out of it if it appeases you,” said Frix. “I came all the way out here, you can’t tell me what the assignment is?”
Ottrah yanked out one of his shortsharps and threw it at Frix. It buried itself in the dirt between his crossed ankles. Frix bent and plucked it out, eying the thick, sharp blade. His idea had sounded good when it was leaving his mouth. Now he wasn’t so keen. He swallowed once, and met his uncle’s eyes, trying to see if he was serious.
“Hesitation. You carry on with Tel badge. Suits you.” Ottrah held open his palm. Frix tossed the weapon back, cheeks flaring.
“Should I go then?” Frix asked, as Ottrah put his sharp away.
“No. Not as yet. You have answers for me.”
“Okay.”
“On raid. You touch a witch. What is it you see?”
Frix swallowed again, remembering the red haze. Floating and seeing. It had felt powerful. It had felt wonderful. Her lips felt… He blinked. “I don’t remember, really.”
“Not remember, is it?”
“It happened pretty fast.”
Ottrah leaned closer, so that the low light of the flames cast valleys of shadows across his weathered face. “Forty years past, I see bloodlight. Mine own memory crystal clear still, Frix of Bit.”
“A witch touched you too?”
“We talk about yours.”
Frix let his eyes wander to the redness in the fire. The wavy heat lines boiling out had a similar essence to what he had felt. “Maybe it’s more like firelight…” he said.
“Say again?” said Ottrah.
“The bloodlight. Maybe firelight is a better way to… I don’t know.”
“Tell me what is it is you see, with little devil witch.”
Frix tried to concentrate, but the cuts on his chest twinged and ached. He pressed the moss harder, as if that would somehow soothe the pain. It only scratched and made it worse, but as he did it, a memory floated up through the depths and bobbed on the surface of his consciousness.
“It was like, a geyser or…” he squinted, trying to place the aerial view—it was the town, with the pyre in the middle, except it wasn’t ablaze yet. But it was still powered and lit with something, something that spouted upwards and all about, everywhere, to all corners of the land, the land that was called: Heirbrosse? What a funny word. Where did it come from?
The fire crackled and spat, sending a dance of flankers up around the tent. Their red trails helped sharpen the vision. The floating. He could hear her voice. Place her touch, sense her fear, and then her gratitude.
“Her eyes, wow. They were…”
So big and full of light.
“Now you are remember, eh?” Ottrah’s rough voice shattered through, and Frix started. The red haze was merely the tent’s firelight. He wasn’t floating, he was sitting. And his chest throbbed.
Ottrah’s eyes were suspicious and beady.
“I guess. It was strange.” Frix had more words to describe it, but they faded as fast as the strange name and sensations had appeared.
“I have assignment.”
“Yes. Of course. And apologies for earlier as well, Head of Root,” said Frix. “I was rude. And still shaken from the duel I suppose.”
“No matter. You see bloodlight, and this has danger. Danger, temptation, but also wisdom. You must have full memory to help All-bit-tel in coming days, understand?”
“I have to find out more about it, yes,” said Frix.
“Yes, good. There is expert on making memory in southern triadic group. Tomorrow you travel to seek Head of Spark of Min-sog-say, two weeks by cart along riverside trails. You go, you learn, you come back to me.”
“Two weeks…?” That meant a month or more away. No ranging. No Mossa. No anything.
Ottrah nodded. “Or thirteen suns, if swift travel. Any question?”
“I… no, Head of Root.”
“Good. This is done.”
Frix nodded, stood, and left.
Lucky for Frix, Callum had prepared their parents for the aftermath, so at least there was no exhausting need to explain himself yet again. He came home to a bunch of fresh salve, which was balanced by a bunch of lecturing.
His parents seemed less concerned about his new tattoo than the Head of Root, though if he was being honest he didn’t draw much attention to it. They were more interested in his latest assignment—a journey to go learn more about his supernatural encounter.
Presently, he laid in his cot, as his mother changed the moss and applied more salve.
“So, what was she like anyway?” Ennie asked.
“Who now?” Frix was half asleep.
“The witch you met. Most of us know they’re not nearly as grotesque as the stories make them out to be, especially if that one that’s been wandering around camp lately is any indication.”
The soupy veil of sleep lifted for a moment. “Wait… where is that witch? The one I met in the debrief tent.”
“Are you asking me, love?” His mom gave him a skeptical look.
“I just… why am I taking a four week trek if I could just get what I need from her? Surely she knows more about bloodlight than someone from the Min-sog-say triad.”
“Rumour has it that witch has Bettine’s ear. They’re close. I doubt our triadic heads want you and she conversing freely about bloodlight and visions.”
“But… two weeks, ma. Four or more before I’m back.”
“It’s an order from the Head of Root, Frix. No sense in getting defensive about it.”
Frix sighed and tried to find his calm again. The salve definitely helped. But the idea that he could just go talk to the campwitch kept scratching at him. He tried to focus on the scratchiness of the moss instead.
“You didn’t answer my question though,” his mom said.
“What was it?”
“Your witch friend. What was she like?”
Incredibly, he felt himself flush. “Ma, I don’t… just like, a girl I guess. She was pretty scared.”
“Pretty girl? Ugly girl? How old?”
“A regular girl. My age I guess. Why?”
“Just making talk. I won’t be seeing you for a while after tonight.”
“Don’t remind me…” Frix closed his eyes, the subject of his mother’s question now bobbing around his head. What was she like? That was actually a good question. What did a witch do all day? What were her parents like? Was her mother asking her what the triadic boy was like? And what… what would she say if so?
These thoughts danced around, chasing each other like swamp weasels. Once again, his wounds helped to slow down the merry chase. At some point, his mother finished dressing the cuts and made to leave.
“Good night, dear,” she said.
“Good night ma. Thanks.”
“You’re welcome. Get some rest.”
Frix mumbled something like, “Mmhm,” and tried to settle into the cot. He was pretty sure he’d be up all night thinking or fidgeting with discomfort, but sleep took him fast, dissolving those concerns in a silent, soft wave.
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