Shadowkill

##

Savant 4 (speaking to notepad):

NOTE 1: Negotiations with the Black House have slowed due to the need for a considerably greater security in handling the Dyslaera, also the difficulty in getting the value out of them since it would not be wise-or safe-to advertise their presence. Also there is a degree of uncertainty as to how many Dyslaera we will be able to provide.

NOTE 2: The cutouts have been arranged for the ransom demand. Clumsy setup, but what happened when Voallts went after Seyirshi is more than ample evidence of the need, for a careful distance kept between Mimishay and Voallts. The rat with the message is on its way, we should have, the answer in about forty days.

Rohant closed his eyes and concentrated.

He ran with Miji as the sakali scooted through the tunnels, heading for the pen and his exit into the open world. Though he couldn’t see through Miji’s eyes like Shadow, he felt the coolness of the concrete under Miji’s feet, felt the sakali’s surge of fear, felt the response of his muscles when he dived into shadow to avoid one of the warders.

He let the intensity drop and sat up. It wasn’t much and at the moment he had no idea how he could use the Tie, but he had to try something. He sighed and settled to brood over what to do next.

Shadow Watching

Arring Pirs held his son over his head so chal and chapa could see him.

The baby didn’t like that. He waved his small naked arms and legs and squawled his displeasure with a lusty enthusiasm that brought laughter and approving whistles from the chat and chapa of Ghanar Rinta gathered around the Amur-hill for the Naming Ceremony.

“Behold the son,” Pirs chanted in the formal langue. “Hear his name: Arringgarri Paji knigo Pirs ampa Cagharadad nima Procagharadad.” His voice escaped the bounds of the Rite, became a shout of pride and joy, answered by a shout from the chat and chapa.

A restless fringe around the edges of the crowd, the children of Ghanar Rinta gasped with pleasure, shouted and whistled as the Amur-speaker touched his torch to the conical pyre rising fifty meters from the top of the hill; saturated with kerosene, the wood caught immediately and the flames went running up the slope like an echo of Pirs’ triumphant cry.

While the Amur-drums rattled in the laps of the Amur-deacons seated around the fire and the Amur-speaker sang the Litany of the Son, Pirs dropped on his knee and held the baby out to his father for the Artwa to bless the child and formally accept the boy into the family.

The drumbeat slowed, quieted; the Speaker broke off the Litany and waited.

Chat and chapa and even the most boisterous of the children went quiet, stood hushed and grave, waiting. This was the vital thing. This was the pledge that their lives would be unchanged, a small red-faced surety of continuance.

The Artwa Arring Angakirs Cagharadad spread his hands over the wriggling baby. “Behold the son,” he chanted, “Behold the Summerday child, the newest fruit on the tree of Procagharadad. Behold the Joy, the Promise. I, Artwa Procagharadad, declare this boy Irrkuyon of Irrkuy. I, Artwa Procagharadad, declare this boy Blessed. I, Artwa Procagharadad, call upon you, the chal and chapa of Ghanar Rinta to declare your fealty to the Son of Ghanar Rinta.”