Chapter 4

If Brahm Hallowstone could count herself among the fortunate, she would have lived her life as something else.

A bear maybe, or a wolf.

She looked around her.

Maybe not a wolf.

She sat amongst the human equivalent of a pack, snarling at each other and ready to take the lead at the first sign of weakness. Haven was like that these days, with various individuals yearning to take leadership now that Gregor was dying. The factions were split between those content with the status quo and those eager to confront the Confederation.

Brahm harrumphed.

Fools.

As much as she loathed the Confederation, she knew which side she would choose. War with the Confederation was suicide. One need only remember the fate of Sanctuary and the butchery that occurred there. Brahm shivered as she thought of the men and women that were crucified, hung, drowned, or crushed under stones. The children had been taken. And she knew their fate. That made her tremble, yet whether it was anger or fear she wasn’t sure.

While the power struggle raged, she picked at the cuticles of her fingers.

She held them up. Even with the calluses they were good hands. They were one of her better features, next to her chestnut skin. Someone once commented that Brahm must have been born in buttermilk. She smiled. That woman was rewarded well for her compliment — a night of buttermilk delight.

She pricked her ears. The conversation had turned. They now discussed the Missionaries — those sent out to lure witches to Haven. In particular there was concern about Diarmuid, a Missionary they had not heard from in some time.

“… I know he's had five years to recover, but he was one of them for ten years,” said one voice. Brahm could not see the speaker, but his nasal whine was familiar. She flicked a piece of dirt from underneath her nail.

“Can he be trusted not to surrender witches to them?” questioned another, a young man whose personality grated on her like a jagged stone in the sole of her foot. “Brahm,” he called, “you spent considerable time with him. What do you think?”

She wondered why she had been invited to the meeting. She was no witch, not even a necromancer. Bloodcraft and the dead were of no interest to her. But she had become close with Diarmuid while he was in Haven. And therein lay her purpose for being there.

She glanced up from her haphazard manicure and rose. All eyes followed her towering frame. She smirked as their heads tilted.

“I understand your concerns,” she said. There was haughtiness in her voice, an inflection she had practiced over many years. “Others have brought back witches while he hasn't returned. But I would trust him with my life. He would rather die than return to his old ways.” She wasn’t sure if they wanted more than that, eager for anything they could use for their own machinations. It was all they were getting. She returned to her seat and stretched her legs in front of her.

Most in Haven weren’t sure of Brahm, or of her loyalties. She preferred it that way. It kept them on edge. It also kept her safely out of the infighting. She reverted to her grooming.

The woman who led the meeting paced. Despite her annoying traits, Brahm liked Ira. Unlike some in Haven, her heart was true.

“As much as his absence concerns me,” the woman said, “what I fear worse is what it implies. I would like to re-focus our discussion on the reason we are here. The Confederation has plans to deal with us.”

A flurry of gasps and muttering followed.

Far too much commotion.

Ira gestured for quiet, just shy of histrionic in her waving.

“Due to the sheer number of Hunters, I recommend we halt all Missions. We cannot afford to lose our people now. We must now consider the defense and safety of Haven first, above all else. Remember the fate of Sanctuary. We must recall the Missionaries.”

Ira sat, her dark, knobby hands fidgeting in her lap. Despite her theatrics, there was cause for concern.

War with the Confederation.

The faction of warmongers looked pleased.

Perhaps it was time to leave.

A frail-looking man who’d been standing by the window, and whose thin form cast a long shadow upon the floor, hobbled forward. Mumbling filled the room. It was Gregor.

God, he’s aged.

In the last few weeks he’d spiraled downwards, as if his well-preserved life was coming to an abrupt end. He was Haven’s oldest member and wielded a quiet resolve that kept the two factions from ripping each other apart.

Someone called out. It was the first voice again. “We need a weapon of great power; something to defeat the Confederation. Otherwise we will become like the others. It is said Gregor knows of such power.”

Others chorused their agreement.

The old man limped to the center of the floor. He looked quietly into the audience, as if surmising who the jackals were.

Brahm smiled.

He already knew.

“I know of which power you suggest,” Gregor said. His voice was hoarse. “And using it was tried once already, to our peril. It will not work. There is none among us that can wield it. Its will is too great.”

“But there are those among us that can summon the dead and command the elements with greater purpose than…” The man paused, knowing he was insulting Gregor with such a statement. Gregor was unfazed by the insinuation. His face showed no reaction, but the sag in his shoulders indicated he might be giving in.

He looked up once more. “I suggest we let everyone think it over. This matter can be settled tomorrow. Hasty decisions are often the ones we regret the most.” A chorus of mumbles followed, accompanied by both nodding heads and sour faces. Brahm took the opportunity to escape and swept out the door.

She strode towards her living quarters as the others remained to gossip and linger. Her gaze wandered to the great pines and maples interspersed among the rustic dwellings as she walked. There was something unnatural about the trees and their undeviating trunks that shot straight upwards. And somehow their rigidness made her think of Diarmuid.

She laughed aloud, hearty, unsure of where that thought originated. She hardly thought of him in that light. She did miss him though; Diarmuid and his unwavering integrity. Usually Missionaries sent word if they were delayed, but in a year there was nothing from him. But her gut told her Diarmuid was fine, and Brahm Hallowstone’s gut never lied.

She headed north to the stable yard. As usual, the horses left a more than healthy supply of work. After donning work boots, she grabbed the closest pitchfork.

The cleaning and sweeping persisted for a couple of hours, the stench making her head feel light. But the horses were good, quiet company.

Eventually Brahm stepped out of the stables, desperate for air that didn’t reek of shit with a side of rotting carrots. In the distance, a young woman approached. She wore a red scarf about her neck, a symbol of her desire to be rid of the Confederation. Brahm rested the pitchfork against the fence while she waited for her. The woman was short, her mouse-brown hair framing a homely face. Farin was not one of the prettiest women she knew, but she was one of the nicest. And despite her inclinations towards war-mongering, she was foremost in seeing to the care of Gregor in his weakened state.

She wasn’t a bad lover either.

Brahm perched herself on the rails of the wooden fence and wiped the sweat from her shaved head.

“What brings you here?” she asked and pictured herself running her tongue along the nape of the young woman’s neck, a particularly tender spot that would get her moaning. Farin was fifteen years her junior; and at twenty-one everything was still perky and firm — the way Brahm liked it.

“There is a messenger here that needs your talents with the Tongue.”

Although the Tongue comment might warrant some playful banter, Brahm allowed those thoughts to fall into the straw at her feet. There would be time to toy with Farin later. Brahm’s talent with both tongues was legendary, but this one involved communing with animals.

She leapt from the fence. “Let's go, then.”

Brahm shed the work boots to put on her own supple, leather ones, and left the pitchfork against the fence. It would be waiting for her.

They walked along the path and as Brahm veered off towards the pigeon house, Farin grabbed her arm.

“The birds arrive over there,” Brahm said.

“It's not a bird.”

“What is it?”

“A wolf.”

Brahm left Farin where she stood, and ran.

***

A recent gale had passed north of Fairfax, uprooting the trees and leaving their remains strewn across the roads. It made passing difficult at times, but Paine followed Diarmuid’s lead. The man seemed to know what he was doing.

Monstrous storms ravaged the lands and Paine’s family, like others, simply dealt with the aftermath of cyclones and lightning that didn’t just drift; they hunted. And when they preyed upon a village, almost no one survived. Yet from what Paine had heard it was mild compared to the hundred years that followed the Shift. Those storms possessed something unnatural, powers beyond what the old world was prepared to comprehend. And they had swept the land clean, as if the Earth had rid herself of a plague of sores that had festered on her surface for far too long.

Paine studied Diarmuid as they walked. He enjoyed watching the man. He was agile and lissome, which was surprising for someone of his stature. He was wide in the shoulders and had legs with the girth of small tree trunks. The combination should have made him slow and cumbersome, but instead he moved like a cat. Paine licked his lips at what he might do with a man like that.

As the sun dropped beyond the treescape, they stopped for the night and soothed their weary feet by a stream that flowed through the woods in a gentle winding. With a makeshift spear in hand, Diarmuid departed to hunt for dinner. He returned with a few pheasants and wiry hares, the latter of which had the mange.

It was not the finest of meals, but satisfying enough to settle the hunger in Paine’s gut. After eating, Lya sat off to the side with her distant thoughts and Diarmuid unsheathed an arm-length silver dagger from a scabbard. He polished it as they sat.

“Diarmuid, how long have you and Fang been together?” Paine asked, trying to make some form of conversation. It wasn’t one of his stronger points, but Lya’s silence was getting uncomfortable. It was not the first time she had retreated within herself, but this was one of the longest.

What was eating at her?

The dagger glinted orange in the firelight and Paine wondered what might happen if he touched it, curious if it would trigger a response. His parents never owned anything made of silver, mostly due to cost. Silver was expensive — the price of defending one’s self against bloodcraft and the dead.

“Six years,” replied Diarmuid. “She's a great companion and friend. I would be lost without her.”

Paine settled onto his blanket, letting the warmth from the fire seep into his sore leg muscles.

“Is she tame?”

Fang turned her head to glare at him.

“Tame?” Diarmuid chuckled. “She could leave anytime she wants.” He leaned back further against a small log. Paine moved to avoid the smoke that wafted in his direction, settling himself at Diarmuid's side. The man shuffled closer, his sinewy, iron leg pressed against Paine’s. The fire seemed to emanate more heat.

“I don’t understand. Then why is she here?”

“I met up with a pack of her kind one evening. When we met, she chased the others off and remained with me. She’s been with me since.”

“Why did she leave her pack?”

“I don’t know,” he said. “I may never know. I can sense when she’s near, but I cannot communicate with her like Lya. I don't have that talent.”

Lya remained silent, but poked at the fire with a large stick. Her ears were pricked.

Diarmuid stared into the flames and then went quiet.

“Well,” said Paine after a time and feeling enough awkward silence had passed. “It’s been a long day. Perhaps it’s time to retire for the night.”

Lya rose from where she sat and strode towards the woods. Diarmuid looked at Paine in confusion.

Paine shook his head. “Let her go.”

Lya then disappeared into the dark, unchallenged by either.

Paine figured she was going to dance skyclad with the spirits. Once, he had tracked her into the woods on the night of the new moon and caught her dancing with an unseen apparition. He never followed her again. Not only did women not interest him, but the sight of his sister frolicking naked amongst the trees was almost repulsive.

Of course, there was that shared night with Billy.

Paine cloaked himself in his blanket, listening as the sound of his sister’s travels took her further into the night. He looked to the sky. Other than the stars that filled it, it was empty.

She would definitely be dancing.

He rolled away from where Lya had disappeared, closed his eyes and slept.