Calybo was the oldest Eater on the island, full of time and great-powered. He could usually recharge a servant at small cost. But Widsith…
Long Calybo lingered over the old man, hand on his heart, and then, with a look of resolve, sank his head to the Pilgrim’s chest and sang an awful song of exchange. When Eaters consumed time, they were silent, stealthy, not to arouse or disturb. When Eaters gave, it was a sickening, noisy process, half scream, half chant, as if the memories that accompanied those years were being voiced against their will and shared with the listening air…
It took many minutes for the old African to finish. He stood, straightened his night-dark garments, and looked her way with a frightful, hungry face—a face of utter exhaustion. He would be days rearranging his store of time to feel well again.
Along with the boy, Widsith had also brought the Spanish to this isle. This aroused Valdis’s curiosity, dulled by long centuries in the Ravine and the mix of memories absorbed with her quotient of time. What purpose might the Spanish have here? What tales of the finished lands could the Pilgrim tell? And would he tell those tales only to Travelers, among the few authorized to convey them to Crafters—or just to Guldreth?
The Eaters were done for this evening. They would keep to the woods or, sated, return through Zodiako to retrieve their horses.
Valdis never questioned anything about Guldreth, though deep in her dozing memory, in the Ravine, later, she would wonder about Guldreth’s relationship to the Pilgrim… How important this old man was to a near-god.
And Guldreth shared her bed and energy with other human lovers. Mysterious how those relations were maintained!
And of course there was this red-haired boy, another mystery, who aroused something even more untoward within the youngest Eater in the Ravine. Something that could never be, for in her brief sampling, Valdis saw that this boy had been touched by a being even more mysterious than Guldreth or Calybo, perhaps more mysterious than the Crafters or Hel herself.
A man with a white shadow.
Cardoza Rising
MANUEL NUDGED HIM with a sandaled foot. “It is done, for now,” the old man said.
Reynard rolled to see pale yellow light brushing the far tops of the tallest trees, divided by distant shadows—hills behind the forest. The sky lightened in the east, over the far promontory, and dawn spread a slow golden glow along the bellies of the clouds, which parted and seemed to rise and dissipate, as if swept by a gigantic hand. A great dome of pale blue cast beach and forest in cool, tempered light.
Manuel toed him again. “Wake whilst there is still food. The soldiers strip the ship and eat their fill.” He reached into his mouth again and wriggled a tooth between two dirty fingers. “Scurvy,” he said. “We arrive none too soon.”
Reynard examined him closely. Manuel had always seemed ancient-old, but now he looked younger, straighter, with thicker shoulders, and even—could it be?—happier.
A sailor descended the ramp closest to the galleon’s bow and spoke to the boys. Reynard recognized this burly man from his first hours on the ship. He had been the one who locked the cage. Now he seemed grayer, less burly, and stooped. The cabin boys, only children the night before, were taller but skeletal, as if they had grown overnight without benefit of food.
“He watched last night from the rail and saw folk with glassy white hair and shiny skin move amongst us,” Manuel said in a low voice. “So he telleth them, ‘We have been visited by glass people.’ He saith they touched thee, boy. But thou hast not changed.”
“You are th’one who’s changed!” Reynard said in accusation.
“It is obvious already.” Manuel squinted, wiggled his tooth again, then pulled it out and threw it aside. “The scurvy still taketh its toll. For me, boy, another night comes not soon enough.”
“Who are you?” Reynard asked, fascinated but frightened.
“Who are we, boy?” Manuel responded. “Thou’st know what the glass people speak?”
Reynard glared, then shook his head.
The cabin boys lay down as a group on the shingle, like beached fish, so still and pale, no longer boys but adolescents, and not looking at all well.
Cardoza removed his mare from under the tent, then mounted her, taking command despite her skittish protests. el capitán told el maestro and the soldiers that now it was light, he would do reconnaissance, but the horse spun and sprayed sand and gravel. Two soldiers managed to grab her halter, and Cardoza descended stiffly, as if he ached all over. True enough, his beard was streaked with gray and his brown hands were wrinkled and marked with ropy rivers of veins. What was happening here? Had time fled in the deep night for all but Manuel?
For all but Manuel—and possibly himself?
Angry, el capitán gathered up five soldiers, those who still seemed strong enough to follow his orders, and took a crossbow from one. He vowed he would hunt for game and find a refuge from this haunted beach, not to stay here another evening. el capitán’s small band followed him into the forest.
That left el maestro, most of the soldiers, and the sailors to fend for themselves. Many returned to the galleon.
Manuel got up to fetch the last of the moldy rice. “Hunting is dangerous here. But no matter. We have blacksmithing to do. Eat what the sailors leave us. Eat what thou canst.”
A few hours later, as the day warmed and the sun overtopped the promontory, Cardoza returned with a half-satisfied look and a limp deer—a kind of buck with a broad nose and mossy antlers.
Manuel stopped Reynard from hammering out more shoes. “In Iceland, they call that hreindyr,” he said. “Here, ’tis not eaten without permission.”
“Permission from who?” Reynard asked. “How is it you know so much?”
Manuel squinted again.
The cook was already cleaning and skinning the animal, and several boys, ravenous, huddled around the butchering. One ran up to the forge clutching a bloody chunk of heart, to steal embers for another fire. Manuel did not stop him.
Cardoza mounted the head on a stick, as a kind of trophy.
Soon a bit of meat was given to each of the sailors and soldiers, and walking between them, chewing on a thick, dripping slice of roast, el capitán seemed more at ease, more in control—more pleased with himself and his prospects. But still with an air of quiet fear.
Within the hour, the animal had been consumed, even its bones cracked and sucked. None of it was given to Manuel and Reynard. The soldiers did not trust them, and Reynard was half convinced he knew why. Manuel’s appearance was scaring even him.
“We must return to sea as soon as possible,” el maestro said, studying the sky through eyes wrapped in thick flesh. His lids seemed always ready for sleep, but Reynard saw the large man was no fool, and no lackey for el capitán, whatever his terms of service. He instructed Manuel and Reynard to pause on the horseshoes and start making brackets for a patch to the galleon’s hull.
el capitán did not disagree. But he ordered another group of soldiers to prepare to move inland. Cardoza and el maestro walked off to discuss these matters, the very large man moving slowly, reluctantly. An argument followed. el capitán refused to delay his departure. Soon he ventured off again with a larger group of soldiers—perhaps sixty, Reynard guessed—leading the skittish horses by their reins. The beach was left to the sailors, el maestro, and around thirty soldiers.