Chapter Seventeen - Smoke

(Part I)

They rode out towards the smoke just after dawn.

It was Trin who had seen it first, of all people; a column of shifting cloud rising in the north. Too dark for a hearth, his grandfather had said. Too much for a bonfire. The farmers had had the ponies saddled not an hour later. Hector went first, behind him, Brin, the smith, and Dann, who looked after the chickens. At the back of the procession came Derin, and beside him, glancing up anxiously at him, came Ren. His grandfather’s face was a blank mask, and it worried him. He was not used to seeing him without a smile. Ren was sure he was going to forbid him from coming, but Derin’s eyes were fixed on the trail of smoke on the horizon, and his grandson beside him seemed quite invisible.

‘Can’t think where it’s coming from.’ Dann muttered in a low voice, scowling. He had a scythe strapped to his hip, blade rusted brown with use. ‘Nothing north for leagues apart from the Swiftwater.’

‘There’s the old mill.’ Hector told him, looking back over his shoulder, and Ren’s gut twisted itself into a cold knot. He looked at his grandfather, but if he had heard, he gave no sign. He had been scolded fiercely the day he returned home from his ride to the river. Too far to stray alone, they’d told him. Even if he’d tricked Trin into following him. News of Ted’s invitation had done a little to calm them, but he’d had to be more careful than usual leaving on his midnight jaunts, this past week. He hadn’t thought to be returning so soon.

The ponies trotted on over the damp grass, and the gleaming earth shifted and sighed under their eager hooves. The low hedges and neat lines of the farm were soon behind them, and the rolling grass of the South Realm stretched on ahead, bright and happy in the glow of the sun. But the smoke lingered on the horizon, and Derin still kept his silence, watching it without a word. The cold weight in Ren's stomach knotted. He tried to imagine that the smoke was not rising from the mill beside the river, that when they crested the hill, Ted would be waiting for them. Smiling. But he had rode this path all too recently, and he knew where it was headed. The morning drew on in the fearful gasp of their quiet purpose, and the grass faded by them like river-water past stray stones. Clouds were gathering overhead, turning the grass grey and muted, leaching the colour from the air.

‘Gods.’

Hector had pulled up short at the crest of a low rise, gasping. The two other men drew up beside him. Neither said a word. Ren and his grandfather shook their reins and spurred the ponies up the last of the slope. Ren could feel his heart swelling in his ears, and he felt very light, as though filled with too much air. He craned his neck to see over the top of the hill, standing up out of his saddle.

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Then they crested the hill, and the Swiftwater gleamed back at them, a line of fire wound loose across the fields beneath the veiled sun. Beyond it, the trees stirred darkly in the breeze. But the smoke was not rising from either. Ren went cold. The mill was gone. Smoke was rising from its place beside the water, twisting from a heap of blackened timber. Swirling ash into the wind.

‘Ren!’ his grandfather shouted, but he was already gone. Off down the slope. Bouncing, lurching, clinging to the saddle. Wil's hooves drummed like thunder, snorting steam, greedily eating up the ground. He knew the others were calling out behind him, but he barely heard them. Smoke twisting and turning in the pale air. Shadows lurching through the trees.

A few heartbeats later, and he was there. He yanked on Wil's reigns, leaping from the saddle. The roof of the cottage had collapsed, and charred stubs were all that remained of the walls. A ring of black earth surrounded what remained, and smoke poured out of the rubble, thick as water, black and whirling. Ren stood for a moment on the precipice, staring past the ruined doorway. Beyond, the Swiftwater rumbled and frothed, as it always had. From the far bank, the trees stirred darkly. He found himself frozen again, locked in the black, empty stare of the branches.

‘Wait!’

‘Boy!’

Hoofbeats behind him, drumming at the dirt, but he didn’t hear them. Smoke in his eyes, his mouth, his throat. Bile, hot and sour. His eyes blurred, watering. There were no flames. Nothing but heat, rising in waves from the ash, smoldering and smoking in heaps of blackened timber.

‘Ren, wait!’

He was already inside. The smoke filled his chest, his throat, his mouth. Choking him. He blinked, squinted, half-blind, reached out his hands into the haze. He could barely see his fingers. The air was hot on his skin, but the teardrop pendant at his neck was cold as ice. He winced, staggered, took another step.

His foot bumped into something hard. He froze, looking down, and screamed, lurching backwards. Smoke in his eyes. Blinding him. Stumbling, staggering, falling, dragging himself upright. Hot ash burning his hands, searing his skin. He spilled out onto the grass in a tangle of limbs, retching into the dirt. But only smoke came out. His throat burned, eyes spun. He sucked in a great lungful of air, then fell back, coughing, gasping. He had not seen it. His head ached. The nightglass pendant at his neck dragged at his skin, heavy as an anvil. He closed his eyes, but the shadow followed him, dancing around his feet, and he reeled back from it, scratching at the grass.

Strong hands took hold of him, pressing him into the dirt. He struggled, trying to open his eyes, but they did not release him.

‘Trying to get yourself killed? Calm yourself, boy!’ the smith told him. Ren stopped struggling. He took another breath, and his heart raced in his ears, humming. The smoke was fading, and the air was cool against his skin. But he could still feel that touch against his foot, clawing at his toes. Overhead, the clouds opened, and a steady film of rain began to fall, hissing against the embers.

‘Ren?’ His grandfather was leaning over him, red eyes on his.

Ren felt suddenly very cold. He opened his mouth, but there was nothing but bile. He was still staggering in the smoke, and when he looked down, a blackened hand was clawing at his boots, scorched to the bone.