Chapter Five: Children of the Wind

“We go where the wind takes us.”

—Wydlings saying

There were a great number of myths associated with the Wydlings. Travelling performers and troupers were aplenty, but when someone mentioned “wind” and “children”, there was only one group they could be referring to. A Wydling—a child of the wind—was said to know all the stories in the world and then some. Any trouper could tell stories from books, but only the eldest of the Travelling Folk still remembered tales from the First Age, passed on by word of mouth.

Entertainment wasn’t the only thing the Children were known for, however. Some said they carried techniques from ancient civilisations, ways to use the blade and the bow, words to whisper to a flower to make it bloom, poultices that could cleanse a festering wound. Some said they shared their partners and were the most skilled lovers in the world. Some said they were demonspawn who made pacts with evil spirits. That thought remained at the front of his mind as Ein crested the hill overlooking the camp.

“They looked more impressive from further away,” Evaine murmured from beside him.

“Mother says you shouldn’t judge a race of people by their appearance,” Cinnamin said.

There were about five tents in total, each with a domed top dipped in sunny splashes of green and gold. Three wagonfuls of barrels and crates stood to one side, presumably containing supplies and tradeable wares, and they were watched by two merry men armed with swords. Ein counted seven horses around the campsite, tough little creatures with a wild beauty to them. Horses of the Wind weren’t the fastest mounts, but they were more resilient than the six-legged Orstreds and said to be capable of walking to the ends of the earth without stopping. The Wydlings themselves walked around the camp in travel-stained garments of all types and makes; some in sprightly shirts and pants, some in dresses and skirts, some in exquisite satin and silk, but all dyed the green and gold of their company down to the boots. A group of men hammered pins into the ground beside one of the main tents while another tended to the horses. Although they acted jauntily, it was clear from their movements that they’d been on the road for a while.

“Are you sure we should be disturbing them?” Ein asked. “They’ll be tired from their trip. They need to rest before performing tomorrow.”

Cinnamin gave him a pleading look. Evaine tossed her head dismissively.

“Let’s go closer,” she said. “I can barely see anything.”

Without waiting for a response, she clambered back down the hill with light steps. Ein sighed and followed her, pulling Cinnamin along. They shuffled across the dirt, taking cover in the underwood until they reached the edge of the lake. A large thicket of trees hid them from the campsite.

“They don’t look like anything special,” Cinnamin said.

“What were you expecting?” Ein asked. “Men and women ten feet tall with glowing eyes?”

Cinnamin pursed her lips. “No… but they look just like me and you. I didn’t think they’d be so ordinary.”

One of the women sat against a gnarled tree, tuning the strings of her lute. Her eyes were closed, her slender fingers plucking a single note over and over again as her other hand turned the pins. Another man rested on a patch of grass, a feathered cap pulled over his eyes. Ein felt his eyes grow heavy as he watched them.

Evaine stood up, startling him.

“What are you doing?” he asked.

“Getting a better view.”

Ein frowned. “If you’re really that curious, just go up and talk to them. There’s no point to sneaking around like a thief.”

“I want to watch them for a while first,” Evaine said. “I want to see how they behave differently to us.”

“They’re people too, just like you and me. What’s there to see?”

“They’re people who aren’t afraid to move from place to place, people who aren’t afraid of the unknown. I’d think that’s reason enough to believe they’re different.”

Evaine circled around behind the trees, and Ein followed. A group of young men played cards on a crate, eating from a bag of honeyed nuts and slinging insults at each other in a well-natured manner. One man sharpened a shortsword. The horses watched silently as Ein and the two girls passed.

“They look so happy,” Evaine said.

“How do they earn money if they just lounge around all day?” Cinnamin asked.

“They perform,” Ein answered. “Performing is their job, and an hour of performance earns more money than an hour of farming.”

“That sounds like much more fun than what we do. Why can’t we become troupers?”

“That’s a very good question. You’re smart for your age.” Evaine smiled, causing Cinnamin to flush.

“It’s a dangerous life,” Ein countered. “You have to travel, and you don’t know what the roads are like. Food and water are the least of your worries. There are bandits and highwaymen and all manner of beasts that roam the country outside the Sleeping Twins.”

“How would you know if you haven’t been?” Evaine asked.

Before Ein could answer, a loud splash startled him. He turned around and ducked without thinking, hiding behind a large bush. Evaine and Cinnamin joined him.

They’d moved around to the other side of the camp where the Brackenburg River streamed from the lake. The splash had come from the riverbank, but as far as Ein could see, there was nothing there. The river had been teeming with life before the start of the Great Winter, but the temperatures had dropped so far that it often froze a few nights a week. Most of the fish had travelled downstream, leaving behind the valley for warmer prospects.

Ein reached for the knife at his side, holding his breath. The splash had been too loud to be a mere fish. It had sounded like a beast of some kind—a horse perhaps, or a wolf… or a relict.

He was just about to suggest starting back when the surface bubbled and a man burst from the depths in a geyser of gleaming droplets. He stood waist-deep in the river wearing nothing at all, rivulets of water streaming down a bronze body that could have been carved from stone. His eyes were dark and deep, his braided hair swept behind his ears like a mass of wriggling tadpoles. He flexed his arms and shook his head, sending water flying across the riverbank. Ein heard Evaine gasp from beside him as the man took a few steps to the bank, enough for the waterline to sink below his waist. He couldn’t imagine how cold the river must be.

“He’s massive,” she murmured. “Almost twice your size.”

Ein hurriedly covered Cinnamin’s eyes. “I don’t recall ever flaunting my wares in front of you.”

Cinnamin struggled to pull his hands away, but he held on tight. Evaine glanced sideways at Ein with a smirk. “Remember when we used to swim here? Your little pecker was smaller than my pinkie.”

“That was over ten years ago. Things grow.”

The man emerged from the river like a glistening god, striding over to where his belongings lay on a patch of grass untouched by the snow. He picked up a towel and began drying himself.

“Let’s go,” Ein said. “It’s wrong to spy on people like this.”

“Oh, come on. You know you’d do the same if it were a woman in his place.”

“You’re out of your mind.”

The man finished drying himself and pulled a tight-fitting shirt on, a green vest with golden stripes running down the sides. As he thrust his foot through one of his trouser legs he turned in the direction where Ein and Evaine were hiding. His eyes locked onto Ein’s as if there was no brush between them.

“Do you like what you see?” he smirked.

Ein gaped. The man continued to stare at them, looking between Ein and Evaine as he finished threading his belt through the waistline of his trousers.

“I know you’re there,” he continued. “Though I’ll admit, I might have missed you had you not brought those two girls along. You move well for an Aimless.”

Cinnamin finally succeeded in prying Ein’s hands away, losing her balance in the process. She tumbled out from behind the bush in a scattering of snow, shortly followed by Evaine and a wary Ein.

“Sorry about that,” Ein said. “My friend here is a bit of a pervert. We didn't mean to spy on you.”

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The man shook his head as Evaine punched Ein in the shoulder. “It’s not an issue,” he said. “If the Wind wills it, then it shall be so.” He gathered his sack of belongings and slung it over his shoulder. “What brings you here? The festival doesn’t begin for another night. You’d be hard-pressed finding any of us willing to perform for free.”

“We were just curious,” Evaine said. “It’s not often we get troupers visiting, and I’ve never met a Wydling before. I was wondering what sort of customs and traditions your people had that were different to ours.”

“Like bathing traditions?” He raised an eyebrow.

Ein could have sworn Evaine blushed, but she turned her head quickly.

“Being a trouper looks fun,” Cinnamin quipped. “Ein says it’s dangerous, but I don’t believe him.”

The man chuckled. “Perhaps in times past. But the Wind shifts, and brings with it change. Danger will find you even if you try to avoid it.” He gestured towards the camp. “Come, I’ll take you to our Listener. Might I ask what your friends are called, Ein?” He looked towards the two girls.

“Evaine,” Evaine said, and then pointed to Cinnamin. “And this is Cinnamin.”

“Nice to meet you.” Cinnamin bowed politely.

“I am Aren,” the man nodded. “Let us be on our way. Perhaps we can answer some of your questions.”

#

The troupe was largely friendly, though also cautious in the stares they gave them. Aren took them straight into the camp, past the two men guarding the wagons. They narrowed their eyes at Ein, taking in his lean physique for a brief moment before looking away, apparently satisfied he was of no threat. They didn’t so much as glance at Evaine or Cinnamin.

Aren must have been some sort of highly regarded figure among the Wydlings, as none of them dared voice their disapproval even if it was apparent in their eyes. Each step he took had a confident air to it, every nod and greeting filled with purpose and discretion. If it weren’t for his presence, Ein suspected they would have been asked to leave long ago.

Aren took them to the largest tent of them all, almost as large as the main foyer of the Sleeping Twinn, and ducked through the open flaps. With some hesitation, Ein followed him. The inside of the tent was dimly lit by warm lanterns hanging around the circumference, much like those that had been hung up at the village square in preparation for Founder’s Eve. It reminded Ein of a cross between a common room and the private quarters of an army commander—not that he’d seen either. A single desk stood in the centre with stacks of crisp papers atop it, pens and an inkwell, and a square trunk at its foot. There was a miniature stove in one corner, next to a rectangular table with a plate and a wooden mug atop it. The air was thick with the smell of scented candles.

“Father,” Aren greeted. “We have visitors from the village.”

Bedrolls were scattered around the edges of the tent. Beside one of them sat a wiry man with salt and pepper braids and a stubble-lined chin, his skin the same shade of bronze as Aren’s. The man looked up at the three and bowed his head.

“Welcome,” he said. “I am Herod, Listener of the Wind, current leader of the Wydlings. To whom do I have the pleasure of speaking to?”

“This flower is Evaine,” Aren said. Evaine’s cheeks flushed a light red. “And the little one is Cinnamin. The silent one is called Ein.”

“May the Wind blow in your favour,” Herod greeted and stood up, his limbs creaking as they unfolded. At his full height he was almost as tall as Aren. He might have been about the same height as his son in his younger days, but old age had begun to take its toll on the man. “We don’t have much to offer in the way of food except bread and cheap wine. Times are tough, as you might understand.”

“That won’t be necessary,” Ein said. There was a sudden groan from the bedroll beside Herod. He bent down, and it was only then that Ein realized there was more than just a bundle of sheets on the sleeping mat. A man lay sleeping under the covers, tossing and turning in delirium.

“How is Baird?” Aren asked.

“Physically, he is well,” Herod answered. “His wounds have closed and there appears to be no infection or disease taken root. However, he appears to be suffering from particularly dire nightmares.”

“What happened?” Evaine asked. The answer came to Ein a heartbeat before it was spoken.

“Relicts.” Aren looked downwards, eyes burning black. “You might not believe me, but I swear it’s the truth. I swear it on the Wind itself.”

Cinnamin’s hand tightened on the hem of Ein’s shirt.

“You were attacked by relicts?” Ein asked. “Did you see them? When did this happen?”

The sleeping man kicked off his sheets. Herod pulled them back up, but not before Ein caught a glimpse of sweat-stained bandages wrapped across his chest.

“Only yesterday,” Herod said. “There was a whole herd of them, vicious little beasts with antlers like deer. We thought them to be wild game at first, thought ourselves lucky. By the time we realized the truth, it was too late.”

“Where was this?” Ein pressed. “In the woods to the south?”

Herod nodded. “About half a day’s travel. They were surprisingly close to your village. We managed to kill them all, but Baird here was gored in the stomach. He should live, though.”

“Gored?” Evaine asked. “Not slashed, like with teeth or blades?”

“Gored,” Herod repeated. “With horns. I don’t think they had claws, just teeth and horns. Mereth is carving a figure out of wood as we speak; it will be ready by tonight. Another story for our annals.”

“Gored,” Evaine repeated, staring vacantly at the wall.

“Are the bodies still there?” Ein asked. “Did you bring them with you?”

“Bodies? By the Wind, no,” Herod looked shocked. “We cut them into pieces and burned them. Otherwise they will keep fighting.”

“Ah.”

“What does he mean?” Cinnamin asked.

“There’s an old song about the relicts,” Aren explained. “We don’t know how much of it’s true, but better to be safe than sorry.” He cleared his throat and sang:

“Relict be dead, relict be gone,

Stabbed through the heart; still fighting on?

Cut off its limbs, cut off its head,

Burn it with fire, relict is dead.”

Silence filled the room after that. The wolves and sheep had been slain by either claws or blades, that much Ein was sure of—not horns. Was it possible that the troupe had been attacked by a different species of relict? Just how many of the monsters were out there? What did they want with Felhaven?

“That was a nice tune,” Cinnamin clapped her hands. “Do you have any others?”

“I can think of one,” Ein said. “Garax the storyteller sang it to us, once.”

“Relict be dead, relict be gone,

Stabbed through the heart; still fighting on?

Splash it with seawater, splash it with salt,

Stab it again, relict will halt.”

“You have a fine voice,” Herod smiled. “Travel abroad and learn the country’s songs, and you could go far.”

“I have no intention of becoming a bard,” Ein said shortly. “The Sleeping Twins is the place for me.”

“My farm was attacked as well,” Evaine said, interrupting them. “The Mayor insists it was a bear, but I don’t believe him. I think it might have been a relict, maybe even one of the those that attacked you.”

Ein swallowed. Evaine had come to the conclusion herself; he hadn’t even told her about the wolves.

Is it really true? he thought. Is this really the work of relicts?

He couldn’t think of any other explanation, yet the idea of the tales being true was just too farfetched. He needed his father’s opinion. Alend always had something insightful to say.

Herod drew his lips into a thin line. “I wouldn’t be surprised if that were the case. Tales of relicts have been popping up all over Faengard lately. I expect your Mayor will want to speak to us about this. Was anyone injured in the attack?”

“My parents were.” A shadow crossed Evaine’s face. Her voice took on a more sombre tone. “They have yet to wake.”

Herod nodded. “I will go and make preparations. Many of us will be visiting the inn tonight; perhaps we can do something for them. I’ll have our Songweaver take a look as well.” He clapped his hands. “Anyhow. Apologies for all this talk; I’m sure you didn’t come all the way here to listen to our troubles. Is there any particular reason behind your visit?”

Ein looked toward Evaine. Cinnamin had fallen silent, the way she did when adults were talking about serious things. She looked between them with inquisitive eyes.

“I suppose,” Evaine slowly said, “I was wondering what it would take to join you.”

Ein and Aren blinked. Cinnamin gasped.

“What are you talking about?” Ein spluttered. “Evaine, don’t be silly. What about Bran?”

“Bran be damned,” she snapped. Ein opened his mouth to say something, but changed his mind. “The idea of leaving the village is becoming more and more appealing, even at the cost of exile.”

“What about your parents? Are you going to leave them behind, after all they’ve done for you?”

Evaine flinched. “They’ll be fine,” she said firmly. “I’m not going to argue with you again. Master Herod, would it be possible to join you and the Wydlings?”

Herod rubbed his chin with an amused look. “Is that really what you want, dear flower?”

“I’m seriously considering it.”

Herod glanced at Aren, who hid a smirk. “Many travellers join us for part of their journey, and we welcome their company. But to permanently join our family, to revoke your heritage and give yourself to the Wind, we have much stricter rules in place. Unless you have skills to offer us, whether it be in the form of performance, fighting, medicine and the like, there is but one other way—and that is to be coupled with one of us.”

Evaine held her chin high. “That’s a price I’d be willing to pay.” She looked meaningfully at Aren. Herod hid a smile behind his lips.

“Evaine, think about this—”

“I’m flattered,” Aren said, cutting Ein off. “But… I’m not interested in women.” He said so with a straight face, but his eyes were laughing. It took Evaine a moment to realize what he meant. “If the young man were to offer though,” he added, glancing at Ein, “I would be sorely tempted.”

Ein wished he could sink into the ground. He wasn’t sure which made him more uncomfortable; the fact that Aren had expressed interest in him or Evaine’s seething glare. Cinnamin tilted her head quizzically.

“Aren’t you both men, though?” she asked. “How can you be coupled if you’re both men?”

“That’s a question for Mother to answer,” Ein said, desperately looking towards the exit to the tent. “I think it might be time for us to leave now. Thank you both kindly for having us, and please pardon our intrusion.”

Herod smiled. “It is nothing. If anything, we look forward to performing for you tomorrow, and taking part in your festival.”

“When will you be coming down to the inn tonight?” Evaine asked, still struggling to regain her composure.

“Before sundown,” Herod answered. “Until then, tell the innkeeper to prepare some food and fine wine. We will pay in coin or wares, of course. But make sure you save some for tomorrow, else it won’t be much of a festival.”

“Certainly.”

“It may also be ideal to gather the leaders of your village for tonight,” he continued. “Regarding the attacks in the countryside. I expect they’ll want to be there, and it would be preferable if we only have to tell the story of our encounter once.”

Evaine nodded, and Herod returned to the sleeping man’s side.

“Take them back to the village, Aren,” he said. “And bring me Talberon. See if he has a cure for nightmares in that book of his.”