The Last of the Runners

As the afternoon wore on, it had begun to rain It was that soft rain that blew on the wind and soaked you slowly but surely. Perhaps earlier in the year, the trees would have given some protection, but leafless they were of no help. Kyrin was getting tired and he felt cold. There were no safe houses for miles if he had read the map correctly and he needed to find some form of shelter before it got dark.

He was not looking forward to the night. The first nights of his run had been dry and he had been able to sleep in the relative warmth of the day. With the rain blowing around him, he felt miserable and he was sure his eyes were beginning to play tricks on him. Twice he was sure he had seen someone following him, a brown shadow among the trees, but each time he had stopped and moved round to see, there was nothing. Perhaps it was deer. They could move swiftly and silently. Yes, it was probably deer. What else could it be?

With the light fading fast and the rain showing no signs of easing, Kyrin came upon a grove of ancient oak trees. The trunks were thicker and more gnarled than he had ever seen and the branches were interlaced blackly against the sky, like the vaulting on some great ceiling. The oldest of all stood at the heart of the grove. It must have been ten paces around. The trunk was covered with moss and the branches were bent with age and almost touched the ground. How many moons had waxed and waned since that tree had been an acorn no man could tell, but at some time in its middle years, the trunk had split and a fissure developed and then healed so the trees maturity had been assured.

Kyrin gave no thought to the complex course of nature that had created the wooden cave that sheltered him from both wind and rain. That there was space to stand and shake the water from his coat was the first blessing. To be able to sit in the dry was the second. Only after half an hour did the simple pleasure of shelter begin to wane and a longing for warmth creep upon him.

He had no tinderbox, and besides, you could not light a fire inside a tree. Kyrin had taken his arms out of the sleeves of his coat and was hugging his knees, trying to find the last little bit of warmth in his body. He stared at the little patch of earth between his feet, and remembered how wonderful it had been two winters ago when he and Gan had gone wandering in the woods and had to huddle round a small fire to keep warm. The patch of earth seemed to glow for a moment. Kyrin opened his eyes wide to make sure he was not seeing things and the glow disappeared. He rubbed his eyes. They were not deceiving him. In the grey light of that wet dusk, he could see every detail of the hollow tree and the curtain of rain blowing outside his little shelter.

It had been cold that time with Gan. They had been mad to try camping so late in the autumn, but no wiser words made it into their stubborn young ears. Gan had brought a tinderbox and they had been able to build a fire. It had not been raining that day and the fire had crackled, sending sparks into the starry sky.

The patch of earth Kyrin was staring at began to glow once more and he remembered staring into the flames two years previously. Such colours! Reds, orange, yellow and the white ash tips of the half-burnt twigs. The glow had become a ball of light as he pictured the dancing flames and felt the pins and needles in his fingers as he stretched them to the flames. The more he remembered the fire, holding every detail in his mind as if it was happening at that moment, the brighter the glow and the warmer he felt. If he started to wonder if the rain would stop, the glow would subside. The same thing happened if he took his eyes from the spot between his feet, the glow diminishing and the chill returning.

So Kyrin focussed his eyes on that one patch of earth and filled his mind with crackling twigs and glowing logs, with all the colours, smells and sensations of fire; the smoke, the heat, the sparks in the air, even the smell of cooking. As he did so, the ball of light glowed brightly and warmth filled the hollow tree. At last, Kyrin fell asleep, tired out by his walk and the effort of creating the fire weave, for that was what had warmed him. The glow faded away slowly for fires were in his dreams until they too slept.

Two shadows dripping behind the trees a short distance away came together, shaking off the water that had gathered on their cloaks in their vigil.

“Do you think he saw us earlier today?”

“It is possible. See how he is becoming aware of his skills. His eyes are open to many more things now. A brown cloak may not be a secure shield from his eyes for much longer. We must take care.”

“He is as strong as any I have known. Did you see how he controlled the fire weave?”

“He discovers what lies within. We must give him the time to make the journey.”

“I have alerted the others. There may come a time when we are all needed. They will not want to let this one pass.”

“They do not know who he is.”

“But they know there is just one runner this year. They must know of the prophecy. They have already started making arrests. I’m sorry.”

“We knew this would happen. We were ready for it.”

“The Watchers are led by this Sub-Magister. He seems to have no feelings. They say he even arrested his own mother.”

“There is much in the warp and weft of this weave we do not see. A fine thread can be seen in shoddy cloth, just as you may find plain wool in cloth of gold. This is a weave beyond anything we have known, no, not since the sun was placed on its path through the skies has there been a weave of such intricacy. So many hands upon the shuttle. We must all be vigilant for our story is at a tipping point. The balance is precarious, and if it goes the wrong way, we lose everything.”

“We continue to watch then, and keep the grey cloaks away from him.”

“It’s all we can do.”

There had been no time for reading. The manuscript lay untouched at the same point, the slight water stain in the margin. The Sub-Magister’s cloak was stained with the rain and his hair, usually so correct, was tousled and wind blown. It had not been a good day. In an attempt to make things better for the women in the cells, the Sub-Magister had revealed that Mrs Bruntler had sent Kyrin on to Contefay. The Magister had sent his assistant there straight away with eight Watchers and the cage wagon.

The Sub-Magister knew the house for he had been there before. Nothing seemed to have changed, although he thought there had been a staff next to the dresser. The old woman was sat by the hearth, watching a small wood fire flickering in the grate, and laughing as if she saw pictures in the flames.

“I remember that, my darling,” she mumbled. “How fine, how beautiful it was! Oh, to be able to see it one last time!”

The Sub-Magister went up to the old woman and put his hand on her shoulder. She did not move or flinch. He leaned forward and whispered in her ear.

“I know, dearie. I was expecting you,” she said. “Just let the flames die down and I’ll come with you.”

So he stood next to her and watched the fire go down, although he saw nothing but flames while the old woman oohed and aahed like a child at a firework display. Then she had got up, knocked the fire out with the poker and walked out.

A small crowd had gathered in the road. The sight of the old woman escorted out of her house by eight Watchers and put into the cage wagon was not a pretty one. There were some cries of complaint, but they were more muted than the previous day. The story of the Sub-Magister arresting his own mother had travelled fast. The steam dogs had been set to howl and the hissing threat of a growl they produced, coupled with the clashing of their steel jaws, discouraged protest. So the crowd stared sullenly at him and the Watchers. When the old woman had been sat down in the cage and the wagon moved off, she started to sing. Several voices joined her, though their neighbours hurried to hush them for fear of arrest.

How the Sub-Magister hated that song – and feared it – for it made him feel like a child again. It made him want to throw off his grey robes and run among the trees. It made him want to lie in the grass with his friend once more and stare into the sky, letting his mind fly free like the birds. For all the pain behind his eyes, he could not help himself from humming the tune as the cart bumped back towards Villblanche.

“Sing me a story of Dragons,

Dragons both green and both blue.

Sing me a story of Dragons,

Dragons will always be true.”