The Queen's Blade Prequel I - Conash: Dead Son (2 page)

The darkness
was too profound for him to see anything, yet it seemed that
something moved close by, black against the darkness. His shivering
increased as the air grew colder, and the rotten log did nothing to
keep him warm. Squeezing his eyes shut, he tried to ignore the
frightening things that moved in the night. It did no good to dwell
upon what might be out there or how little chance he had of
survival. All he could do was try to stay warm, and pray. His
mother had great faith in Tinsharon, and prayed to him daily. She
even had a little shrine where she placed fresh flowers and bowls
of spring water to honour him. Hot tears stung his eyes, and he
shuddered as the distant howling grew nearer. Still, he sensed
something close by, a presence that waited, alert and silent.

When Conash
opened his eyes, soft dawn light slanted through the trees to
dapple the leaves with gold. That he had fallen asleep amazed him,
and that he was unharmed astounded him still more. Crawling out of
the cramped hollow, he stretched and knuckled his eyes, yawning.
His stomach rumbled and his mouth was dry. He wished he was at
home, with the scent of bacon and frying eggs wafting through the
house and his noisy siblings demanding breakfast.

Conash's nape
hairs bristled, and he glanced around. A wood cat sat a short
distance away, watching him with golden eyes, its tail twitching.
The boy froze, meeting the cat's eyes, and it rose to walk a little
closer, its gaze intent. Wood cats were not considered dangerous,
being only the size of a big dog, perhaps reaching knee height to a
man. They lived mostly on rabbits and rats, occasionally snakes,
and rarely, lambs. To a six-year-old boy, however, especially a
pint-sized one, the cat was a daunting size. Its ink-black coat
blended into the shadows, and it moved with lithe grace, muscles
rippling under its glossy coat.

It sat down
again, and watched him. He sensed only a slight curiosity and
expectancy from it. Slanted golden eyes dominated its elongated
face, and broad, pointed ears swivelled atop it. Entranced, Conash
crawled towards it, wondering how close he could get. On two prior
occasions, he had glimpsed a wood cat in the forest, and he
wondered if it was the same one. He had an odd feeling that this
was the presence he had sensed nearby during the night. The cat
bobbed its head, measuring the shortening distance between them,
then turned and bounded away. Conash sat back and gazed after it,
disappointed.

With a sigh, he
rose and picked up the basket of mushrooms before setting off
towards the sunrise. His mother had asked him to bring her a full
basket, and handed him the wicker container with a gentle smile. As
yet, he was not allowed to tend the goats, but his parents found
other chores for him. Just two tendays ago, he had suffered another
fever, and spent seven days in his bed, soaking the sheets with
sweat. His memory of that time was hazy and confusing, filled with
the scent of incense and his mother's soft hands holding cold
cloths to his brow.

A moving shadow
caught his eye, and he looked around. The wood cat stood on a
fallen tree and gazed at him with deep fascination. Conash walked
towards it, determined to either chase it away or befriend it. Once
more it vanished into the gloom, and he returned to his chosen
path, glancing back often. He had walked some distance when he
sensed its presence behind him again and swung around.

The cat's head
bobbed and its ears flicked back, then pricked again. The boy
trotted towards it, and the cat bounded away, then paused to look
back. It seemed to want him to follow it, and he did, the basket of
mushrooms forgotten. The cat led him deeper into the woods, where
even the faint birdsong did not reach him and the gloom grew more
profound. Each time he lost sight of it and stopped, it reappeared
ahead of him, luring him after it. Despite his hunger and thirst,
and his frightening ordeal during the night, he followed.
Occasionally it pounced on the leaves with a rustle, as if it
wanted to play but could not allow him close enough.

Conash did not
stop to consider that the beast was almost as big as him, or that
he was far from the well-known trails at the forest's edge. The cat
darted amongst the trees, ran up them with a tick-tack of claws and
leapt down again with lithe grace. When his legs ached, Conash sat
on a log. The cat appeared from between two trees and gazed at him,
its tail twitching. Conash was too tired to follow it any further,
however, and walked back the way he had come, or at least, the way
he thought he had come. He could find no trail in the leaves, but
it seemed like the right direction.

About a
time-glass later, Conash sat down on another log, exhausted. He was
still weak from the fever, and a night in the cold and chasing the
cat had drained him. Digging in his pocket, he pulled out the piece
of dried meat his mother had put there before he had left the farm
and chewed it. Its saltiness made him thirstier, but there was no
water in the Deep Forest. He thought about the feverish time again,
recalling a stranger at his bedside at some point, speaking
strange, singsong words. His mother had wept and his father had
held her close when someone's fingers had made a wet mark on
Conash's brow.

The gloom
increased as dusk approached, and the boy stood up again, forcing
his tired legs to serve him. He had spent the entire day following
the cat, and now there was no sign of it. The evening chill made
him shiver, and he folded his arms. He had no tinderbox, and the
nights were cold at the beginning of autumn. The thought that he
might not find his way home weighed heavily upon him, and when he
sank down again, his legs shaking with fatigue, hot tears filled
his eyes. Bowing his head, he scrubbed the wetness away with a
dirty hand and sniffled, then looked up.

“Papa!” he
bellowed in a cracked treble. “Mama!”

Silence
answered him, and despair engulfed him.

“Papa!
Mama!”

The gloomy hush
closed in behind his thin cry, and his tears redoubled. He did not
want to die alone, lost in the forest. Conash sobbed, rocked and
hugged himself, shouting again and again. Surely his father would
find his trail and follow it, but how long would it take him to
find his lost son? Frustration turned his dread to anger, and he
stood up and kicked the leaves.

“Papa!
Mama!”

A moving shadow
caught his eye, and he swung around, his heart thudding. His fear
ebbed when the wood cat emerged from behind a tree trunk, circling
him. It glanced at him each time it came into view, and he wondered
why it had returned. Had it heard his cries? Was it hoping for a
meal when he died? Wood cats were not known as scavengers, but they
probably would not turn up their nose at a free meal.

The cat circled
him twice, then paused to one side of him and sat down. Conash
approached it, wondering if it would help him. Then again, why
would it? It was a wild animal, he reminded himself. Why had it
returned? He recalled a bedtime story about a wolf that had saved a
lost little girl in the woods by leading her back to her parents'
house, and hoped it was true. Was there not magic in these woods? A
rustle behind him made his heart pound, and he walked faster. The
cat rose and bounded away. Conash stopped with a shout of
frustration, fresh tears running down his grimy cheeks.

“Papa!” he
shrieked.

The gloom
increased, and with it, his fear. He rubbed his eyes and sniffed,
looking around. When he turned back, the cat stood there once more,
its ears twitching. Heartened, the boy ran towards it, and it
trotted away.

After what
seemed like an eternity of stumbling through the dark woods, his
legs aching and his stomach rumbling, Conash sat down, unable to go
any further. The cat paused ahead, glancing back. For all he knew,
it was leading him deeper into the forest. He wept again, his
misery complete. The cat came closer. Conash looked up and
swallowed a sob, scrubbing the tears from his cheeks. This cat was
acting quite strangely. It circled him, its tail twitching, then
sat down only a man-length away and yawned. Conash wanted to touch
it more than anything, and crawled towards it.

The cat bobbed
its head again as it measured the distance between them. The boy
paused a pace away, afraid to go any closer. The beast could
seriously injure, if not kill him. It rose and stepped closer, then
flopped down and stretched out on the leaves. A deep, rumbling purr
came from it, and Conash stared at it in amazement. A shaft of
moonlight dappled its black coat, and he stretched out a hand,
drawn by the seduction of its soft fur. His fingers brushed it,
sensed its warmth and purring vibrations, then sank in to touch the
sleek muscles beneath.

Conash gasped
as a wave of warm emotions engulfed him, a mixture of love,
curiosity and trepidation. The cat stopped purring and gazed at
him, and he placed his other hand on its flank beside the first.
The cat was a two-year-old male, he sensed, and he had a name.
Ri... Ri-a... Ri-an...
He struggled to decipher the word
that formed in his mind, muddled by the strange emotions. Gradually
it cleared, like silt sinking to the bottom of a pool, and a word
solidified and took shape.

“Rivan,” he
whispered.

The cat turned
his head and licked the boy's hand with a warm, rasping tongue.
Conash edged closer, stroking Rivan's silken coat, and the cat
purred again. He rolled onto his back, apparently inviting Conash
to rub his belly, and he did. Rivan stretched, his muscles
thrumming, and Conash ran his hand over the cat's taut stomach,
fascinated by its lean softness. Rivan's warmth soaked into his
cold hands, and he squirmed closer still, emboldened by the
feline's friendliness.

Conash sat and
stroked the cat for a long time, filled with wonder that this wild
creature allowed him to touch it. The cat's purr did not falter,
but when the tired child lay down beside him, Rivan stood up and
walked away. Conash followed, desperate for company, even though
his aching legs wobbled and tiredness made his eyes droop. Rivan
wandered along, glancing back often, and Conash trudged after him
with dragging feet.

“Conash!” The
faint shout drifted through the forest.

“Papa!” he
screamed.

“Conash!”

His father's
voice rang with anguish, and Conash sank onto the soft leaves,
relief draining the last of his strength. Rivan had vanished, but
rustling leaves and the snap of breaking branches marked his
father's approach.

“Papa!”

His father came
into view between the tree trunks, bars of moonlight sliding over
him as he ran towards the boy. Falling to his knees, he swept
Conash up and hugged him, kissing his son's hair in a frenzy of
relief.

“Thank God!
Thank God!” he muttered.

Conash clung to
his father's neck, the heat that radiated from Jarren's
sweat-dampened chest warming him. Jarren stood up, cradling the boy
in a tender embrace, and strode through the trees.

“Misha!” he
bellowed. “I have him!”

A few minutes
later, Conash's mother ran up to them, gasping, and held out her
arms. The boy turned and reached for her, and she pulled him into
her soft embrace, crushing him to her bosom until he squeaked and
wriggled. She wept over him, kissing his hair, cheeks and lips.

“My baby,” she
crooned. “Thank Tinsharon! Where was he?”

Jarren jerked a
thumb behind him. “In the forest.”

“Gods, I
shouldn't have sent him to find mushrooms. This is my fault. My
poor sweet baby boy.” She hugged and kissed Conash again, wiping
the tears from his cheeks. “I'm so sorry, baby. Are you all
right?”

Conash nodded,
clasping her neck. “I'm all right, Mama.”

“Come, let's go
home,” Jarren said.

Conash gazed
over his mother's shoulder while she carried him home, hoping for a
glimpse of the wood cat that had helped him. Jarren bellowed for
Rykar, who was also out searching the woods, apparently.

At the house,
Jarren lighted lamps and Misha sat Conash on the table to inspect
him, washing his scraped knees and dirty face.

“Where did you
go?” she asked.

“I got lost,
Mama.”

“I'm just glad
you're safe, my sweet.”

Rykar stomped
in and flopped down on a chair, scowling. “Trust him to get
lost.”

“Shush, Rykar,”
Misha admonished. “He's just a baby.”

“He's six!”

“Don't be
horrible to your brother.”

Rykar snorted.
“He's always getting into trouble, falling down, hurting himself.
He's a wimp!”

“Rykar!” Jarren
turned from the stove, where he had set a pot of water on to boil.
“Your brother's not as strong as you.”

“He's not even
as strong as Orcal, and he's only two.”

“That's
enough.”

Misha sat down
and clasped her belly, which was swollen with another child, due in
a moon-phase. Conash slid off the table and went to climb onto her
lap to hug her.

“I'm sorry I
got lost, Mama.”

She held him
close, kissing his cheek. “It's all right, baby. You gave us a
fright, that's all.”

Conash rubbed
her belly. “Is the baby all right too?”

She smiled.
“The baby's fine.”

The boy looked
up, filled with a preternatural sense of approach. The scent of
humus came to him, stronger than usual, mingled with a hunger that
was not his own. A wild longing rushed through him, and he turned
to face the door, which Rykar had left open. Jarren frowned at his
son, swapping a worried glance with Misha.

Conash looked
up at his mother and smiled. “I made a new friend, Mama.”

“Who?”

The sense of
approach grew stronger, and now the scent of goats came to him,
mixed with a faint pang of trepidation. He turned to the door again
and pointed.