‘Linon?’ Crispin cried urgently, in his mind, unable not to. ‘Linon?’
There was no reply. The inner silence was absolute. That long, unearthly note seemed to hang in the air between forest and field, earth and sky, and then it faded away like the mist.
Later that day, towards twilight far to the west, a grey-haired, grey-bearded man rode a jostling farmer’s cart towards the city walls of Varena.
The farmer, having had more than one animal cured of an ailment by his passenger, was happy to oblige with irregular rides into the city. The passenger, at the moment, could not have been said to appear happy, or pleased, or anything but preoccupied. As they approached the walls and merged with the streaming traffic heading into and out of Varena before sunset closed the gates, the solitary passenger was recognized by a number of people. Some greeted him with deference and awe, others moved quickly to the far side of the road or fell back making a sign of the sun disk as the farmer’s cart passed carrying an alchemist. Zoticus was, in fact, long accustomed to both responses and knew how to deal with each. Today he scarcely noticed them.
He’d had a shock this morning that had greatly undermined the wry detachment with which he preferred to view the world and what transpired within it. He was still dealing-not entirely successfully- with that.
‘I think you should go into the city,’ had said the falcon earlier that day. He’d named her Tiresa when he’d claimed her soul. ‘I think it would be good for you tonight.’
‘Go to Martinian and Carissa,’ little Mirelle had added, softly.’ You can talk with them.’ There’d been a murmur of agreement from the others, a rustling of leaves in his mind.
‘I can talk with all of you,’ he’d said aloud, irritated. It offended him when the birds became solicitous and protective, as if he were growing fragile with age, needed guarding. Soon they’d be reminding him to wear his boots.
‘Not the same,’ Tiresa had said briskly. ‘You know it isn’t.’
Which was true, but he still didn’t like it.
He’d tried to read-Archilochus, as it happened-but his concentration was precarious and he gave it up, venturing out for a walk in the orchard instead. He felt extremely strange, a kind of hollowness. Linon was gone. Somehow. She’d been gone, of course, since he’d given her away, but this was… different. He’d never quite stopped regretting the impulse that had led him to offer a bird to the mosaicist travelling east. Or not just east: to Sarantium. City he’d never seen, never would see now. He’d found a power in his life, claimed a gift, his birds. There were other things he would not be allowed, it seemed.
And the birds weren’t really his, were they? But if they weren’t, then what could they be said to be? And where was Linon, and how had he heard her voice this morning from so far?
And what was he doing shivering in his orchard without a cloak or his stick on a windy, cold autumn day? At least he had his boots on.
He’d gone back inside, sent Clovis off, complaining, with a request to Silavin the farmer down the road, and had taken the birds’ collective counsel after all.
He couldn’t talk to his friends about what was troubling him, but sometimes talking about other things, any other things, the very timbre of human voices, Carissa’s smile, Martinian’s gentle wit, the shared warmth of a fire, the bed they’d offer him for the night, a morning visit to the busde of the market…
Philosophy could be a consolation, an attempt to explain and understand the place of man in the gods’ creation. It couldn’t always succeed, though. There were times when comfort could only be found in a woman’s laughter, a friend’s known face and voice, shared rumours about the Antae court, even something so simple as a steaming bowl of pea soup at a table with others.
Sometimes, when the shadows of the half-world pressed too near, one needed the world.
He left Silavin at the city gates, with thanks, and made his way to Martinian’s home late in the day. He was welcomed there, as he’d known he would be. His visits were rare; he lived a life outside the walls. He was invited to spend a night, and his friends made it seem as if he was doing them a great honour by accepting. They could see he was disturbed by something but-being friends-they never pressed him to speak, only offered what they could, which was a good deal just then.