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All was quiet east of the river. The stars were veiled, and the pale face of Ranā was veiled in black. No wind sang through the trees, and not a single candle burned in the windows of the houses here. It was as Giljidê had been promised—the people had known ahead of time not to be here when night fell. I’m surprised they didn’t leave long ago, she mused, listening tensely for any sign of movement in the darkness that fell outside her range of vision, when the disappearances first began.
Such things were less common in Cuiviénen where Enelyë ruled. Giljidê was told that they did not happen at all in the Uttermost West, where the Wanjā and most of the Ñgolodō and Lindā had fled in fear of the dark. But this was not Cuiviénen, and it was not the Uttermost West. It was a forest in the far south and east of the world, and Giljidê was alone.
Yes, alone, though that pleased her little. Istâjâ was of the opinion that she had progressed far enough in her studies—and shown enough practical skill—that she could do this by herself. Personally, Giljidê thought Istâjâ had been a bit off ever since he’d taken that head injury years ago, and here was likely proof. Alone in the dark, with no one even to carry her to safety if she was injured? It made little sense to her. And yet, Istâjâ was the sort of person who would teach a child to swim by tossing them in the deep end of the river—he always had been, even before the injury—so perhaps it did make some sense after all.
Giljidê grimaced and shook loose strands of hair, gleaming like silver wire even without light, out of her face. There was work to be done, and standing stock-still in the dark, making herself an easy target, accomplished nothing.
The great Enemy had been vanquished long ago. News had trickled down from the north, carried by skittish Lindi and the most adventurous of the Exiles from the Uttermost West. The scourge of the world was vanquished, cast into the Void by the strange gods of the West. No longer was there any fear that the Enemy would burn the whole world down in his lust for dominion and destruction. For others, this was no doubt a source of relief. For the Kindi of this forest, those that certain other people called the Avari, it was poor comfort. In early days the distant gods had caused great destruction in their battles against the Enemy. Now, they’d cast out the principal offender, but not bothered to round up any of the accomplices.
The survivors said it took the form of a great wolf, with eyes like burning coals. Grandmother said the Enemy commanded werewolves. Could it be… That brief moment of curiosity was swiftly quashed. It would go better for Giljidê to examine a corpse than try to discern the beast’s identity while running form it. Why is that always the way? she wondered with a rueful smile.
It was time to begin. Giljidê took the knife she had been given, the finest knife she had ever known, rune-carved blade of silver and hilt set with jade and jet, and made a small incision into her off-hand. Even now, she could hear Istâjâ chiding her, telling her that she always tended to make the incision too deep, that there really wasn’t a need for it. She didn’t really need that much blood. A few drops would do for each site. She remembered. Somehow, she kept her hands steady enough to keep from cutting all the way to the bone.
Giljidê had heard once, probably from Istâjâ, but perhaps from her grandmother, that the Wanjā had required only song to perform magic. They had other tools, rope and miniature houses and such, but music was the foundation of all their magic. The Ñgolodō had adopted the Wanjā’s methods and supplemented them with tools of their own; they were always a clever people, the Ñgolodō, and had reportedly made many improvements. One day… One day, Giljidê would like to travel, and learn about those methods, if she could. She thought she might like to see if they had anything which was not present in her arsenal, if perhaps the techniques were superior to the ones she had been taught, somehow. See if they’d even preserved them at all, of if that knowledge had faded out of memory with Anār.
But the future was not now. Now, Giljidê was of the Lindā, and they did not push power out in song as the Wanjā did. They loved their music, did the Lindā, not for nothing were they called such, but the Lindā pushed power out in blood, and in spoken, whispered words.
Giljidê let her blood fall at twelve trees, forming a barrier around herself. She whispered her incantations, and bandaged her hand. Then, she sat down upon the ground, and waited for the night’s terror to come to her. If she could find the right thing to say, only time would tell.