the clouds gives out and the sky is bright above us. We stand there awhile,
looking up.
‘You know, the stars were less bright once. We dulled them with our own bright works.
Light was a pollution, can you believe it?’
Then he is rising, and walking into the brilliance of the night (for there’s hours
of it still ahead) and I’m stumbling back to my bed, where I know sleep has been
kicked clear to the next town away, and all that remains is a ragged thread of cruel,
dark-eyed dreams and a wind that blows to the west, hard and fast and gossipy.
People fear the Masters. Fear them more than the Imperatives they lay down for us
to follow.
Dain says that’s how he knows my kind are weak. He’ll ruffle my hair with those cold
hands of his as he says it; even say fondly: I was the same, Mark. I was just the
same. It’s how we rule, through human weakness.
Of course, there’s more to it than that.
There’s three councils of law in the land. The Day Council, the Court of the Night,
and the Council of Teeth.
The Day is for roads, and civil laws; every community has one. There’s always one
of us there, once a week, except in emergencies—and there are a few of those each
year, fires, plagues and whatnot.
The Court of the Night is the Masters; once a month it’s run, and by a different
Master each time. It’s a court of blood and promises, and those things which the
Day Council can’t decide.
Then there’s the Council of Teeth that rules from afar. It’s the Sun and the moon.
It’s the proclamations that appear, mysterious, on pillar and post. It’s the Imperatives;
it’s the voice of the wind, and the dark reason behind it.
And it’s the auditors that are sent to pass on night’s justice deep into the day.
KAST THE STORM
Those Parson boys. They’re always snapping at each other, brothers scratching and
chasing each other’s tails. Dougie fights dirty, but those boys are nastier to each
other than you could imagine, a big tangle of cruelty and love in the way they’ll
look out for the other, or finish a sentence, racing and rushing to make sure that
their twin doesn’t fall. That’s how those Parson boys are.
Gotta respect that, and fear it too. They could easily run this town, if it weren’t
for Grove’s strength and Dougie’s guile.
And this is how they tell Kast’s story.
It was a storm. Big one. One of those big ones. Maybe the biggest.
Definitely the biggest, worse even than that storm a year back. Worse even than that
fella.
Maybe.
Lightning thrown across the sky in sheets. Lightning that lasted. No little flash, but a sky-bright burn.
I’ve never seen such a thing.
Me neither.
Course not!
It was a storm.
Kast had a home.
He had fought for it.
He had fought for his family. He had done all right.
But wasn’t a time for all rights. Was a lean time, a storm-thrashed time.
And his family died. He was—
Was burying his sons.
They’d sickened.
The Angry Gods had come and made them dance and die. And he was the last, and weak,
and sickly himself, but he took up that shovel, and dug. Bent his back to the labour
of his grief.
He buried them in that storm. Shovel biting the earth, hard and dry, then soft and
sticky as the rain fell. He’d bundled them in sheets and towels.
Both of them.
He was sad.
Course he was.
But he was angrier than that storm.
Angry like that storm, in fire and rage and madness.
Angry and wanting death.
The world bubbled and spat, and fell.
He brought his boys down into the liquid earth. He buried their flesh and their bones,
and the world cut its fire and shadow around him. And when he was done, panting and
weary. The Dark whispered in his ear. The Dark brought its teeth. The Dark bit.
They say the Change is easy for some. Wasn’t easy for him.
He fought it.
Let me tell this story.
He fought it. He raged against it. But rage is nothing to the new blood, the new
birth, and what’s rage when your boys are dead? What’s rage to a storm? A
looking up.
‘You know, the stars were less bright once. We dulled them with our own bright works.
Light was a pollution, can you believe it?’
Then he is rising, and walking into the brilliance of the night (for there’s hours
of it still ahead) and I’m stumbling back to my bed, where I know sleep has been
kicked clear to the next town away, and all that remains is a ragged thread of cruel,
dark-eyed dreams and a wind that blows to the west, hard and fast and gossipy.
People fear the Masters. Fear them more than the Imperatives they lay down for us
to follow.
Dain says that’s how he knows my kind are weak. He’ll ruffle my hair with those cold
hands of his as he says it; even say fondly: I was the same, Mark. I was just the
same. It’s how we rule, through human weakness.
Of course, there’s more to it than that.
There’s three councils of law in the land. The Day Council, the Court of the Night,
and the Council of Teeth.
The Day is for roads, and civil laws; every community has one. There’s always one
of us there, once a week, except in emergencies—and there are a few of those each
year, fires, plagues and whatnot.
The Court of the Night is the Masters; once a month it’s run, and by a different
Master each time. It’s a court of blood and promises, and those things which the
Day Council can’t decide.
Then there’s the Council of Teeth that rules from afar. It’s the Sun and the moon.
It’s the proclamations that appear, mysterious, on pillar and post. It’s the Imperatives;
it’s the voice of the wind, and the dark reason behind it.
And it’s the auditors that are sent to pass on night’s justice deep into the day.
KAST THE STORM
Those Parson boys. They’re always snapping at each other, brothers scratching and
chasing each other’s tails. Dougie fights dirty, but those boys are nastier to each
other than you could imagine, a big tangle of cruelty and love in the way they’ll
look out for the other, or finish a sentence, racing and rushing to make sure that
their twin doesn’t fall. That’s how those Parson boys are.
Gotta respect that, and fear it too. They could easily run this town, if it weren’t
for Grove’s strength and Dougie’s guile.
And this is how they tell Kast’s story.
It was a storm. Big one. One of those big ones. Maybe the biggest.
Definitely the biggest, worse even than that storm a year back. Worse even than that
fella.
Maybe.
Lightning thrown across the sky in sheets. Lightning that lasted. No little flash, but a sky-bright burn.
I’ve never seen such a thing.
Me neither.
Course not!
It was a storm.
Kast had a home.
He had fought for it.
He had fought for his family. He had done all right.
But wasn’t a time for all rights. Was a lean time, a storm-thrashed time.
And his family died. He was—
Was burying his sons.
They’d sickened.
The Angry Gods had come and made them dance and die. And he was the last, and weak,
and sickly himself, but he took up that shovel, and dug. Bent his back to the labour
of his grief.
He buried them in that storm. Shovel biting the earth, hard and dry, then soft and
sticky as the rain fell. He’d bundled them in sheets and towels.
Both of them.
He was sad.
Course he was.
But he was angrier than that storm.
Angry like that storm, in fire and rage and madness.
Angry and wanting death.
The world bubbled and spat, and fell.
He brought his boys down into the liquid earth. He buried their flesh and their bones,
and the world cut its fire and shadow around him. And when he was done, panting and
weary. The Dark whispered in his ear. The Dark brought its teeth. The Dark bit.
They say the Change is easy for some. Wasn’t easy for him.
He fought it.
Let me tell this story.
He fought it. He raged against it. But rage is nothing to the new blood, the new
birth, and what’s rage when your boys are dead? What’s rage to a storm? A
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