Lyrec by Gregory Frost Page B

the sky at night, burning down trees inhabited by demons and throwing away good grain if he says it’s impure. Impure—now, what can he possibly mean? He should give it to me. I could ferment it. He says the plague was the gods’ punishment to the village of heathens. And they’re all agreeing with him. They’re all out of their minds.”
    “You know a great deal of what goes on in this kingdom, don’t you, Grohd?”
    He gestured modestly. “Well, if you want to find out news, try a tavern. The fellow who pours the drinks has heard everything worth hearing.”
    “So I see. How much more do you know of your country?”
    “Well, let me think.” And he pondered, opening the pathways, allowing thoughts and recollections to pour out. He looked up at Lyrec, drawn by the feeling that he was being watched intently, looked up into eyes of silver fire. He continued to stare for some time, while a thousand bits of digested information were read and replicated. Then the eyes were black once more.
    Lyrec took his hat from the bar and placed it on his head. “Good night, Grohd, and thank you.”
    “Lyrec,” murmured the taverner. Like someone sleep-walking, he turned a laggard half-circle and shuffled into the back room. A large blanket swung down behind him to cover the doorway.
    Lyrec shook the fat black cat. “Wake up, Borregad.”
    The cat’s blue eyes opened, but rolled around independent of one another, and quickly closed. “Uhh, my head is cracking.”
    “Shh! It’s time to go back to the loft. Everyone’s gone to sleep except us.”
    “But we don’t sleep.”
    “That’s a remarkable observation coming from someone who’s done practically nothing else.”
    The cat raised his head with great delicacy into an imperious pose. His eyes remained shut. “A stupor is not the same as sleep. It’s the fault of this ghastly beast that I’ve become. Ooh.” His head lowered.
    “Ghastly beast is right. And how would you know all this? You’ve never remained in mortal form for half so long before. How do you know if you and I sleep or not?”
    “Why do you have to ask me so much? Why do you taunt me so? Can’t you let me be? Go pine for Elystroya or … I’m sorry. That wasn’t supposed to be spoken. I didn’t mean it.”
    Lyrec’s lips pinched tight, but his anger passed. “Of course not. I know.”
    “Anyhow, you shouldn’t grieve for her. She’s still alive.” When Lyrec made no answer, he opened one eye. Lyrec was staring down at the bar. “She is alive,” Borregad insisted, mustering all the belief he could into his voice, “you’ve told me so yourself. Now, admit it.”
    “I’d like to.” He was silent for a moment, then said, “Odd, isn’t it, Borregad—that both of us think of her as she .”
    “Here she would be a feminine principle.”
    “Is that so, do you think? An opposite, a mirror image. A natural division, do you think?”
    “Questions. I don’t know,” the cat complained.
    “Well, come on.” He started away.
    The cat sank back. “Nooh. Leave me here. If I move, I’ll be sick, I swear.”
    “Borregad, my dependable ally. All right. Sleep here, but I tell you now you’ve had the last grynne you’ll taste in this lifetime.”
    “Ennh,” the cat replied. His muzzle fluttered, whiskers twitching.
    He was unconscious by the time the tavern door latched.

Chapter 5.

    The Hespet, Slyur, knelt on one knee. His head hung low—an amber fleece-covered egg that protruded through the blue web work of his robe on a skew neck. The robe enfolded his body like a sea-soaked fisherman’s net hung over an ancient piling.
    The words he spoke meant little to the small clustered family.
    They knew he was petitioning Anralys, the goddess of health and beauty, in her own language, asking her to cure the scrawny girl who lay at the Hespet’s feet.
    Slyur lifted aside the child’s rough skirt, revealing a thin and unwashed leg. A rancid yellow crust stuck in places to the skirt, breaking