Far-Seer

Mondark’s team was well-trained. Within moments a young male appeared bearing a tray full of simple clay hemispheres filled with red liquid. Paturn was no older than Afsan himself, judging by his size. He set the tray on a counter and brought the first bowl to Afsan, forcing Afsan’s jaws open and letting the blood trickle into his short muzzle and down his throat.

Mondark stepped back from the marble surgical table and motioned for Saleed and Yenalb to follow. Softly he said, “The animal blood will help rehydrate him, and its taste usually arouses the spirit. He’s fighting for consciousness now.”

Paturn drained three bowls down Afsan’s throat, although much spilled out of his gaping muzzle and pooled on the tabletop. Suddenly Afsan spluttered. Paturn immediately ceased pouring blood into him and turned Afsan’s head aside so that his throat would drain onto the tabletop.

“Is he coming around?” asked Yenalb.

Mondark bent over Afsan and firmly gripped the boy by the shoulders. Saleed’s nictitating membranes blinked in surprise. “Such physical contact often forces a reaction,” said Mondark, almost apologetically.

But Afsan’s coughing stopped almost as quickly as it had begun. Mondark shook him gently, but to no avail.

The doctor swore quietly. “Roots.”

“Have you lost him?” Saleed demanded.

Mondark straightened. “I don’t know.”

Suddenly there was another voice in the room. “You had better not lose him, Mondark.”

Heads swiveled. “Prince Dybo—” Bows of concession all around.

“I said I would be back,” said Dybo. He looked at Yenalb. “I am pleased you came,” he said. And then he turned to Saleed. “It’s good to see you here, as well, astrologer.”

Saleed dipped his muzzle. He looked uncomfortable and moved quickly to the doorway. He nodded concession to Mondark. “You’ve looked after him well. My thanks.” And then, off-handedly, he added, “Oh, and don’t tell Afsan I was here, please.” And with that, the old astrologer hurried down the corridor as fast as his age and bulk would allow.

“What have you done for him, Doctor?” asked Dybo.

“Everything possible,” said Mondark.

Dybo then turned to Yenalb. “And you?”

“I have used every prayer I could think of,” said the high priest.

The prince waddled over to the surgical table. “Then let me try.”

Darkness…

And a sound.

Music?

Yes, music. A ballad: The Voyage of Larsk.

So beautiful. Compelling.

He sailed to the east,
River’s waters tossing his boat,
A steady wind,
And, at last, rising from the waves…

Rise up to the music.

No. Sleep.

Yes! Awake!

But the darkness is so warm, so inviting…

Can’t give in to it.

Wake up! Break out into the light.

So difficult, like cracking through an eggshell without a birthing horn.

Better to sleep, to relax, to rest.

So tired.

No…

No!

Force the outer eyelids open. Light filters through the inner membranes. An effort, such an effort: open those, too.

Such beautiful music.

“Dy-bo…”

The prince stopped singing and thumped his tail in joy. “Afsan, you plugged earhole! I knew you wouldn’t leave us.”

Afsan managed to click his teeth together weakly. “Finish the song.”

Dybo leaned back on his tail. And sang some more.

*9*

Afsan and Dybo walked down the cobblestone streets of Capital City.

“You were amazing!”

Afsan bowed slightly. “I did only what needed to be done.”

“Nonsense! It’s the talk of the city, and I hear the newsriders are having a great time with it. No one has ever seen such skill, such innovation, on a first hunt.”

“You are too kind.”

“And that lanky palace butcher—what’s his name?”

“Pal-Cadool.”

“Cadool, yes. Every time he brings me food, he asks about that hunt. It’s funny listening to him. He’s intimidated by my station, but he can’t help but ask about your kill. He keeps saying he wishes he had been there to see it. I’ve told him three times now about you shimmying up that endless neck, ripping out the thunderbeast’s throat. He loves the story!”

“And no doubt it gets better with each retelling,” Afsan said lightly.

“No, this tale needs no embellishment. I thought we were doomed.”

“Well,” said Afsan, “Cadool probably misses the organized hunt. After all, most of his time is spent simply slaughtering animals in the stockyards. A true ritual hunt is a rare thing. I understand that most people only participate once a kiloday or so. And I wouldn’t doubt that Cadool gets to do so even less often, given his palace responsibilities.”

Dybo slapped his belly in good humor. “Well, that’s true enough. Feeding me is a full-time job!”

Clicked teeth. “Exactly.”

“Still, it’s not just Cadool who’s impressed. Even Tetex admits that she had overestimated her skill in taking on that monster. When I become Emperor, I should make you leader of the imperial hunt!”

Afsan stopped dead, his jaw hanging open. “What? Surely you wouldn’t do that—I, I’m an astrologer, a scholar.”