Free Arrows of Time by Kim Falconer Page A

futile exercise. This day was not going as planned. Nothing close.
    Early that morning, he’d volunteered to walk the borders with Selene. He regularly jumped at any chance for her company, love having that insatiable urge towards proximity that cannot otherwise be explained. It certainly wasn’t a pleasant experience, being with the woman. She was sharp, like fine-cut glass, and she used her wit as a barrier against his desires, his suggestions, his lust. There was no way in. Not for him. Every day he awoke hoping she might open up, and every night he fell asleep disappointed, miserable. He hated it and loved it in equal measure—a demon forever swallowing its tail.
    Today Selene had proved aloof, as always, her proficient, detached manner impossible to penetrate with any kind of warmth or meaningful exchange. The more she deflected his efforts, the more sullen he’d become, until he’d finally given up his overtures reduced to glares and grumbles. Inevitably he found himself wishing he was far from the stinking border marshes, far from his ice-cold Selene, in a warm pub, drinking beer and playing tunes with other bards. Now that she was gone, it seemed he had been granted half his wish. He was far from her, but it didn’t help. Nothing did.
    He turned his back to the cave and slid down the granite face until he sat on the ground, his head resting against the wall. There was no warmth in the rock, and no comfort in the view. A flock of crows circled above. They alighted in several of the trees, their squawks and caws filling the foul air with earsplitting noise.
    He rummaged in his pack and brought out his flute. The creases in his forehead softened as he began to play, the music wafting sweet and brisk over the bog, drowning out the incessant hum of insects and competing with the crows. As he played, the pinch inhis heart began to lessen and his spirits lightened, just a little.
    He played for hours, though his lips went dry and his fingers ached. He played until all thought and turmoil vanished from his mind and he became the notes that rose from the flute, drifting over the land and into the distant haze. As he finished a lengthy tune, drawing breath to begin another, he paused. The crows took off, a mass exodus. Everything went still. Even the insects had stopped buzzing. An eerie silence rang in his ears. He started a new tune when suddenly the mountain answered back with a deep bass rumble of its own.
    ‘Demon’s brother,’ he whispered. ‘Not a shaker.’ He pulled the flute away from his lips and jumped up, bracing against the cliff face. He thrust his instrument into his backpack, his knees flexing with each rising tremor. The ground rocked. He shouldered his pack, tightened the straps and raised a fist to the mountain. ‘What did I do to deserve this?’
    There was no direct answer, but the ground rolled in waves underfoot. He ran into the marsh, coursing for the highest ground he could find. At the base of a wide-girthed oak he stopped to catch his breath. The mud rose around his legs; a swell of black sludge was heading towards him. He scrambled up the tree, sticking to the centre branches, outer limbs snapping and breaking at the slightest touch.
    High up the tree, he levelled his eyes at the mountain in time to see the cave tumble in on itself, shooting a geyser of dust out of its mouth as it collapsed in a heap of rubble. When the dust settled, he saw that the tree wasn’t the only thing that had escaped the landslide. A dark figure charged out into the swamp, and at her side was an enormous tabby—bigger than he could imagine. Shane steadied himselfon his perch, the oak shuddering beneath his weight. They were headed straight for him.
    ‘What, Dray. What do you see up there?’ Rosette felt his hackles rise, his neck tightening. Her hand went to the hilt of her sword. She slowed her breath and tuned her thoughts and awareness to the immediate surroundings. If there was anyone nearby, they were