his human friend. ‘Now I see the reason for the visit. Does Pug know?’
‘He knows there are more than a dozen demons loose in this realm. He doesn’t know the significance of that fact.’
‘Demons hiding.’ Gulamendis appeared amused by the revelation. ‘It hardly bears contemplation, does it?’
The Warlock was forced to agree. ‘Nothing like this has occurred before.’
‘That we are aware of, you mean.’
Amirantha, Warlock of the Satumbria, let out a long sigh. ‘Because if this is true, one must ask, how many others are there we know nothing of, and—’
‘Why are they here?’ finished the elf.
Child studied the terrain below. It had been a week since she had devoured her mother and she had fed only three times since. Most of the energy consumed had gone to replenish her already-depleted strength, but she had gained a little size and power. She didn’t question how she knew what she knew: what she had inherited from those she ate, and what was from her own experience. She didn’t care. She had to survive. That was all she needed to know; everything else was academic.
A group of three small creatures huddled below an overhanging rock, much as she and her mother had a week before, waiting for dark apparently in the hope that they could find better shelter. She wondered why they weren’t concerned by night predators. She knew the night predators to be even more dangerous than those who hunted in the day.
This piece of knowledge wasn’t something she had inherited; this was from experience. There had been a bitter fight the night after she had consumed her mother. The night hunter had been upon her before she had even known she was under attack. Only a slight misjudgment on his part had saved her, for rather than snap her neck the hunter had bitten deep into her shoulder. She used the scant instant she had gained to reach up with her left hand and use her claws to good effect. She had forced him to release his bite, then spun while yanking his head back until it had been her fangs ripping out his throat.
She had gained a great deal of knowledge on how to hunt in these mountains from him. And her night vision was now exceptional. She had used her new abilities to good advantage, but even so, the amount of prey was scant. Now she looked down upon a possible feast.
It depended on how able these three were likely to be at protecting themselves. She had learned almost at forfeit of her life that there was a gulf between knowledge and experience. By consuming the Archivist’s knowledge, she knew a great deal more than any her age among the People should know, but as far as experience was concerned she still was a child. The Child, as she thought of herself.
But although she lacked experience, she possessed cunning. She was sure she could master all three of these pitiful fugitives if she planned … Planned? she thought. Until that moment her existence had been mostly in the moment, with some part of her consciousness knowing she needed to move east, to get away from the advancing darkness. She wished she could trap a flyer, for if she could consume one, she might gain the blessing of flight; her essence was still forming, and with flight she would be able to hunt better, move faster, and reconnoitre more efficiently. Unfortunately, flyers had been rare and when she had seen them they had been far too high to attract their attention. Besides, she had considered at last, any flyer bold enough to attack her directly would probably be both experienced and powerful.
Glancing around, she saw the shadows deepen, dark maroon and purple shades slipping into black, while the brilliance of the red, yellow, and orange rocks faded to grey before her eyes. There was something tickling at the edge of her mind, a pleasant feeling at witnessing this otherwise prosaic event. After a moment she connected it to a concept; it was nice to look at; it was … pretty? Yes, that was the concept. It made her feel better to look at something pretty.
She waited, and when the sun was low in the west the three fugitives came out from their hiding place. She instantly recognized the robes of the last to emerge: another Archivist. She smiled. Scampering above them for a dozen yards, she leapt upon the first in line, breaking his neck before he could react, then wheeled and ripped out the throat of the second.
The Archivist crouched, seeing the futility of running from a more powerful opponent, and backed away. What was he doing? she wondered. Then she laughed. ‘You think that if hunger has driven me to a frenzy, I may devour these two while you make your escape?’
The Archivist said, ‘Yes, that would be logical.’
She tapped the side of her head. ‘I know things, too. I have devoured one of your class.’
The Archivist stood, drawing himself up to his full height. He was about the size she had been days before; now she towered over him by two heads. ‘Why do you not attack?’
She moved towards him purposefully. ‘Tell me about the difference between knowledge and experience.’
‘Knowledge is abstracted,’ he answered, ‘learned from any number of sources. Experience is that which we encounter in our own right, as life brings it, and from which we process knowledge that can be gained no other way.’
‘Which is better?’
‘Knowledge,’ said the Archivist without hesitation. ‘Experience is limited, while knowledge can be gained from many other beings’ experiences.’
‘But knowledge without experience …’ she began.
He finished, ‘… limits how well that knowledge can be applied.’
‘What is missing?’
‘You need a teacher.’
She smiled. ‘Yes. If you teach me, I will let you live; more, I will hunt for you.’
Seeing the powerful young female before him, the Archivist knew there was only one answer that would enable him to live beyond the few seconds. ‘I will teach you. I am Belog.’
‘I am Child. Come, eat with me.’
Seeing nothing odd in it, the Archivist joined his new student in feasting on the two servants who had moments before been his companions. He considered that while he had not devoured a companion since his youth it was, after all, the way of the People.
No matter how civilized their King Dahun might have tried to make them, they were at heart the same as the Savage Ones or the Mad Ones. At their core they were all demons.
THE HERALDS BLEW THEIR TRUMPETS.
The entire court turned and bowed as the King of Roldem entered, escorting his wife to their twin thrones at the far end of the great hall of the palace.
The hall was bedecked in the royal colours, large banners of powder blue with golden trim, featuring the dolphin crest of the royal house. The King’s personal guard likewise wore tabards of the same colours, but the rest of the evening’s finery was a riot of different hues.
In years past the fashion of the court had gone through a phase Jim Dasher thought of as ‘drab’.
