His master's home was large and comfortable, but the messenger knew his place: outside, huddled in the cold night air. He took shelter in the nearby copse, using a tree trunk as a windbreak while he waited patiently.
To the casual observer, there was no indication that anyone lived here. The copse shielded the base of the cliff from the view of passers-by, but even if they felt inclined to come closer, there appeared to be nothing more than a rock fall and then the off-white facade that rose almost vertically a hundred feet or more. Of course, the apparently haphazard formation of the rocks was nothing of the kind. Carefully arranged, they concealed a shadowy opening into the cliff face.
The messenger had been inside, and knew the passageway beyond the entrance went a long way before you found any illumination. To get there you needed the senses of a bat. Or a torch. But once you'd struggled through the passage, the accommodation was worth the effort – provided you were given consent to use it. The messenger would never have that. He was only a servant to the master, and was treated accordingly. A vital tool, he would be maintained to keep him sharp – fed, watered, rested – but not pandered to in any way. Nor did he expect better treatment: the luxury his master enjoyed was of no interest to him.
Overhead, dark clouds were gathering. A storm could be on its way. The messenger took no notice. If it rained, he would use the overhanging leaves for shelter. His overriding objective was to be there when his master returned, and he would remain in place as long as necessary.
Dusk drifted into darkness. The clouds passed, and the messenger spent the night cold, but dry. Slowly dawn broke behind him, revealing the chalky face of the cliff. Still nothing stirred. When the messenger had first arrived, he'd called into the passageway, but there was no response. Any other visitors might have repeated their call or even gone inside. But the messenger knew he wasn't permitted to enter uninvited. He also knew that, if his master had been there, he would have heard him, especially as he was anxious for news.
So he was away, on one of the many journeys he'd been making recently. Something was drawing him to the places he visited. The messenger didn't know where they were, or what he was doing there. It was none of his business. His role was to keep the master informed. Nothing more, nothing less.
As the sun rose high above him, the messenger became hungry. He'd arrived as the sun set the previous evening, so he'd been waiting for well over half a day. But he couldn't desert his post. Fortunately, he didn't have to wait long for food to come to him. The mouse appeared from behind a nearby tree and was making its way between the copse and the rocks. The messenger pounced. It wasn't a feast, but it would keep hunger at bay for now.
The sun slowly rolled through its zenith and gently turned back towards the earth. Unmoving, the messenger continued to wait. His legs did not tire, his eyes remained alert. He was in no rush.
Shadows had crept out from the cliff and the trees were in semi-darkness when the messenger felt the temperature fall slightly. Not enough for the average human to sense it, but the messenger was aware. Then it began to rise. Again, barely noticeable to some, but the messenger felt it.
Twenty feet in front of him, a dark shape rapidly materialised and, in moments, the master had arrived.
He had his back to the messenger, facing the entrance to his home. From behind, there were few distinguishing features. His head was covered by the hood of his cloak, a black garment draped over his shoulders and falling to mid-thigh. The shoulders and back were broad, suggestive of physical strength, an impression enhanced by the shape of his legs. He wore trousers, but they fit snugly, his calf and thigh muscles barely restrained inside them. Physical strength was a big advantage, but not his only one. Almost as soon as he'd appeared, he spun around to face the messenger, and smiled as he recognised him.
Even if he could've done, the messenger wouldn't have smiled back. He had no emotional attachment to his master, so was neither pleased nor disappointed to see him. The master was there, and that was all there was to it.
Pushing back his hood, the master continued to smile. There was no warmth in his expression.
'I take it you have news.' His voice was sharp, and a simple sentence sounded like a barked order. He moved towards the messenger as he spoke. The cloak had fallen open, revealing clothes that were unfamiliar. His shirt was made of a thinner material than usual. As with the trousers, the fabric was almost a second skin, made more apparent by the fact that it was white. With his muscular torso pressed against the whiteness, it made the shirt almost transparent. You would not need the eyes of a hawk to see the master's perfectly hairless upper body.
Not that the messenger dwelt on this. Instead he simply nodded his response.
'Tell me,' the master said. He'd stopped about ten feet away. He was a little over six feet tall. His hair was long but hung lifelessly on his shoulders and framed a narrow, pale face, the cheeks hollow, the nose and chin pointed – his chin seeming even sharper because of the tuft of beard sprouting at the end.
From within his cloak, he produced a long, thick cylindrical object, and placed one end of it on the ground, leaning on the other. He looked at the messenger expectantly.
Without pausing, the messenger lowered his head and closed his eyes. In the highly unlikely event that anyone should pass nearby, there would've been no indication of any communication. Nevertheless, there was a dialogue.
'The runners have stopped again, Master. The home of a man and boy.'
'There must be more to it than that for you to come here.'
'We sense something different this time. There is a purpose to this visit.'
'Could the Sister be there?'
'It doesn't seem like a suitable hiding place.'
'They're always the best places to hide.'
'As always, you are right, Master...'
'But?'
'But there was no sense that the runners were at the end of their journey.'
'Not the end, then, but a significant staging post?'
'We think so.'
'Are they close to the end?'
'It's not possible to tell for sure, but they could be.'
There was a long pause as the master considered this information. Finally, he continued:
'How long will it take me to reach this place on horseback?'
'Two days.'
'Do I have two days?'
'If they follow their usual pattern, they'll probably have gone already.'
Another thoughtful interval passed.
'If they're getting close, I need to be there. But I also need some time to prepare before I set off. Go back to the others. You know what I need you to do. Stay with the runners. Don't let them get away from you. If they leave the cottage, make sure watchers remain. If this is significant, we need to know why. And send guides back as soon as you get there. I'll need them to lead me to you.'
The messenger raised his head and opened his eyes. The master nodded to him. Their conversation was over. It was time to follow his new orders. Bending his legs slightly, the messenger launched himself from the branch on which he'd been standing. His wings extended, and began to beat, lifting him rapidly above the tree line. He wheeled overhead and turned back towards the forest that lay many miles away.
