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[ POV: Rain Pow; Time remaining: eighteen hours, twelve minutes ]
Just as her appearance suggested, Rain Pow's magic was to create rainbows. But these were no ordinary rainbows. There's hardly a soul who hasn't seen a picture book or children's show featuring a rainbow bridge for the characters to cross. What Rain Pow created was strong enough to walk on. Her power was especially magical.
In the starless and moonless night, the pale shine of the rainbow bridge contrasted with the wholesome beauty of its daytime counterpart. It had the beauty of the perilous, subtle and profound—fantastical. It was not flexible, but hard and firm. Even aggressive stomps from the strong legs of a magical girl wouldn't make it budge. With its five feet or so of width, a magical girl could run across it at full speed, no matter how high she went.
B City could not at all be called a big city, and aside from the entertainment district, there were only a few scattered lights here and there. It wasn't a particularly eye-catching view. The rainbow bridge stretched out across rows of houses with corrugated roofs, avoiding the radio station building.
Rain Pow made her rainbow bridge and raced toward the far end as it continued to grow.
Timidly, Postarie ran after her. There had been no need for Postarie to force herself to follow, but the two of them had been together when the attack had commenced, and since she was scared to leave her friend, Postarie ended up playing rear guard. Of course, the ninja was chasing after them. It was too late for Postarie to run in a different direction, so she kept going, desperation on her face.
"Rain Pow! You're too slow! Go faster! Faster, faster!"
"You're distracting me! Shut up, Toko!" Rain Pow stuffed Toko down her shirt. She could hear a pained-sounding moan from her chest area, perhaps because she had stuck the fairy in headfirst. But even if Toko was hurt a bit, it was best to leave her in there for now.
The ninja was hot on their heels, not falling back even an inch. In fact, she was gradually getting closer. There had been twenty yards between them before, but she'd already narrowed it down to fifteen. It was clear why: The ninja was fast—or rather, Postarie was slow. But it was impossible to tell Postarie to run faster. She was doing her best. Rain Pow could hear her panting hard behind her.
Right when Rain Pow's attention was on Postarie, something flew at her from in front. Distracted, Rain Pow was taken by surprise, and she couldn't dodge it. But she couldn't slow down, either, so she just barely managed to kick down the thing flying at her. From the impact against her boots and the sound it made, whatever had been flung at her had been metal.
A second and then a third flew at her. Rain Pow understood what they were. These were ninja weapons: kunai. As the ninja chased them, she was throwing kunai that passed by both Postarie and Rain Pow, spinning in a big circle to fly at her from the front.
Rain Pow kicked away the second one in the same manner as the first and tried to avoid the third, but the weapon changed its trajectory at an acute angle to chase down Rain Pow's leg, slicing open her flesh. Rain Pow staggered, but she couldn't fall here or slow down. Clenching her teeth, she raced over the rainbow.
"A-are you okay?!"
"Don't worry about it!"
Kunai were flying at her one after another. Unable to avoid them, Rain Pow had no choice but to knock them down. And since they were all coming for her legs, she couldn't wave them aside with her hands; she was forced to kick every single one of them down. Every new kunai was now coming at her faster and harder.
All of them were aiming for Rain Pow. The enemy wasn't trying to kill her—she was gauging Rain Pow's strength and trying to disable her. This chase was so easy for the ninja that she could afford to.
Rain Pow glanced down at the ground and the evenly spaced streetlights. There were no other lights. The road below had two lanes on either side, but there weren't many cars going by. It had to be about a hundred feet from the top of the rainbow down to the ground. With the physical capabilities of a magical girl, the fall wouldn't kill her. The enemy had to be taking that into consideration, too.
Should she dispel the rainbow and jump down? Unlike the rainbow, the ground path wouldn't be a straight line, and there would be cover. It would be easier to evade...no, it wouldn't. The enemy's attacks were homing in on her. Worst case, the kunai would fly at her from a blind angle. And besides, there was her destination to take into consideration. She wanted to reach that location from the sky, if possible. The ground route would be the long way around, and it was bound to make her a target, as they'd catch her while she was going up the building. She just had to buy a bit more time.
"Tsuko! Do the thing!"
"R-r-roger!" Postarie did stutter on her acknowledgment, but she did everything she was supposed to do. She took off her hat, and hammers came falling out of it.
Postarie's magic was postal delivery. When she took something in hand and cast her magic on it, it would grow a pair of wings. Those pure white wings were simple and beautiful, resembling those of a waterfowl, and brought to mind the angels of religious paintings. The size of the wings would be proportionate to the size of the object. They would rise up, flapping furiously, and fly off toward the object's owner. When they arrived, the wings would scatter with a poof and disappear. Postarie could also adjust how fast the item flew. There were two options: regular or express post.
Regular post would bob lightly away through the air. It traveled at a speed that a human could catch up to at a run, and it could safely deliver fragile packages, bottles, and dangerous objects. The express post zoomed away. It went so fast that even a magical girl, to say nothing of a human, wouldn't be able to catch up as the item was sent off to its owner at a steady and rapid pace. There were no late deliveries or postal errors. There was no weight limit, either. Neither was there any limit to the number of items that could be sent.
Each one of the hammers that fell from Postarie's hat sprouted wings. Captain Grace had bought them at the hardware store and had let Postarie hold on to them. That meant once Postarie cast her magic on them, they would fly straight for their owner, Captain Grace. Since they'd run this far in a straight line along the rainbow, of course the hammers would fly straight behind Rain Pow. Postarie's magic was not polite enough to dodge things in the middle of its path.
From behind, Rain Pow could hear the sound of metal colliding with metal. The ninja was striking back against the hammers flying at her. That meant the kunai stopped coming. From the sounds, Rain Pow could tell their pursuer had fallen back a little. If she was going to do it, it was now or never. Rain Pow turned back to scoop up Postarie in a bridal carry and then sprinted as fast as she could along the rainbow. This was much faster than keeping Postarie's pace.
It was just a few hundred more yards to her goal. Running at full speed across her rainbow, the moment she arrived at the roof of her target building, she dispelled the bridge. Leisurely kicking down the final kunai the ninja threw at her as she fell, Rain Pow then ripped off the blue tarp that covered the roof in one pull.
This was the roof of an old, derelict building that hadn't been used in a long time. The only ones who ever came here were maintenance staff and crows. It was a convenient place to hide things.
After their first battle, Rain Pow and Postarie had worked together to hide the station wagon their enemies had abandoned in their flight on the roof of this building. Now, if Postarie cast her magic on it, the vehicle would fly off to its owner.
It was a kind of gamble as to who the owner of the station wagon was. But the chances that the owner was a fighter, like the girl attacking them, were low. If they could just get away from the heat of the fight now, it didn't matter what would happen. Best case, they might be able to catch the enemy off guard and launch a surprise attack.
Arms still around Postarie, Rain Pow tightly embraced the rear bumper of the station wagon. "Do it, Tsuko!"
"R-roger!" Postarie cast her magic on the station wagon. The half-ruined vehicle, with its broken windows and footprints on the roof, sprouted great wings on either side, and with a boom, it rose into the air.
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[ POV: Kuru-Kuru Hime; Time remaining: eighteen hours, ten minutes ]
Kuru-Kuru Hime shot out a ribbon, but Bunny Ears avoided it with a sharp spin in the air. Kuru-Kuru Hime sent out even more ribbons, but all of this was a diversion. She didn't plan to have a straight fight. It seemed very unlikely to her that she could beat this enemy one-on-one, when before she had only barely managed to beat her by ganging up on her with a bunch of allies.
"Settle down! If you don't resist, you won't get kicked or punched!" The bunny girl's oddly specific mention of kicking and punching made her orders sound more like a threat than an attempt to convince her. Kuru-Kuru Hime ran. If she could find some help, at least, then it would work out somehow. Maybe.
Wrapping a ribbon around a telephone pole, she kicked off the ground and pulled. From there, she wrapped another one around an emergency escape ladder installed at the back of the apartment building, and as she pulled that one, she kicked off the telephone pole. With the combined strength of her legs and her ribbons, she could move faster and more freely than normal, but...
"Running's no use! Surrender!" Bunny Ears was keeping close behind her. She had better footwork and reflexes. This meant running wasn't an option.
Kuru-Kuru Hime just had to meet up with someone, anyone. She moved from the emergency ladder to the telephone pole, the telephone pole to the wall of the apartment building, that wall to the roof of someone's house, and from there to the roof of the apartment building. She tried to trip her opponent by stringing a thin ribbon between two telephone poles, but Bunny Ears spun in midair to avoid it easily.
The two of them confronted each other on the roof of the apartment building. The area was about sixty-five square feet. The total lack of maintenance meant it was in a sad state of disrepair, crumbling and cracking to pieces here and there, with weeds sprouting from the cracks.
Here was the ally she'd been looking for. But she was not in the state Kuru-Kuru Hime had hoped. Weddin was splayed out on her back with what looked like pegs stabbing through various places in her costume—sleeves, skirt, veil. She had been immobilized in the form of a crucifix.
"Kuru-Kuru Hime! I'm so glad to see you! I fought to the best of my ability, too! But that fucking ninja! What a clever trick, immobilizing me with her kunai! Please, save me first!"
Fortunately, she wasn't hurt. However, she wouldn't be of any help to Kuru-Kuru Hime. In fact, she'd slow her down. Bunny Ears glanced at Weddin, smiled pleasantly, and said, "I'll save you, so surrender to me."
"Huh? Who are you? Is someone else here? The enemy?"
"You too, ribbon girl. Just give in already. Neither of you wants to get hurt, right?"
Grace had insisted that approaching Bunny Ears had caused an unusual ache in her wound and sent her pain off the charts, but they still had yet to grasp what sort of magic Bunny Ears used, specifically. Could Kuru-Kuru Hime even win against an enemy like that on her own?
"You say we can surrender, but there would be conditions for that, wouldn't there?" Weddin said, still pinned to the ground.
"You also have the option of unconditional surrender."
"Would our lives be spared?"
"We're not gonna kill you or anything."
"Would we be able to remain as magical girls?"
"That'd depend on the person, I think."
"I can't surrender without more details on that point."
"I'm impressed you can talk like that when you can't even move, as far as I can tell."
Weddin and Bunny Ears's unproductive exchange seemed to go on forever. That was when Kuru-Kuru Hime realized. Weddin—Mine Musubiya—didn't like idle chatter. She did have the otaku habit of rambling on and on about topics she liked or her personal opinions, but otherwise, she preferred brief conversations to lengthy dialogue.
"To what extent is my situation here related to our conditions of surrender? I may be incapacitated, but my allies are all safe."
"Aren't we talking about your conditions for surrender?"
"As their leader, I have the obligation and right to discuss the state of our allies as a whole."
"The self-proclaimed leader."
"How rude! I'm our official leader, chosen through a democratic process."
Bunny Ears shrugged with apparent exasperation. Weddin's voice rose with passion as she spoke. She was trying to drag out the conversation.
Sensing Weddin's intention, Kuru-Kuru Hime set to work. Smoothly unraveling a thin ribbon hidden behind her back, she lengthened it by connecting several ribbons together. Taking special care to avoid the enemy's attention, she snaked the elongated ribbon along the ground. The roof was falling apart, with cracks all over the place. She slid her ribbon into one of them, letting it slither underneath the roof's surface toward Bunny Ears.
"So if I surrender, that means we all surrender. Please put a little more effort into your attempt to win me over. For instance, even if you do steal our right to be magical girls, if you show us other kindnesses, such as financial compensation, then we can feel good about surrendering, can't we?"
"You're not in a position to be receiving any financial compensation, though."
"Then can't you contact your superior officer now? Discussions to resolve something so important should be left to those in charge, right?"
"Um, but, well, y'know..."
"I'm sure we can reach a compromise that will satisfy both parties."
The ribbon passed under the concrete to Bunny Ears's feet, then sprang out of a crack to grab at her leg. Kuru-Kuru Hime couldn't get a firm grasp on it, but Bunny Ears started to lose her balance. Kuru-Kuru Hime unleashed all her ribbons and shot toward Bunny Ears in one dash. Bunny Ears swept aside the first ribbon and dodged the second, but Kuru-Kuru Hime kept shooting them out one after another, a third and a fourth, tangling up an arm, taking a leg, taking her target's freedom a bit at a time. As Kuru-Kuru Hime was burying Bunny Ears's arms, legs, and torso in ribbons, Bunny Ears tugged back on them, hard. Kuru-Kuru Hime jerked in closer to her opponent.
Bunny Ears' magic might be to amplify pain. So then if Kuru-Kuru Hime were to get even the slightest injury, she would lose. Of course, she wasn't confident she could withstand unusual pain. She had to be sure to block the enemy's attacks.
Kuru-Kuru Hime unraveled her costume. It may not have looked like it, but her entire costume was made up of ribbons. She undid her pointe shoes, her tutu, and even her crown.
Kuru-Kuru Hime shifted her ribbons around as she felt the chilly November wind against her bare skin. Maintaining the number of ribbons sent out to attack, she also arranged some more for defense. She built them into a wall between the enemy and herself. She also reached out to tie some more around the iron railing of the apartment building in an attempt to stabilize her position.
Ignoring the wall, Bunny Ears tugged again. A number of the strips wrapped around the iron railing were ripped away. Kuru-Kuru Hime braced her legs, but she couldn't hold her ground. She inched closer to Bunny Ears, but the wall was still there. Rooted firmly in the roof, the wall resisted. Kuru-Kuru Hime was still being dragged in, but Bunny Ears couldn't yank her in one pull.
Kuru-Kuru Hime deployed ribbon after ribbon even as Bunny Ears reeled her in, but right when she'd completely wrapped her opponent to restrain her, something strange happened. The smell of exhaust fumes rushed up her nostrils, and intense nausea welled up inside her. Her vision was off. Things receded and then approached again over and over, and she couldn't get a proper sense of where anything was or what it was. Her eardrums shuddered with noise, the shock of it rattling her brain.
Kuru-Kuru Hime hit her knees, but even that impact was too much for her to take, and she let out a cry and collapsed. Her knees throbbed in pain. Agony shot through her all at once, from the top of her head to the tips of her toes.
"Too bad, you entered my area of effect..." were the words she heard right before she lost consciousness.
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[ POV: Captain Grace; Time remaining: eighteen hours, ten minutes ]
Commotion sounded from the roof and the first floor, and after that, she heard cries. Should she head up to the roof or downstairs? Captain Grace chose the first floor and rushed down the staircase. The sound of Funny Trick's footsteps followed her.
She jumped down ten steps, heading for the building entrance, where she stopped. No one was there. "Hey, Kayo."
"What?"
"Nobody's here. What's up with that?"
"How should I know?"
Grace spread her palms and cupped them against her ears. She focused her hearing. The sounds of struggle continued. "Okay, let's go to the roof—," she started to say, then looked up. Among the commotion, she could also faintly hear the beating of wings, like something was flapping toward them.
Focusing her eyes in the dark, Captain Grace discovered a strange creature flying their way at a relatively slow pace. Is this some new type of magical girl? she wondered, but it wasn't. It was a sphere about three feet in diameter, black all over, seemingly made of a rubberlike material. It flapped two bat-like wings to stay in the air.
"...What's that?"
"...I dunno."
It was no one she knew. Though it was moving, it was doubtful if it was even a living thing. The black sphere stopped above them in midair, about fifteen feet up, and remained there. Grace observed the sphere's movements. It was just hovering. Clearly something magical.
After some time suspended in the air, the sphere started to move. It was going up. Was it aiming for the roof? Grace was annoyed, feeling as if she'd been ignored.
"Hey! Don't ignore me!" She scooped up a piece of concrete from the ground at her feet and flung it at the sphere. The sphere bobbed away to avoid it, like a balloon blown in the wind. Its light movements seemed in conflict with its sluggish appearance.
The concrete chunk rolled along the road. The sphere halted its ascent and changed shape. Funny Trick yelped, but excitement boiled in the depths of Captain Grace's heart. An eye emerged from the sphere. Or rather, it would be more accurate to say that its eyelid split open. A single, giant eyeball gazed down on them.
It was asking, Are you an enemy?
So then Captain Grace would reply. "Come on and attack me already!"
The sphere's giant eye closed, and all traces of it melted away. Its black wings stopped beating, and it went into free fall. As it came down, the wings shrank, and by the time it landed, it had taken the shape of a human. And it hadn't just changed shape. She could tell its mass had clearly increased. It was smooth all over, with no features to speak of.
Captain Grace drew her sword. The black silhouette ran toward her.
She swung the blade, slipping through her opponent's guard to slice open its torso—no, that wasn't right. She hadn't cut it open. A large mouth opened up in it, with teeth on the top and bottom that clenched around her blade to bring it to a halt. She couldn't push it in or pull it out. Its bite had more power than Captain Grace had muscle.
Releasing her sword, she was trying to back away when the enemy attacked. She attempted to block its low kick with her shin, but its leg bent like rubber, attempting to wrap around her shin. She panicked and shook it off. All of its attacks were transformative in nature. When its fist hit her, it bent like a whip to snap at her back, and the front kick she tried to block with her shoulder transformed into a blade that drew blood. Arms, legs, and tentacles like those of an octopus or squid emerged from its black body one after another to assail her.
She had no choice but to focus on evasion, and ultimately, evasion turned to flight. Just barely managing her enemy's attacks, Grace dashed down the street.
Her plan had been to handle this thing quickly, then head over to where Bunny Ears was and take her down, too. But this opponent was too much for Captain Grace to handle.
Her plan weakly crumbled away.
Desperately, she dodged, blocked, knocked down, and swept aside the thing's attacks, and when she was trying to knock down yet another strike, it changed its trajectory. Its tentacle dodged Grace's sword and plunged toward her, and though she jerked around to avoid it, another strike followed it and injured the top of her foot.
Funny Trick was running for them with a stick raised in her hands, but Captain Grace stopped her with a yell. "Stay back! You've got a different job!"
The black human shape was focused on Grace alone. It was firing off a rapid barrage of attacks on her, completely ignoring Funny Trick. Grace could sense no emotion in its actions. She had the strong impression that it was attacking automatically. She couldn't pick up on any chivalrous urge for a one-on-one fight, nor could she sense it was a rational being with a desire to take out the strongest first.
Grace figured that maybe this thing only saw those that attacked it as its enemies. So that meant Captain Grace was its enemy right now, but it had yet to count Funny Trick as hostile. Funny Trick was free to go where she wanted. While Grace was handling the enemy's attacks, Funny Trick could carry out a task for her.
Funny Trick must have caught on, as she turned back and retreated into the apartment building. "Good," Grace said to herself.
They were battling something strong. Among all the foes Captain Grace—Umi Shibahara—had ever fought, this was the strongest and fastest, with the most unreadable attacks and no weaknesses.
She dodged, blocked, and halted the enemy's assaults but couldn't quite defend herself, and she took more and more injuries. Her attacks were not effective at all. The quality and quantity of its methods of attack were far beyond her. She had to focus entirely on evasion or she wouldn't be able to avoid them properly, but that meant she couldn't attack, of course. The enemy was ruthless, overbearing, and on the offensive. It cut her right upper arm, and when she recoiled, a tentacle wrapped around her left calf. A needle with a barb like a fishing hook sprouted from the tentacle and dug into her leg.
Grace bit back a moan. Her leg was bleeding a lot, but she could still move around okay. That was the most she could do now. From this point on, she would have to fight with a bum leg.
A sensation she'd never experienced before oozed up from the pit of her stomach.
—Never experienced before?
No, she had experienced this before. It was just such an old memory, she'd forgotten the feeling. Grace's brain searched all the way back when she had encountered a wild dog in the mountains at the age of three.
Yes, this was fear. Grace did not take this discovery as a humiliation; rather, she turned it to joy.
Grace was a champion to the bitter end. Bunny Ears had been a fast and stubborn prey, but ultimately, prey. One who had used her magic to successfully escape but was merely a challenger to a champion.
Her opponent now was not the challenger—Grace was. This feeling of fear, her first in ten years, became euphoria that coursed through her body. She drew her dagger.
Right now, she was smack-dab in the middle of danger. She could die at any moment.
The enemy's strikes were fast, even faster than Bunny Ears's. Captain Grace channeled all her strength, all her senses, all her nerves straight into the battle. She smacked down a casual thrust from the creature, read its movements and took a step in, and when it came closer to her in response, she answered with a head-butt. The silhouette creature twisted its neck, and her head struck its shoulder. She attempted to bite its throat, but the enemy didn't like that and gave her a forceful shove. When the enemy struck her leg, she kicked aside with the heel of her shoe and swiped her dagger in its path, but one of its tentacles transformed into a flat blade and parried.
As their clash continued, Grace slowly came to understand her opponent. It was like a machine, but it wasn't just reacting to what she did; it also predicted her attacks to a certain degree before it made its moves. In other words, she could fake to outwit it.
Grace's eyes turned to the apartment building. The third window facing the road on the second floor opened, and Funny Trick appeared. Perfect timing.
Grace yelled, "Funny Trick!" With her left hand, she pulled out the hook that hung from her waist and threw it at her opponent's chest, then covered the dagger in her right hand with her cape and faced the enemy. It batted away the hook with its tentacle, and with its attention on the dagger, for a split second, it stopped in place.
The inside of Grace's cape suddenly got heavier, and she took a firm step. The dagger in her right hand had transformed instantly into a mounted cannon. She could call this timing perfect. This was her trump card.
Her enemy was a champion. She was the challenger. So she would use everything she could, and that meant everything—including her partner Funny Trick and the equipment on her ship.
She was certain she felt her wordless enemy's surprise. With the cape still over it, she fired her magic cannon. As the recoil blasted her backward, she pulled out another hook and dug it into the ground. It crunched and dragged through the asphalt, and when Grace's heels hit the guardrail, she finally came to a halt.
Captain Grace's magic vessel was a pirate ship. When she had summoned it for a test run on the school grounds, she'd checked what sort of equipment it had and taken out a number of potentially useful items. This cannon was one of them. She'd left it in one of the apartments, and Funny Trick had covered it up, then swapped it with the dagger hidden underneath Grace's cape.
Being that it was a magic cannon, the kick was incredible, but Captain Grace's eardrums remained intact, and she had no bruises or broken bones, either. Her right arm was a little numb, but if she was getting off this easy, then she was in great shape.
Smoke billowed up, and something appeared from within it, cutting through the smell of gunpowder that filled the area. The black humanoid shape, its upper body now gone, staggered as it tried to approach her. Even with half of its body blown away, it was still moving. The fragments were moving slowly, too, attempting to return to their original form.
Though she hadn't experimented with it beforehand, Captain Grace had personally felt the force of that cannonball. Even a magical girl would be mincemeat if they got hit by that thing. The enemy before her could take a lot, but Grace had managed to deal some heavy damage.
But that hadn't been enough to finish it off. The enemy's ability to morph was rendering it immortal, and it was trying to regenerate. If it could recover completely, then Grace doubted she could win. If she was going to finish it off, it was now or never. She plunged her hook into the tentacle wrapped around her leg to rip it apart.
Kicking off the ground, she dashed over to the road sign fifteen feet away. Using this at close range would put herself in danger, too.
Captain Grace's power was to manifest a magic ship that could speed across water. The full length of the ship was about thirty feet. It was shaped like a sailboat, but it didn't actually require any wind power. Of course, in order to use it, she'd need a body of water of at least a certain size.
If you were going to use it the normal way, that is.
Captain Grace faced the enemy staggering toward her and summoned her ship. The overwhelming mass appeared suddenly, burying the enemy and everything around it all at once. It generated a shock and sound just like an explosion, and Grace held down her captain's hat to keep it from flying off.
What would happen if she were to summon the ship in a location that was already occupied? She'd had no idea if it would end up inside the boat, be launched away, or be crushed under it. But now she knew. When she summoned her pirate ship in a place already occupied by something the size of a human, the boat would crush it.
She'd felt something. Though she was using a method less direct than stabbing with a blade or hitting with a fist, she could still feel that she'd defeated an enemy.
When she dismissed her ship, the black thing was no more.
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[ POV: 7753; Time remaining: seventeen hours, fifty minutes ]
7753 was standing beside the car parked on the road.
Spending time with a cranky person was always terribly awkward. And that awkwardness doubled when the person occupied a higher social position than you. 7753 had not once seen Mana in a good mood since they had met, but now her irritation was through the roof, even compared to how she'd been before. Sitting in the back seat of the car, she was bouncing her knees hard enough to shake the vehicle.
7753 had stepped out of the car on the pretext of keeping watch, but just being able to sense Mana's intense fidgeting only made being outside even scarier.
Ripple, Hana, and Archfiend Pam had attacked from three different directions while the enemy was off guard. How closely had they followed Mana's instructions to capture and not kill, and just how much time would they even have to listen? There had been no contact.
Mana had to be irritated, both out of concern as to whether they could catch the criminal and annoyance at 7753 for not fighting despite being a magical girl. 7753 felt like Mana was being way too harsh for this just to be 7753's victim complex talking. Some magical girls were suited to combat, and some were not. 7753 was the latter. In terms of character, magic, and physical abilities, she couldn't compete with combat-based magical girls. But still, she would do what work she could. Defending the camp when combat personnel were all deployed was an important job, too. It was something she could be proud of.
But any attempts to convince Mana of that would be interpreted as the excuses of a weakling, and the most that would get her would be some yelling, disparagement, and belittling. So 7753 said nothing, and still feeling awkward, she guarded Mana.
I hope this ends safely, she prayed as she looked up at the sky. The clouds were thick. Tomorrow would be cloudy, too, and it could rain, depending; worst case, it could even snow.
That was when a loud noise split the air and ripped apart the tranquility of the night, coming from the direction of the apartment building that was the enemy's hideout. It sounded like an explosion.
Mana opened the car door and leaped out. "What was that sound?!"
"I—I don't know."
"Damn it... Was that someone's magic?"
Ripple's magic didn't include anything explosive. Neither did Hana's. If any of them had an ability like that, it would be Archfiend Pam. Or was this the enemy's doing? The road where the car was now parked was pretty far from the apartment building. So it had to be quite a noise to reach this far. It was bound to awaken the people who lived in the neighborhood, and it was only a matter of time before the police and fire department showed up.
Mana looked toward the apartment building, and 7753 followed her gaze. A large bird was flying through the air. It was unbelievably huge. Was that just because of perspective? It looked even bigger than an ostrich.
"...Hmm? Huh?"
"What? Did something happen?"
Maybe it wasn't a bird? But by the time that thought hit her, the winged station wagon was already right in front of them. 7753 scooped up Mana and leaped to the side, and the station wagon crashed into the spot where Mana had just been an instant before with a boom even louder than the one from earlier.
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[ POV: Rain Pow; Time remaining: seventeen hours, forty-one minutes ]
Rain Pow and Postarie, clinging to the rear of the station wagon, jumped off the moment before it crashed. It had been flying so fast, the force of the wind had smooshed and jiggled Rain Pow's face. If a human were to jump off that, they would be worse than hurt. Even a normal magical girl would have ended up injured.
Rain Pow made a rainbow bridge in the air and jumped down, still holding Postarie in one arm. With her other hand on the rainbow bridge, she slowed herself until she landed with a thud. The station wagon landed—crashed—at about the same moment. The mass, speed, and distance they'd covered were all numbers to be reckoned with, and the energy generated by the fall shook the area. The sound was possibly loud enough to make a fainthearted listener pass out. Dust and asphalt particles billowed up thick. It looked just like the scene of an explosion.
"Are you okay, Tsuko?"
"...Yeah." She didn't seem okay. Her eyes were unfocused, and her mouth was still half-open. She seemed less frightened and more dazed.
Postarie had never been a girl of strong character. In fact, she was on the timid side. Rain Pow had heard that becoming a magical girl would make you mentally stronger, but still, the pretransformation-level mental strength had to be involved. Toko's declarations about "the courage to stand up and face any foe" had really been exaggerated. Maybe more like, "an ordinary person who had never even dreamed of fighting until yesterday wouldn't be rendered totally useless by their anxiety."
Getting attacked by enemies and chased down by a ninja, fleeing atop a rainbow, and riding a flying station wagon were enough scary experiences to equal ten scream machines.
Rain Pow was just thinking her first order of business was to pep up Postarie when a voice spoke to her from inside her shirt.
"Hey, hey."
"Hmm? What?"
"Look at that." Toko, her upper body poking out of Rain Pow's neckline, pointed her finger. Figures in silhouette were moving within the thickly rising dust. Toko was pointing at two fallen figures getting up. One of them wrapped her arms around the other's shoulders, flung her person over her back, and ran off.
"You can't let them get away!"
Rain Pow was about to give chase, but she immediately stopped. Something was standing in her way. The dust gradually cleared, and soon she was able to see the figure clearly, but she still could only call it "something." The object was all black with a round body, and it hovered in midair flapping its bat-like wings.
"...What is this? Is it a mascot like you, Toko?"
"Of course not! I've never heard of anything like this. It doesn't look like a magical girl, though."
"Is it alive?"
"I dunno." Toko glared at the black sphere and cursed briefly. "Whatever it is, this means you have to beat that thing up, or you won't be able to chase after those guys that ran away, right? If we can capture them, we can use them to help with negotiations. And as long as we can negotiate, we're good."
Rain Pow grabbed the bumper of the station wagon and ripped it off. She swung it at the black sphere, but unexpectedly, it swiftly dodged the bumper.
"Whoa, that thing's fast. Hey, Toko. This isn't really a magical girl, is it?"
"Absolutely not."
The sphere changed shape, like some sort of protean creature. Rain Pow swung the bumper again, harder than before, forcing the enemy to dodge. Predicting its movement this time, she stabbed straight into it. The bumper pierced the black something—no, the black thing's body morphed and held the bumper in its orifice. It gnashed and tightened around the bumper, crumpling it.
She had no idea what this thing was, but it was fast. Strong, too. Its body was abnormally pliant and could transform freely. Given that it was blocking the road to prevent her from chasing the pair, it had to be one of the enemy. This could be a real pain of an opponent.
"It's not a magical girl or a mascot, so... Do you think it's alive?"
"I can't say anything, just looking at it. It might not be alive, but I'm certain that magic is involved in some form or another. Probably." Upper body still sticking out, Toko sank back in again, up to her shoulders. She'd noticed its strength, too.
Slowly, Rain Pow looked back. She figured moving too fast would agitate the thing in front of her. Postarie was behind her. She looked frightened. That was an improvement. Apparently, she'd regained her powers of judgment.
"Tsuko, I've got a favor to ask. Is that okay?"
"Huh...? What?"
"Listen..."
Postarie indicated that she did not like Rain Pow's request. She said over and over she was scared and she didn't want to, cried, and begged, "Don't make me do this," but she eventually caved to Toko's threats when the fairy said the thing would eventually kill them if she did nothing.
Slowly, hesitantly, she approached the black thing. Postarie looked absolutely miserable and was clearly crying. Rain Pow instructed her to touch it softly and gently, in a way that couldn't possibly be interpreted as hostile, so with shaking hands, Postarie approached the black thing and touched it.
Instantly, white bird wings sprouted out from it and it flew off like a rocket, ignoring the resistance from the bat wings. It seemed it belonged to someone, after all.
Rain Pow blew a sigh of relief, and at her chest, she could feel Toko's tension draining, too. Postarie turned back to them, wiping her tears with her sleeve. "Hey... I just wanna rest, for now."
"All right. I kinda feel the same way."
There was no objection from Toko. The pair had escaped, and Rain Pow and Postarie couldn't chase them anymore.
|
[ POV: 7753; Time remaining: sixteen hours, twenty-five minutes ]
With Mana on her back, 7753 somehow managed to escape. Simply dodging the station wagon had been like a miracle, and it was probably another that they had managed to escape. On an apartment building roof, 7753 breathed a sigh of relief.
But the one she'd saved was apparently not thankful at all. Mana was furious. In fact, it was fair to say she had lost it. 7753 had no idea how to tell a mage's real age, but her apparent age was midteens, and since kids at that age were known for being unpredictable when they gave in to their emotions, it was quite frightening when she was this angry.
"What the hell do you think a magical girl's strength is for?! Plus, aren't you supposed to be my bodyguard?! Are you guarding me so that you can run away?! You dumbass! If I wanted to run, I could've done it alone! You should've attacked with the rest of the group!" Mana barked, yelled, and snapped in her tirade against 7753. She seemed like she might even physically lash out at her, too, but 7753 somehow managed to pacify her.
7753 told Mana that fleeing had been the best plan for that moment, and since they weren't good fighters, even if they had stayed and engaged, they were bound to have ended up burdening everyone as hostages. What she couldn't say was that her boss had told her, "It doesn't matter if you have to force her, just take Mana and run as fast as you can." And so, stuck between a rock and a hard place, she bowed her head, saying, "I apologize, I'm sorry, I had no choice, it was the best available option."
Venting her anger must have helped Mana regain some calm; even though she was still in a bad mood, she stopped yelling, screaming, and spraying spit, and instead looked down at the world below and spat, "Fucking boondocks."
They had picked out this apartment building as an emergency meeting place if the need arose, and since it was one of the few tall buildings in the city, you could see just about everything in the town from its roof. For an apartment building covered in room-for-rent signs, it wasn't a bad view.
However, sadly, she was forced to agree with Mana's assertion that this place was the "fucking boondocks." 7753's arrival here, everything she'd been forced to do since, and the epitome of an economically depressed rural town made for a disheartening combination.
Mana glared at the town, took out her magical phone, and turned it on to use. "It won't connect."
"...What?"
"What the hell's going on? I can't reach Hana's magical phone anymore."
"Um... Maybe she can't answer because she's fighting right now."
"Or she's been captured by the enemy." Mana glowered at 7753 as if to blame her retreat for this.
"But, well, Hana, of all people..."
"And just what the hell do you know about Hana?!"
Suspecting that any answer would get her yelled at, 7753 closed her mouth.
"Damn it... Hana, you idiot. Where the hell are you, and what are you doing...?" Mana started to pace back and forth on the roof. She wouldn't settle down.
7753 tried phoning Ripple. Just like Hana, she wouldn't answer. So she sent a text for the time being. She realized her fingers were trembling as she typed out her message saying they were waiting at the meetup point.
Neither Ripple nor Hana were answering their phones. 7753 tried calling Archfiend Pam, but that got her nothing, either. They weren't coming to the meeting place, and they wouldn't even send a single text. She felt an icy chill slowly make its way down her spine.
She sent her message to Ripple and hugged her magical phone.
Still no reply. Mana continued to pace back and forth. One lap, two laps, three; 7753 idly continued to count, and once the count was over a hundred, she gave up.
Mana continued pacing for a while after that, until ultimately, she stopped. "Why aren't they coming?"
"Huh?"
"Why aren't they coming? They aren't contacting us. Why can't we get in touch with them?!" Mana rushed up to 7753 and grabbed her by the collar. 7753 had the slightly larger physique, meaning Mana ended up pushing her up from below. 7753 was standing near the edge of the roof, and since there was no wall or fence or anything behind her, she panicked and dug in her heels. Mana was pushing her so hard that not only might she shove 7753 off the roof, it was as if Mana didn't mind falling with her. 7753 grabbed Mana's hands.
"Is she dead?!"
"Dead? They couldn't be—"
"So why aren't they coming back?! Why can't we contact them?!"
"Maybe there's been some kind of mistake—"
"What mistake?!"
Hana was a veteran magical girl with a history of combat experience. She was strong enough to have been assigned to catch the assassin on her own, even without Mana and other noncombat personnel.
"No, I mean—"
"You don't mean shit!"
"But—" 7753 couldn't argue any further, and Mana shoved her hard.
"But what?!"
Reflexively, 7753 shook her off. Even if she was a magical girl from Magical Girl Resources, 7753 was way stronger than Mana. Mana was thrown lightly backward, flying straight back over the roof and into the entrance door. The door dented into the shape of her back, but she quickly got up again.
"I-I'm sorry, you just kept pushing me, so I suddenly..."
"Damn you... Goddamn you!" Tears gathered at the corners of Mana's eyes. Her lower eyelashes kept them in check for a bit, but eventually, the dam burst, and tears streaked from her eyes. Mana cried as she shouted unintelligible curses. 7753 couldn't do anything. Mana wept, wailed, and pointed her finger at 7753. "Why are you crying?!"
7753 lifted her goggles up to her forehead and gently swiped under her eyes. They were wet.
"You've got no right to cry!" Mana ran up to her again, putting the momentum into a slap on 7753's cheek, then hit the opposite cheek with the back of her hand in a double slap. 7753 reflexively slapped Mana in turn, and the events of moments ago repeated themselves as Mana was launched backward, her back hitting the door.
Yelling incoherently, Mana stood up. Before 7753 could even apologize, Mana rushed toward her, and this time, Mana hit her with a closed fist to the cheekbone and jaw, and 7753 knocked Mana down with a fist from above. This was more clearly a strike, unlike the first two times where her hands had just suddenly lashed out.
Mana trembled facedown on the ground, splayed like a frog being dissected. She moaned like a beast as she shook. 7753 checked on her through her goggles to make sure she wasn't seriously hurt. It didn't seem as if she'd fallen because 7753 had hit her in a bad spot, either.
7753 exhaled deeply, and as she did, the tears came.
Hana, Ripple, and Archfiend Pam weren't coming back. There had been no communication. No matter how many times 7753 and Mana called, they couldn't get through. Had they been captured? Or...had they been killed? Why? Why? she asked herself endlessly. When 7753 sniffled, Mana jerked her head up.
"I said, you've got no right to cry!" She got to her feet to kick and head-butt 7753, and when 7753 staggered, Mana punched her in the gut. The strength of her blows aside, she was attacking rather vulnerable targets. She was moving like a child having a tantrum, but she was weirdly good at this. 7753 wondered if she should maybe pin Mana down, but looking at Mana's face, messed up with tears and a bleeding nose, she lost the urge. She just covered her head and patiently endured it until the attacks stopped.
Lowering her guard, 7753 lifted her face.
"...What are you doing?" came a sudden voice.
7753 turned around. Ripple was grabbing the iron fence to nimbly hop up onto the roof and land on the concrete. She made a face when she noticed the red rust on her palms.
Having found a new outlet for her anger, this time, Mana screamed at Ripple. "And where the hell have—?!" But before she could finish her sentence, she went silent. Timidly poking her face out from behind Ripple was a ballerina-style magical girl covered in ribbons.
|
[ POV: Weddin; Time remaining: seventeen hours, thirty-eight minutes ]
"Ms. Himeno! Can you hear me, Ms. Himeno?"
Kuru-Kuru Hime had undone her transformation and was lying on the ground. The teacher was not responding at all to her calls. Her chest was moving up and down, so she did seem to be breathing, but she had been completely knocked out. It didn't seem as if she'd be able to help get Weddin out of this pinch.
Weddin strained with her limbs. She held her breath until her face was hot, channeling all of her strength into trying to rip up the ropes that bound her. She continued to strain right until she was nearly out of oxygen, but still, the ropes wouldn't loosen. She'd already done this many times.
All she could do now was lie on the floor. Bunny Ears had finally moved away from her, but Weddin wasn't strong enough to take advantage of this opportunity.
She understood that Bunny Ears had done something to Kuru-Kuru Hime, but she didn't know what. Even though Kuru-Kuru Hime restrained their opponent completely, she'd moaned and fallen over, undoing her transformation to return to the human Ms. Nozomi Himeno. Being part of her costume, her ribbons had disappeared at the same time. Now free, Bunny Ears had stood and walked up to Weddin, who was immobilized in a crucifixion pose.
Understanding that her plan had failed, Weddin addressed Bunny Ears. "Come on, like I said, let's stop with all this violence."
"It's okay. There won't be any more violence here." Using a rope she had pulled from her sleeve, Bunny Ears tied up Weddin's arms and legs, removing each kunai pinning her down, one by one. Weddin hadn't been strong enough to even make them budge, but when Bunny Ears put her back into it, they slowly loosened and eventually came out.
"Isn't this violent?"
"I'm trying my best to be gentle, aren't I?"
"I wouldn't call that 'trying.'"
Bunny Ears finished pulling out all the kunai around Weddin, tied her up completely, and rolled her on her side.
Next, Bunny Ears went to tie up Ms. Himeno. Her back was facing Weddin. Weddin strained her limbs, trying to move them, but the rope was tied tight. Even with the strength of a magical girl, she couldn't rip it up.
Bunny Ears glanced back at Weddin to make sure that she was still bound, then returned to her task. "This is special magic rope made by our team chief. I think you'd have a hard time tearing it."
"So then could you untie me? I won't struggle."
"You seem like the type I'd want to be careful with."
"That's not true. People know I'm a person of character."
"You talked to me a lot to distract me before, too, didn't you?" Bunny Ears picked up Ms. Himeno with her right arm, and with her left, she took Weddin by the leg and flung her over her shoulder, upside down.
"Hey, at least put me right-side up."
"I've decided not to chat with someone who talks with the intention to deceive, like you do. So no matter what you have to say, I'm not going to listen. I'll have an easier time learning about the situation from this girl anyway."
Frustratingly enough, she was basically right.
Weddin continued to chatter, trying to talk Bunny Ears into just one verbal promise, if possible. But Bunny Ears wasn't paying any attention at all as she carried Weddin and Ms. Himeno. "I've gotta get out of here before the human police come around." She hopped off the top of the apartment building to the roof of a house.
It seemed Bunny Ears was planning to meet up with someone. She traversed the roofs of houses and commercial buildings, as well as telephone poles, to arrive at a crumpled station wagon on a destroyed road. There was a car parked on the shoulder there, too. The locals were gradually gathering down there.
Bunny Ears looked as if molten lead had just been poured down her throat as she watched the spectacle on the road from atop the building. Then suddenly, she pulled out her magical phone and attempted to make a call. But no one picked up. Bunny Ears's expression tensed even more, and she muttered, "Maybe the signal's no good" and "Maybe I should head straight to the emergency meetup point?" and so on as she moved over to the edge of the roof and tried to call again.
This is it, thought Weddin. Bunny Ears was clearly upset. She had her eye off Weddin, so if Weddin could just deal with the one issue here—the rope—she might be able to sneak away. With that thought, Weddin struggled, wriggled, and tried to talk to Ms. Himeno, passed out beside her, but nothing worked. Weddin just wasn't strong enough to loosen the rope.
She could feel the chill of the concrete seeping through her back all the way to her bones.
In this business, was strength everything, in the end? On the other side of the roof, Bunny Ears was still fighting with her phone. It seemed even a strong magical girl like her had her own struggles to deal with, too.
Softly, Weddin breathed a sigh.
"Weddin, Mei's tired," came a sudden voice.
Weddin almost yelped instinctively, but she bit her lip and managed to hold it in. Tepsekemei was looking down at her. She was floating, cross-legged.
Weddin spoke to her as quietly as she could. "Where have you been?"
"The enemy came, so Mei was fighting. She was strong."
"Did you defeat her?"
"Mei couldn't. She was too strong."
"So in other words, you ran away, huh? Well, that doesn't matter right now. More importantly, could you do something about this rope? I just can't undo it myself."
"Mei already cut it. Yours, and that lady's over there."
Weddin moved her hands. The rope fell gently. The cut clean, like the work of a very sharp blade. "Nice. Now I can run—"
"No." Tepsekemei wasn't looking at Weddin. Her attention was focused in a completely different direction. When Weddin turned her head to follow her gaze, her eyes locked with Bunny Ears's. Bunny Ears was looking at them with her magical phone in hand.
Weddin got up and jumped off the side of the building. She could hear Bunny Ears's footsteps coming after her. They were terrifyingly fast—way faster than hers. This was no use. Weddin would have to either surrender again or fight together with Tepsekemei.
Tepsekemei was flying by Weddin's side. It seemed running wasn't yet a struggle for her. "You're slow, Weddin."
"We all have our individual differences!"
"You're slow, so Mei will help." As Weddin ran, Tepsekemei grabbed her collar and yanked her up, sweeping Weddin into her arms. "This is faster."
Tepsekemei sped up in a burst. But Bunny Ears, in pursuit, was just as fast. She lost no ground as she chased them. Tepsekemei went all over to try to get away somehow: the front of the farming cooperative storehouse, the parking lot of a big bookstore, the street behind the pachinko parlor. She even darted into narrow roads at sharp angles, but Bunny Ears still kept chasing.
"Can Mei fight?"
"Um... No fighting. Let's run." Before, Bunny Ears had fought evenly against multiple opponents, including Tepsekemei. Against just the two of them, Bunny Ears would be more than they could handle. And besides, they didn't even know how she'd defeated Kuru-Kuru Hime.
Tepsekemei didn't slow down, but neither did Bunny Ears.
"Get off the ground, Tepsekemei. If you fly, she won't be able to follow."
"Mei can't."
"Why not?"
"Because you're too heavy."
"Geez, rude!"
|
[ POV: Kuru-Kuru Hime; Time remaining: seventeen hours, twenty-one minutes ]
She remembered everything until she'd passed out in front of Bunny Ears because of that mysterious sickness. That had been on the roof of the apartment building. When she came to again, she was lying on the roof of a completely different building, and Weddin and Bunny Ears were both gone. What's more, she wasn't Kuru-Kuru Hime but back as the human Nozomi Himeno, chilled to the core and trembling under the cold sky.
I've got no idea what's going on, but I should run. Everything was terrifying.
Nozomi transformed into Kuru-Kuru Hime and started running. She didn't care where; she just had to get away. She sprang off the car parked on the road's shoulder and climbed up a telephone pole to the power line, then went up to the chamber of commerce building. From there, Kuru-Kuru Hime ran on top of the downtown arcade, took a running leap just barely short of the farming cooperative building. She flung out a ribbon to catch the edge, and from there, she slipped between combine harvesters and kicked aside weeds as she followed a beaten path through a farmer's field. She ended up racing through the forest, not caring if she was on an animal trail or a hiking path or no path at all, swinging between trees on her ribbons like Tarzan, until eventually, in the middle of the mountains, her face slammed into an invisible wall. She fell to the ground and rolled around, scattering dead leaves as she writhed in agony.
She was not only shocked by the impact. A sickening feeling like something had directly churned up her brain was running through her whole body. Her legs wouldn't move, her back felt weak, and she couldn't stand.
Now that she thought about it, she recalled Toko had told them that an invisible barrier surrounded the whole city. So this had to be the one. Kuru-Kuru Hime lay curled up for a while holding her nose, then picked up a leaf to wipe the blood from it. It was a good thing her legs had begun to weaken from the long run by the time she'd hit the barrier. She shuddered to think how much worse she could have been hurt if she'd collided with it when she'd been going at a dead sprint with full energy. Still, she shuddered again at the fact that she couldn't escape from this town.
She wove together her ribbons to make an impromptu seat with a sawtooth oak as its base and sat down on it, leaning back against the tree.
Bit by bit, the pounding of her heart and throbbing pain in her nose faded, as did her terror. Something was strange.
When she had been in magical-girl form, she hadn't questioned fighting. Moreover, with her mysterious magic and superhuman physical abilities, she'd tied up and twined her ribbons around her opponent like it was the natural thing to do. Returning to human form for a moment had made it unbearably incomprehensible to her how she could have done such a thing. She had no idea what would have happened to her had she lost. The word "death" rose to her mind, and she clutched her trembling body in her arms.
She wasn't just cold. She couldn't stop shivering. There had been malice and desire to kill. There had been something raw and vivid that should not be in the lighthearted life of a magical girl.
She couldn't even consider going back. The overwhelming violence had crushed her idealistic belief that a teacher should ensure all her students escaped before she was allowed to run herself. Despite what a deplorable state she knew she was in right then, she couldn't move. She was frightened and scared and confused as to what was going on. After running this far, she was finally able to think carefully, but she still couldn't bring herself to consider going back. At least let them be safe, she thought and tried calling Toko, Weddin, Captain Grace, Funny Trick, Tepsekemei, Rain Pow, and Postarie, one after another, but not a single one picked up. She sent them a message saying, I'm safe, let's meet up somewhere, and returned her magical phone to her pocket.
—Calm down. Calm down. Calm down. Calm down.
She took out her magical phone one more time and checked the time. It was already late at night.
Some of the students might never return to their homes again. She clenched her jaw and squeezed her fists. Her ribbon chair was trembling.
She checked her messages. No replies from anyone.
The leaves on the trees rustled. Right now, Kuru-Kuru Hime was like cornered prey. A magical girl's ears were sensitive enough to pick up even the smallest rustling of leaves—unlike Nozomi Himeno, who would carelessly fall asleep in the staff room directly beneath where the concert band practiced.
She rose slightly out of her seat and looked toward the source of the sound. She had anticipated that it would be nothing in the end, that she would smile at her own cowardice and sit down again, but her expectations were betrayed. In the shadow of the trees, there was a female ninja with one arm and one eye. The scarf covering her mouth fluttered in the wintry mountain wind, and her one open eye was gazing steadily at Kuru-Kuru Hime.
She was clearly a magical girl but not one Kuru-Kuru Hime knew. In other words, she was an ally of Bunny Ears's.
Kuru-Kuru Hime put her ribbon chair away and began running, scattering tree leaves as she went, but before even one second, she hit the invisible wall again and tumbled to the ground. This time, she hit not just her nose, but her front teeth, too. Her brain felt ready to somersault.
Her nose, teeth, and lips hurt, but it wasn't the time for that. She held her face with her hand and used her elbow to lift herself up. Then, just as she was trying to somehow get herself off the ground, she froze. The ninja was right there. She was standing on Kuru-Kuru Hime's left side, looking down at her. Then she suddenly squatted, reaching out to take Kuru-Kuru Hime's arm. She pulled her to her feet and patted off the leaves stuck to her rear and back.
Still ready to bolt, and yet also unable to do so, Kuru-Kuru Hime just stood there. The ninja wasn't doing anything, necessarily, but she did keep hold of Kuru-Kuru Hime's arm, unwilling to let her go. Should she use her ribbons? But she really doubted she could beat the ninja in reflexes or speed. She felt like if she made any sort of move, she would get punched or thrown first.
Both of them remained silent, not budging at all as they looked at each other without backing away. Unable to take the silence, Kuru-Kuru Hime spoke first. "Um... How did you know where I was?"
"...I could see you running off, so I followed you." The ninja's scarf was hiding her mouth, muffling her words slightly, though her lovely voice still carried. But her tone, her way of talking, came out in dour, gloomy mumbles.
"Did you follow me?"
"...I did."
"Why?"
"...If I had called out to you, I wouldn't have known what to say," came the rather foolish reply. It didn't quite match up with her ninja image.
No, if her reply was foolish, then Kuru-Kuru Hime's question was just as foolish. Leaving aside whether this was a good time for questions at all, if this girl was going to answer, then Kuru-Kuru Hime had to ask what needed asking. "Why...did you people come here? Why are you trying to capture Toko?"
The ninja pulled in her chin, burying her face even deeper into her scarf, and her gaze turned to the roots of the sawtooth oak. Her mouth stayed closed, and her silence made Kuru-Kuru Hime think she'd asked a question that couldn't be answered. Apparently it wasn't that she didn't intend to reply, but rather that she was thinking. "We came...in order to...capture a criminal."
"A criminal? Are you people the police?"
"Some of them...are like police... I'm just helping."
"Helping?"
"I just came for an interview...but I got dragged into this..."
"If you were just dragged into this, you should have said no."
"If I say no, I can't get ahead in my career..."
She wanted to get ahead in her career? Kuru-Kuru Hime started to feel an affinity for this ninja. It was less out of sympathy and more thanks to the humanizing revelation that the ninja had such a worldly-minded desire. She was not a fully automated battle machine just expressionlessly swinging its sword and tossing shuriken.
The two of them continued their conversation, standing there awkwardly. Kuru-Kuru Hime learned that Ripple and her allies were trying to capture a murderer who was killing people connected to another world called the Magical Kingdom, and that Toko was connected to the murderer. Kuru-Kuru Hime also told Ripple frankly of her own situation.
She no longer worried how honest she should be with Ripple. She'd never been able to trust Toko, since she'd made the students her hostages; she felt an affinity with Ripple; and most of all, waiting here would just leave her in a deadlock. Ripple listened to her wish to have her students escape somewhere safe, then shook her hand as they stood there in those unnatural positions. Ripple's chilly palm felt nice.
|
[ POV: Postarie; Time remaining: seventeen hours, twenty-six minutes ]
Postarie made a call to Weddin, then to Captain Grace, Funny Trick, and Tepsekemei, but she couldn't get through to any of them. It wasn't just that they weren't picking up. There was this unpleasant, grating interference almost like a scratching sound, and she couldn't even hear the call. It wasn't just Postarie's magical phone having this problem. The call functions on Rain Pow's phone weren't working anymore, either. When she tried dialing her home phone number to test, the same thing happened. She couldn't make calls anymore, to any kind of device.
When they tried asking Toko what was going on, all she had to say was, "No clue." The fairy had been quite useless for a while now.
After getting rid of that black thing, they left that area for the time being, making sure that nobody was chasing them. Relief and fear welled up simultaneously inside her, and Postarie slumped down on the spot.
An enemy attack, a shuriken-throwing ninja, their flight across the rainbow bridge, their trip clinging to the station wagon as it flew through the air—all of those had been fairly scary experiences, but the encounter with that black thing to top it off had sent Postarie's heart well past the breaking point. She cried for a while on the ground on all fours, but Rain Pow rubbing her back somehow relaxed her. She was so grateful for the warmth of Rain Pow's palms on her back, she wanted to cling to them.
With the concrete-block wall at their backs, Postarie and Rain Pow sat side by side, and Toko, who had retreated into Rain Pow's shirt, also joined them to talk about what had just happened. They came to no conclusions. Though they understood that the enemy had come to them, neither Postarie nor Rain Pow knew what the heck it was. They'd never really understood what sort of being it was in the first place.
What was important to Postarie was that they never get involved in this matter ever again, and she would have no regrets if doing that required quitting being a magical girl. Not so for Rain Pow. She insisted that she wanted to resolve this, and in doing so, make her powers permanent. Of course, Toko also supported her endeavor.
"I mean, it'd be a waste. We're so strong and cool now, with mysterious powers...and we're magical girls! You'd never get to be something like this living a normal life."
"Yeah, yeah! That's right. I like the cut of your jib."
Postarie understood that Rain Pow didn't want to let go of these mysterious powers. But Postarie would rather stay alive.
Even if they were stronger than humans, ultimately, it was a relative thing. It had been proven by this point that Postarie's powers were not that great relative to other magical girls. So it was better to live her ordinary life as a normal human being, just as she always had, rather than get some semi-superpower and fight with dangerous opponents. It wasn't as if she had been at all unhappy with her life thus far.
But still, it wasn't as if Postarie had any great ideas as to how to get out of their current situation, either.
Postarie had the feeling that even if they tried to find someone to save them, the enemies they faced right now would be able to hold their ground against not only the police but even the Japan Self-Defense Forces armed to the teeth with tanks or planes.
Rain Pow not only told her that they couldn't rely on the police; she also disapproved of revealing their identities. She protested that she wanted to continue being a magical girl, talked about how so many things would go to waste if they were found out. So she refused any intervention from society. Of course, Toko also endorsed that argument.
"C'mon, Tsuko. Let's do it! We can't give up now!"
"That's right! There's no way I'm letting you give up halfway! No way!" Adding Toko to the conversation meant they ended up circling the same place, in the end.
Postarie mainly spoke to Rain Pow. They let Toko talk all she wanted, too, but Postarie wasn't actually listening to her.
Postarie and Rain Pow's discussion was close to a quarrel. It didn't seem there could be any compromise between their views, and no matter how they tried to argue their points, neither ever got through to the other. Plus, it wasn't as if either girl had any firm plans for a solution. Though this was ostensibly a conversation, it was their first fight since they had become friends. To Postarie, Rain Pow was just coming off as reckless and crazy. Postarie wondered if maybe she should just abandon her, say "Do what you want!" and plan her escape alone. But all she did was wonder. She couldn't bring herself to actually do it. When Postarie tried to run away, she couldn't shake off the memories of Kaori's ever-changing expressions, the sound of her joyful laughter, the first time they'd gone to an arcade together, the warmth of Kaori's palms rubbing against her back, and more.
Until Kaori had become her best friend, Postarie—Tatsuko—didn't have a single person she could call a friend for her whole ten-odd years. She'd always wanted a friend as much as anyone did, but once she made one, for the first time, she understood. This was like a curse.
Postarie's shoulders drooped. It was hard for her to accept how aggressive Rain Pow was acting, but she couldn't leave her, either.
Something was happening—but they didn't know what. Since the three of them were isolated without help, unable to contact anyone, they decided to follow Rain Pow's suggestion and try going back to the apartment building next. Of course, they were not returning as magical girls. They would undo their transformations and go back as humans. Then they would check out what had happened one more time. Police cars, ambulances, and fire trucks would probably be there by now. The local newspaper and maybe national online mass media would have come. There was bound to be a crowd, and it had to be big. This was a small town with little entertainment, incidents, or accidents; if something happened, even this late at night, people would join the throng just because it was there. Once there was a crowd, they could slip in among them. As long as they didn't transform into magical girls, the enemy should not be able to identify Postarie's and Rain Pow's faces.
If one of their allies had been captured and was being tortured into revealing the identities of their allies, including Postarie's and Rain Pow's, then they might get caught. But if that had happened, then they were going to get caught soon enough anyway.
These unproductive, pessimistic fantasies were bad for her stomach and heart. The physical heart of a human was not as sturdily made as that of a magical girl. This was surely also true for the human spirit.
The three of them were now headed for the road where the station wagon had fallen. As they had anticipated, the road was now closed. A big crowd surrounded it, and police cars were parked nearby. They detoured around the road, wearing expressions that said, "We're just harmless middle schoolers passing by."
The crowd at the apartment building was even bigger. There were a lot of police cars, an ambulance, and even a fire truck. The wail of sirens echoed all around, and their red lights repeatedly asserted themselves in the darkness of the night. They were joined by plenty of rubberneckers, too. Some were wearing pajamas, and some weren't.
There was also a collection of media people with cameras and microphones. The area was blocked off with tape, keeping out everyone but the police, so they couldn't see what it was like on the inside.
An old man in a down jacket with a mike pointed at him was spraying spittle as he raved: "A car flew through the air! I swear I saw it! There's no way I was imagining things!"
Rumors from the crowd reached their ears. It seemed other people had witnessed a flying car, too. There had been a rainbow, even though it was nighttime. A boat, too, for some reason. And someone had fired a rocket launcher. No, it wasn't a rocket launcher—it was a cannon. A mysterious group of cosplayers had started a loud brawl on the road nearby, and maybe this was connected to that. But it seemed nobody had been caught yet. What was going on here, causing such a big commotion?
Tatsuko looked at Kaori, who stared back. Her eyelashes were trembling slightly, her eyes moist, and her whole face was pale, even her lips.
Nobody had been captured. In other words, no one was left here. But they couldn't get ahold of them. So then where did they all go? Horrible thoughts floated up in Tatsuko's mind, then receded.
Aware that both of them looked awful, she tugged her knit cap down low over her eyes, pulled together the collar of her coat, and wrapped her scarf around her neck tight. Kaori's shoulder bumped someone in the crowd, and a middle-aged man who looked like a factory worker spat at them. "Watch it!"
Tatsuko tugged Kaori's sleeve and pulled her out of the crowd. "It'll be okay... The other kids and Ms. Himeno and Mei are all strong," Tatsuko said quietly, as if trying to console herself. "They're just hiding somewhere right now."
She was so transparent. Even she didn't think they were just hiding.
She took Kaori's hand, and they left the scene. The two of them sat side by side on a bench at a nearby children's park and gazed up at the sky. The clouds were thick and black and went on forever. It didn't look as if it was going to clear up.
They were the only people in the park. Illuminated by the streetlights, the promenade was missing many bricks, and the playground was rusted and creaking in the blowing wind. This town was the same everywhere. A sigh slipped from her. There was nowhere to go.
"Are you magical girls?" someone suddenly called out to them.
As Tatsuko was processing that in her mind, she panicked and looked back, tripping over her feet. As she started to fall, she grabbed the back of the bench and somehow managed to catch her balance.
A magical girl was standing at the park entrance. Her long dress coat, middling-length khaki scarf, Panama hat, and big sunglasses all looked suspicious. For a magical-girl costume, it was mismatched overall and lacking in style, but there was no mistaking her face and aura. Most importantly, she was using the term "magical girl."
Kaori gave Tatsuko a sidelong glance as she went on guard, facing the magical girl. She appeared extremely cautious.
The magical girl's eyebrows tilted up, and one of her cheeks rose. As Tatsuko thought about what that expression meant, she heard the magical girl sigh, and Tatsuko realized she was disappointed.
"What are you doing?" The newcomer approached them readily, casually raised her hand, and slapped Kaori's and Tatsuko's cheeks. It wasn't the sort of attack that would send them flying—nor enough to even call it an attack in the first place. But still, Tatsuko's cheek stung, and she cradled it as she looked back at the magical girl, dumbfounded.
"You two aren't transformed right now. I'd like to yell at you and demand why the hell you're on the battlefield out of costume in the first place, but no matter. There are times when you're forced to go human for covert missions and such. But that aside." This time, she slapped their other cheeks. She hadn't even given them enough time for the heat from the first strike to fade, and now both cheeks stung. "What do you think you're doing, going on guard when someone asks if you're magical girls? Huh? You might as well be publicizing your identity. How can you let the enemy know you're a magical girl when they're already transformed and you're not? You're never going to survive on the battlefield if you do things like that. You'll be squashed like insects."
The magical girl stared closely at them. She wasn't really glaring, but her gaze wasn't friendly, either. Unable to determine what the look was, Tatsuko smiled mildly at her, and this time, the magical girl brought her fist down on Tatsuko's head so hard she saw stars.
"What are you doing?!"
"Are you in the position to be complaining?!" The magical girl crushed Kaori's brave resistance with a double slap. Seeing Kaori collapse onto the bench, Tatsuko firmly closed her mouth. "Attention!" the girl ordered, and Tatsuko snapped her back straight. The girl turned her gaze to Tatsuko, then next looked at Kaori, who lay on the bench with her shoulders trembling, and kicked up at Kaori's thigh. "Why are you lying there?! If you're told attention, then stand, at least!"
Tatsuko would absolutely never say, "But aren't you the one who knocked her down?" The magical girl dragged Kaori to her feet, where she stood on the verge of tears. Tatsuko had no intention of protesting.
The suspicious-looking newcomer raved about just how dangerous it was to face a magical girl when in human form. It seemed she wasn't going to kill them or anything, but she could slap them again at any time, and Tatsuko couldn't quell her anxiety.
Toko remained safely silent within Rain Pow's clothing. It seemed she was pretending she wasn't there. That was probably the right choice.
"The person approaching you was transformed. You were not. In this situation, if someone asks if you're a magical girl, then play dumb. Treat them like a freak. Say, 'What the hell are you talking about?' I don't know how well that will work, but it's far better than doing something so suicidal as openly bracing for a fight when you're in human form. And though it's out of the question to go on guard as a human, don't even think about transforming there to fight back, either. Do you know how long it takes for a human to think about transforming and then to carry that out? With the reflexes of a magical girl, I could kill you a hundred times, or a thousand. Do you understand now that transforming in front of another magical girl is foolish? If you have, then transform."
Tatsuko was considering what she had just been told when her cheek was slapped again. Tears leaked from her eyes.
"Transform! Do what you're told immediately!"
Tatsuko panicked and transformed, and her cheek was slapped again.
"Were you not listening to me when I told you not to transform?!"
"U-um, but—but we went on guard already, so you already know, and there's no point in playing dumb, right?"
"Don't talk back!"
Rain Pow was knocked down onto the bench again. Even as Postarie wondered why her friend hadn't learned, she hated herself for how quickly she was getting used to this unreasonable treatment. The magical girl stared at Postarie and Rain Pow appraisingly. Finally, she snorted. It seemed like she didn't think much of them, and that made Postarie vaguely angry. Of course, she didn't let that show on her face.
"Not like I didn't know already, but you're amateurs. Students at the local middle school?"
"Yes, ma'am."
"You've only just been made magical girls by Toko."
"Yes, ma'am."
"Did Toko trick you?"
Postarie was unable to respond to that immediately. She couldn't recall ever being deceived. Some things had been vaguely suspicious, but she couldn't say for sure. She looked over at Rain Pow's chest, but there was no reaction from Toko.
In response to Postarie's apparent hesitation, the magical girl snorted once again, pulled out her magical phone to push a button, and put the phone to her ear. Then she scowled. "It won't connect."
"Um... We haven't been able to get through for a while now, either."
Her reply was a slap. The magical girl muttered, "Now I can't contact the team chief," and then she turned back to Postarie and Rain Pow. "I am Archfiend Pam. I'm a member of the inspection team that's infiltrated this town in order to arrest the assassin hiding here. So you two girls opposed us because you were deceived by her accomplice, Toko... What are your names?"
"Postarie."
"I'm Rain Pow."
"Postarie and Rain Pow. I'll give you one chance. If you cooperate with us, we won't inquire into the crimes you've committed thus far. I would have preferred to inquire with the team chief before doing this if possible, but I can't get through, so there's no helping that. I guarantee this, on my honor, so you don't need to worry."
As Postarie was desperately sorting out this information, wondering just what this all meant, another slap flew toward her.
"How do you answer?!"
"Yes, ma'am!"
"Y-yes, ma'am!"
"All right. Good answers, for amateurs. So then starting now—" Archfiend Pam suddenly glanced away to look at the park entrance. Postarie's and Rain Pow's eyes were also drawn to the same spot. A little girl in her pajamas was staring at the three magical girls. Archfiend Pam's relentless and tight expression suddenly relaxed, and she waved at the child. "Sorry! We'll get out of the way soon!" Her gentle smile and carefree manner of speech made her seem like a completely different person from before.
Postarie gave her a look that said, "What's with you?" But when Archfiend Pam turned back again, she panicked and looked away.
"What is so funny?!"
Rain Pow had apparently smiled, so Archfiend Pam hit her again. It hurt about the same transformed as it had in human form, which had to mean she was good at holding back.
—What is with this lady...?
|
[ POV: Captain Grace; Time remaining: seventeen hours, fifty-nine minutes ]
When the hammers she'd given to Postarie to hold on to flew toward her, she knew that they were fighting the enemy, too. I've gotta go save them, Captain Grace thought eagerly, running toward where the hammers had come from.
She and Funny Trick dashed over the downtown arcade, moving from the roof of the credit union to a residential area, to stop on the roof of an old house. They encountered no allies or enemies. Captain Grace pulled out her magical phone, confirmed once more that it was useless, then tossed it away. It rolled down the corrugated roof to come to a halt in the gutter.
She couldn't get ahold of anyone. She couldn't use her magical phone anymore. What use was it if it was broken? They didn't have the technology to repair it here, either.
Funny Trick picked up the magical phone Grace had thrown. "Listen, if our magical phones aren't working, then why don't we use our normal phones?"
"Kayo, d'you even know everyone's numbers?"
"Well... Then we could check and see how things are going at their homes or something."
"I dunno their addresses. Do you?"
"...No, I don't."
The apartment building was bustling with rubberneckers and police. Most likely, neither their enemies nor their allies would return there. The two of them tried going to the school, too, but all that did was remind them that the school at night was a lonely place.
"We should've decided on a meeting spot for times like these."
"If that idiot Weddin wanted to play leader, she should've done that stuff right, at least."
Defeating that black thing had been truly exhilarating. Everything after had been lacking in excitement. Searching and searching unsuccessfully for the allies who'd been fighting with them only made her frustrated.
"What do we do...?" Funny Trick sank down on the peak of the roof.
Captain Grace hated seeing her in such a state. "Don't give me that! We've just gotta meet up with someone. It doesn't matter who."
"It doesn't matter who, huh? ...But it'd be nice to find someone reliable, if possible. If we meet up with Toko, she might be able to explain what's going on."
This was the reason Captain Grace was getting so irritated. Funny Trick was uneasy. She was scared, frightened, and trembling in cowardice, even though her partner, the one she should rely on the most, was right there with her.
Captain Grace was different. Captain Grace, the great pirate who had sailed the seven seas, who was also a magical girl who wielded mysterious magic, would always bravely continue to fight. That was true even now. Even as they searched for allies, she was simultaneously seeking out enemies. She was going to find an enemy as strong or stronger than that black thing and take them out. Speaking of which, she wanted another fight with Bunny Ears. Now that she had leveled up with one do-or-die fight as a magical girl under her belt, she wouldn't let Bunny Ears get away again.
"C'mon, we're not resting forever. Next, we're gonna go look around the Teramachi area." Captain Grace grabbed Funny Trick's arm and hoisted her up.
|
[ POV: 7753; Time remaining: fifteen hours, fifty-two minutes ]
The magical girl with the ribbons introduced herself as Kuru-Kuru Hime. She said she was a teacher at the local middle school and explained that Toko had made her and a number of her students into magical girls. She hadn't liked the idea of sending her students out into danger, but Toko had said her memories would be erased if she opposed the plan, so she had obeyed. She seemed to be blaming herself more than making excuses.
As 7753 listened to Kuru-Kuru Hime's story, words were continuously displayed in her goggles, instructing 7753 how to prompt her: Absolutely do not blame her; put your hand on her shoulder; discreetly check Ripple's and Mana's expressions; turn the discussion toward Mana, etc. 7753 obeyed every one of these minute instructions, but then halfway through, it suddenly cut off.
It can't be—it's not just the magical phones? Even the goggles are broken? Perhaps it was one of her boss's reckless modifications. It was a convincing enough theory to scare her. But while she was getting worked up, a new message appeared. Her relief that the goggles weren't broken lasted only a brief instant as her heart was cast into a yet deeper ocean of distress.
Some serious criminals had escaped from magical-girl prison to infiltrate B City for some reason. These escapees, led by Pythie Frederica, would of course have some kind of goal in mind, and though 7753's boss didn't know if that target was the assassin or the inspection team or something else, it was certain that the situation in B City had grown even more dangerous. Military personnel among the upper ranks of the Magical Kingdom felt the gravity of the current situation and emphasized that they must take out Frederica's party before the barrier erected by the Department of Diplomacy wore off, no matter what it took. Depending on the situation, they might not even be able to avoid injuring innocent bystanders.
7753 had never heard the name Pythie Frederica before. The message from her boss continued to stream across her goggles.
Pythie Frederica had previously been a scout for magical girls. Though she had not been directly involved with Musician of the Forest, Cranberry, she'd been heavily influenced by her and had deviated from her proper role; she had been arrested under suspicion of having made magical-girl candidates kill one another, then been imprisoned. It was thought that Frederica had gained knowledge of the dark side of the Magical Kingdom by using her magic, which allowed her to observe things from a distance. It was also rumored that it may have been the reason she had been sentenced to the ultimate punishment of being sealed away.
7753 didn't really understand this, but what she did get was that some frightening magical girls had been unleashed in the world. This was clearly not information that she could keep to herself. But still, if she were asked how she had gotten this information, she would be unable to reply.
The message from her boss continued.
I'm aware that your magical phones are broken, but the cause is unknown. It's believed the prison escapees are using some method to interfere with them. Share this information with the others and tell them, "I received an e-mail from my boss before my magical phone broke, but I only just noticed it now."
Oh, so I could do it like that.
7753 told the others that she was going to try a little more to see if she could get her magical phone to work and left the circle where the rest of them were discussing. She pulled out her phone, created a suitable fake e-mail, and gave a deliberate yelp of surprise. "Oh! I had an e-mail!" Praying, Please let them not find out, she told them all the information she'd gotten from her boss.
Her expression serious, Mana rubbed her eyes, which were red and swollen from crying, and bit her lip.
Ripple looked worried and muttered, "It's her..."
That made Mana suspicious, and she turned over to Ripple. "What? Someone you know?" Ripple nodded, and Mana exploded. "What the hell's going on?!"
"Frederica..."
Mana grabbed Ripple by the collar and shoved her. Ripple's back hit the iron fence, making red rust sprinkle down from it. "You're friends with an escaped criminal?!"
Ripple patted off the dirt from her back. "...Someone me and my friend captured," she finished.
Mana tried to press even closer to Ripple, but 7753 stopped her. If she let Mana do this on the edge of the roof, one of them was going to fall. "Mana, please calm down. She's more of an enemy than an acquaintance, right?"
"Shut up! And you! You captured Frederica, didn't you? Then capture her this time, too! With Hana on your side, you can do it easy, can't you?!"
Holding Mana's hands behind her back, 7753 peeled her off Ripple. Kuru-Kuru Hime looked frightened as she watched. Well, of course she's frightened, thought 7753. Ripple, under attack, also had her eyes on the ground. 7753 felt sorry for her, too. Mana was worried about Hana right now, which had gotten her so worked up she was having trouble leading. She was so mentally off balance that 7753 wouldn't be surprised if she tried to get them all to do something reckless.
Just like with magical girls, you couldn't tell the age of a mage based on appearance alone. She might actually be the age that she looked. 7753 felt bad for her, but she couldn't allow her to force them all into a suicide mission. Seeing Mana's tearful rage, she also thought, I can't let this girl kill anyone.
And then another message appeared in her goggles.
Frederica has brought out two vicious criminals who were arrested one hundred and thirty years ago.
The one in patchwork rags is Sonia Bean. The fencer is Pukin. These magical girls ran rampant through England a hundred and thirty years ago, until they were sealed away in the same prison as Frederica. Adding their body counts together would total more than a thousand victims, and they went down in history as the worst criminals the Magical Kingdom had ever seen. Their combat abilities were top class, even compared to modern magical girls, and Sonia's ability to crumble whatever she touched was an indomitable fortress that operated as both defense and offense, while Pukin's magic sword, which could give delusions to anyone it cut, enabled some extremely high-level mental manipulation.
7753 repeated this information verbatim as it flowed into her goggles. As she explained, she despaired. They seemed like unbeatable opponents.
"And Tot Pop, Frederica's student... Even within the revolutionary faction, she's known as a militant. It's believed that these are the four who have entered the city."
"How could they get in?! The barrier still hasn't been broken!"
"With Frederica's magic, if the conditions are fulfilled, she could ignore the barrier...right?"
Ripple nodded deeply, and 7753 followed the message in the goggles. "The problem is who to prioritize: Frederica's party or the assassin."
Kuru-Kuru Hime gave a very deep nod, and 7753 continued following her goggles' message. "Letting Frederica's group run free would allow the worse harm than the assassin would do. We have to catch them quickly. We should prioritize them over the assassin."
"Bullshit! So then what would you have us do?!"
"We have to meet up with Hana somehow. She doesn't know the escaped prisoners have been unleashed in the city. She's in danger."
"Hana is... Shit!" Mana shut her mouth. The way she was glaring at the ground, it seemed less that she had calmed down and more that she was holding in her anger.
7753 continued reading the message from her boss. "And Archfiend Pam, too. With Archfiend Pam, the Department of Diplomacy's ultimate weapon, we can face them... Huh?" 7753 hesitated, then looked at Ripple, whose eyes were still on the ground, and continued. "With Archfiend Pam, who was a teacher to Musician of the Forest, Cranberry." She knew that Ripple had lifted her head. She could feel her intense gaze. "I'm sure we'll be able to stand against Frederica's group of four."
Mana lifted her jaw and opened her lips to say something, still gritting her teeth, then blew out only air.
7753 continued reading the words before her. "The reason we were saving Archfiend Pam's strength was because we were afraid of killing the criminal. If we're using her not to arrest the culprit but instead to suppress Frederica, then there's no problem—at the very least, as long as she causes no damage to the area."
Mana closed her eyes. The streaks of her tears were not yet dry. 7753 gingerly let go of Mana's arm, and Kuru-Kuru Hime heaved a deep sigh. Mana didn't stir at all, nor did anyone else for a few minutes more, and right when 7753 was thinking that she had to do something, Mana pulled out her staff. "First, we look for Hana. Once we've found her, we go for Archfiend Pam."
Now they might finally manage to break out of this situation. 7753 was thankful to her boss for sending her all that information.
|
[ POV: Archfiend Pam; Time remaining: sixteen hours, thirty-five minutes ]
The two magical girls she had caught in the park were total amateurs, but they didn't appear to be villains to the core. They weren't targets to be fought but kids she should be safeguarding.
Archfiend Pam was not in the position to be laughing and calling others amateurs, either. She'd been doing nothing but make mistakes ever since she'd come to this town. She was unquestionably an amateur when it came to investigation.
Although Archfiend Pam was attached to the Department of Diplomacy, she wasn't very fond of their methods. They had deployed a combat specialist as external help so they could control the scene with force. They hadn't changed one bit since Pam had first become a magical girl.
The way the special inspection team saw it, it must seem like clear, unnecessary meddling from outside forces. And as field staff, this job was not a joy to her. She'd had some interest in this assassin—not out of a sense of justice or ethics, but rather because she was very curious about the assassin's strength.
Having worked a long time as a magical girl, Archfiend Pam knew herself better than anyone. Her interest in strong magical girls was a problem because, even being aware of it, she couldn't quite keep it under control. She hadn't changed one bit since she was a newbie, not even now that she could call herself a veteran.
When the incident with Cranberry had been exposed, all she had thought was Oh, I see. Archfiend Pam had understood how Cranberry must have felt. She must have just wanted to fight strong magical girls so much. Her arguments about reform, like that the conventional exams were too lenient, were just a pretense. The true nature of the problem was elsewhere.
Cranberry was slave to nothing and so had taken extremes, while Archfiend Pam was bound by ethics and emotions and unable to do such things. That was the only difference between them.
And although Archfiend Pam had the same desires as Cranberry, crushing the weak underfoot felt loathsome to her. Many of the examinees Cranberry had crushed had to have been such weaklings. That was another thing that made them incompatible.
Though Pam had told no one of these complicated feelings, being the teacher who had given Cranberry the title of Musician of the Forest made her position within the organization unstable—although it was quite a long time ago that she had been Cranberry's teacher, and in fact, she did not end up being demoted. As a result, while she was a veteran with a degree of status, as a difficult magical girl to deal with, she was made to fight on the front lines.
She had felt remorse about the incident, but even so, she didn't feel as if she had educated Cranberry any differently. Those who chose to go out and fight were all playmates. Whether they killed or were killed, there were no regrets, and any sadness was fleeting. The same had been true for Cranberry, too. She had been a playmate. That was an undeniable fact. The problem with Cranberry was that she had dragged those who were not playmates into her games. Archfiend Pam didn't feel something like that could be any fun.
Archfiend Pam reflected on herself. If she'd been in the same position as Cranberry, would she have done the same thing? Probably not. But she couldn't say that with any certainty.
That was why Archfiend Pam did not resist orders from above. If she were to act on her own judgment, she might go wild. The ones who stood above her would surely direct her better than she would direct herself. She obeyed mechanically and blindly, never thinking for herself. She would become equipment. Every time she remembered Cranberry, she was deeply reminded of the necessity of this.
It was the same with this job, too. She obeyed her superiors' orders. Even if she could see through the official instructions to their hidden intentions, she pretended not to. She would not deliberate over political machinations or the pulling of strings. Even if she meant to act intelligently, that might not necessarily lead to good results.
The dancing girl she had fought with in the sky when they had attacked the apartment building had ultimately gotten away from her.
Pam had completely forgotten the barrier up high in the sky. Once she got the chance to start fighting a strong enemy, she dropped everything else to focus only on the battlefield. That was exactly what had enabled her to survive this long, but with a mission of this sort, that habit was more problematic.
Chasing her opponent, she'd cut through a thick cloud, and when she'd emerged from its top, she'd remembered. She couldn't see it, but when something might cause her harm, she would feel its presence. She immediately sensed the barrier wall and came to an abrupt stop. Flustered, she looked around, but the dancing girl was gone. She might have hit the barrier and fallen to the ground. Pam continued to search the area for a while but never found her. So then she recalled her job and flew back down to the world below.
Alighting on the ground, Archfiend Pam called all her wings back. For some reason, one of them had sprouted white bird wings and returned to her at intense speed. It seemed some sort of magic had been used on it. Another wing didn't return, apparently destroyed. There had to be a fairly powerful enemy on this battlefield, capable of taking out one of Archfiend Pam's wings. Just thinking about that made her heart jump with glee.
Calming the excitement welling up in her heart, she split one of her wings in half to return the number of her wings to four. Four was simply the upper limit for her number of wings, and it wasn't as if the missing wing wouldn't come back. Archfiend Pam's wings could be manipulated in absolutely every way she wanted.
Pam gave each of her wings the ability to see and hear and conferred them with simple intelligence, enabling them to act on their own. She ordered them, "Once you find those who seem to be enemies, inform me. If they attack you, I give you permission to attack."
This was the battlefield, and carelessness would lead to a swift death. She transformed one of her wings into a black dress coat and wrapped it around her body, then headed to the apartment building where the enemy seemed to be staying, remaining alert to her surroundings as she went. She wanted to check on things there before she headed to their emergency meeting spot.
It was right around then that she discovered the two magical girls. The apartment building was swarmed with reporters, news staff, and rubberneckers making a commotion, but among all this, two girls whose movements seemed unnatural caught Pam's eye. With restless eyes, they checked inside the apartment building, but their ears were perked up to listen to every voice around them. The fact that both of them were wearing school uniforms also made them stick out from their surroundings. Most of all, they had the air that all detransformed magical girls shared. After some hesitation, Archfiend Pam came down to the ground.
Archfiend Pam meant to safeguard the two magical girls, but the pair themselves had most likely gotten a different impression. Pam was angry—not at them but at Toko for just turning them into magical girls with hardly any training at all and then tossing them out onto the battlefield. Toko had simply made some throwaway pawns for the sake of her own escape. Just what did she take magical girls to be?
When Archfiend Pam had been working in the special teaching corps, things had been different. Newbies, be they good or bad, had been treated carefully and with affection. Recalling her time in service, Archfiend Pam informed the two about the rules of magical girls. Raising her voice, slapping their cheeks, she taught them kindly, carefully, and thoroughly what a sitting duck a detransformed magical girl was and just how dangerous what they were doing was.
Looking at the two of them respectfully standing in front of her, they didn't seem at all like the enemies her allies had just been fighting. They were frozen stiff. They looked scared. When she asked them some questions, they answered honestly.
Eventually, she figured she had to contact the investigation team chief now, so she tried calling with her magical phone, but she got nothing but grating static and couldn't get through.
—Something is happening.
It would be dangerous for the newbies to undo their transformations right now. It seemed something unexpected was going on, but being away from the center of the situation, Archfiend Pam had not quite figured out what it was. But still, if she dragged around these two while they were transformed, they would be hopelessly obvious.
"There's no helping it... Sabbath." Archfiend Pam transformed two of her wings into coats. She changed their color to brown, gave them the texture of cloth, and also added buttons and hoods and such. "Wear these while you're out. Pull the hood down over your eyes."
Having them wear these coats made from her wings meant they wouldn't stand out so much, at a glance. And if the time came to fight, she could use the wings to protect the two girls. She didn't want to involve children in a battle, but abandoning them here would be a lot more dangerous than imprudently dragging them into this mess.
Rain Pow looked at the coat suspiciously and hesitated to put it on, so Archfiend Pam slapped her cheek. Now they would be able to get moving—for now. Her current goal was to meet up with the inspection team.
She reproved Rain Pow for a comment to Postarie ("Who the heck is this lady?") with another slap to the cheek, and after warning them to stay on guard, she began walking.
As they walked, she asked them questions. The two of them had been told that the inspection team were "evil mages" and had apparently fought with them. It seemed they were being used by Toko, after all. Their group had attacked the inspection team on the street and had been attacked in turn at the apartment building. The two of them had withdrawn for the time being but then returned to the apartment building to check on what was happening, and that was when Archfiend Pam had caught them.
Archfiend Pam still didn't know if Hana and Ripple were safe, and she still didn't know why she couldn't get ahold of the team chief, in the end. The girls told her their magical phones weren't working now, either. Rain Pow suggested, "Maybe they all broke at once on coincidence..." and so Archfiend Pam punched her.
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[ POV: Weddin; Time remaining: sixteen hours, forty-one minutes ]
They just ran. They ran and ran and kept on running. But they couldn't escape.
"Can't you go any faster?!"
"Mei can't. Weddin is heavy."
"You don't have to keep saying that!"
They traversed sudden curves, winding mountain roads, and complex intersections. Tepsekemei knocked over a bucket that had been sitting behind a ramen shop, scattering the contents, and blew away a pachinko parlor banner as they shot past. But Bunny Ears still stayed hot on their heels.
Outrunning her seemed unlikely. When Weddin lifted her head to look behind them, she saw Bunny Ears's expression was still calm and her pace was steady. She didn't seem out of breath, either.
So if they couldn't rely on endurance, and they weren't fast enough to break away from her, then what should they do?
"Oh, I know!"
"What is it, Weddin?"
"You're flying, right, Tepsekemei?"
"Yeah. Mei is flying."
Tepsekemei had said she couldn't fly any higher because Weddin was too heavy, but she could still manage to float about four inches above the ground. She was sliding along at that height.
"Then you should head toward the port."
"Why?"
"You should go onto the ocean."
"What's the ocean?"
"I even have to teach you that? Um, how should I put it now...? It's a big puddle beyond a place called a port."
"Why would we go there?"
"You can float on top of the water, but she can't walk on it, so she'd have to swim. I doubt that rabbit can swim as fast as she can run. If that were possible, the Hare of Inaba would never have been skinned." That's a good idea, if I do say so myself, Weddin mentally complimented herself.
But Tepsekemei shook her head. "Mei can't."
"Why not?"
"Earlier, Mei flew up very, very high, touched it, and fell."
"You what?"
"This place is all wrapped up now. We can't get outside. So we can't go to the ocean beyond."
"Wrapped up?"
"It hurts a lot when you touch it. Mei won't touch it again."
Oh. Now Weddin recalled how Toko had told them B City was encircled by a barrier. So in other words, their game of tag was restricted to this city only. They couldn't run out to sea.
So then what about a river? A large river flowing through the city...didn't exist. Though it was cloudy, it didn't rain much, and the last time she'd heard talk of rising water flooding rivers was summer of last year.
So what should they do? They were boxed in. Bunny Ears had easily knocked Kuru-Kuru Hime unconscious using something they didn't understand...probably magic. Even though Bunny Ears had been completely restrained, too. Weddin knew Tepsekemei was strong. If they were to fight, she couldn't say there was absolutely no chance of victory. But could they win when they didn't even understand how the enemy attacked?
Should she make Tepsekemei stop so they could negotiate? But their trust levels were at rock bottom. Bunny Ears had said it herself: "I won't listen to what you say anymore." No matter how she wheedled—no, it was certain that any talking would make Bunny Ears more likely to ignore her.
"Hey."
The voice that addressed her was unexpectedly close, startling her. Weddin craned her neck around to confirm the identity of the magical girl diagonally behind her. "Captain Grace!"
"Geez, guys! You gotta make it easier to find you when you're runnin' around!" The pirate-style magical girl grinned boldly. Funny Trick was behind her. Tepsekemei was with them, too.
"Huh? Tepsekemei? Why? Huh?"
"Mei sent out five other selves. And made them look for the others."
With a hissing sound, the Tepsekemei behind Funny Trick shrank, then disappeared. Now that Weddin thought of it, Tepsekemei could create copies of herself. She'd said they couldn't move as freely as her main body, and they could only be used as messengers, but yes, they were definitely useful.
"Wait, if you could do something like that, you should've had them fly the other way to buy us time!"
"You said not to fight."
Tepsekemei gradually slowed, and Captain Grace and Funny Trick matched her, until they all stopped in front of an abandoned factory that had shut down after the economic bubble burst. In this town, which was in decline overall, this region was the most desolate. The streetlights were broken and abandoned without any repair.
"So we finally meet. I'm not letting you get away again." Captain Grace unsheathed her cutlass and pointed it at their enemy.
With the blade pointed at her, Bunny Ears smiled wryly and went into a fighting stance. "Oh, dear. Fighting four at once. I'd like to give my team chief a call, though."
"Four at once? What a sad thing to say. Just me'll be enough."
"Hey! Umi! That's dangerous!" Funny Trick practically shrieked.
Weddin nodded, too. "She's too much for you to try to fight solo just so you can look cool. She knocked out Kuru-Kuru Hime using some method I couldn't even understand. We should all fight her together."
"Whoa, Kuru-Kuru Hime, huh. So is she still alive?"
"Yes, she was breathing but unconscious."
"Well, that's good. Then let's fight one-on-one."
Funny Trick's shoulders drooped, and Weddin sighed as Tepsekemei let her down. Captain Grace's brain was made of muscle and magic.
"Ohhh, well I'm quite grateful you say that." Bunny Ears's strained smile turned into a lighter one, and Captain Grace grinned broadly.
"Nobody interfere. I'm gonna finish this good, so you just—"
The trash pile in front of the factory shook and moaned. Weddin furrowed her brow. A hole had opened in the entrance of the factory, which had been nailed shut with boards and completely sealed off before.
The hole was unnatural. It didn't look as if it had been broken open by punches or kicks, nor did any heavy machinery or chain saws appear to be involved. And if Grace had used her blade to cut a hole, it would have been shaped differently. The hole was a good size larger than a human, and the edges were flaking and crumbling away like charcoal. It was something like rust or rot.
The other side of the hole was dark. Something was wriggling. Weddin couldn't see through it, even with the keen eyesight of a magical girl. A hand came through from the other side of the hole to grab the edge. The black charcoal sprinkled to the ground and disappeared. Slowly, a human figure emerged from inside the factory. Weddin's expression softened slightly.
It was a swordswoman. Her eccentric clothing and beautiful face made it clear she was a magical girl. Unsure what was happening, Weddin fixed her eyes on the girl's face.
The girl smiled, showing off her beautifully straight teeth, and unsheathed the sword at her waist. If a wild beast were to smile, it would surely look just like that.
Weddin smothered a scream.
The swordswoman who emerged first spoke in a foreign language, and a magical girl carrying a crystal ball followed her.
"It seems you're enjoying your game of tag. We will be taking this opportunity to join in, as latecomers. Why don't we take on the role of 'it'? We will pursue you, so you all should run as well as you can...says General Pukin. And so, since we'll be showing no mercy to those who oppose us, I recommend doing your utmost to avoid resisting. You don't want to get hurt, do you?"
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There was once a young man who wished to gain his Heart's Desire.
And while that is, as beginnings go, not entirely novel (for every tale about every young man there ever was or will be could start in a similar manner) there was much about this young man and what happened to him that was unusual, although even he never knew the whole of it.
The tale started, as many tales have started, in Wall.
The town of Wall stands today as it has stood for six hundred years, on a high jut of granite amidst a small forest woodland. The houses of Wall are square and old, built of grey stone, with dark slate roofs and high chimneys; taking advantage of every inch of space on the rock, the houses lean into each other, are built one upon the next, with here and there a bush or tree growing out of the side of a building.
There is one road from Wall, a winding track rising sharply up from the forest, where it is lined with rocks and small stones. Followed far enough south, out of the forest, the track becomes a real road, paved with asphalt; followed further the road gets larger, is packed at all hours with cars and trucks rushing from city to city. Eventually the road takes you to London, but London is a whole night's drive from Wall.
The inhabitants of Wall are a taciturn breed, falling into two distinct types: the native Wall-folk, as grey and tall and stocky as the granite outcrop their town was built upon; and the others, who have made Wall their home over the years, and their descendants.
Below Wall on the west is the forest; to the south is a treacherously placid lake served by the streams that drop from the hills behind Wall to the north. There are fields upon the hills, on which sheep graze. To the east is more woodland.
Immediately to the east of Wall is a high grey rock wall, from which the town takes its name. This wall is old, built of rough, square lumps of hewn granite, and it comes from the woods and goes back to the woods once more.
There is only one break in the wall; an opening about six feet in width, a little to the north of the village.
Through the gap in the wall can be seen a large green meadow; beyond the meadow, a stream; and beyond the stream there are trees. From time to time shapes and figures can be seen, amongst the trees, in the distance. Huge shapes and odd shapes and small, glimmering things which flash and glitter and are gone. Although it is perfectly good meadowland, none of the villagers has ever grazed animals on the meadow on the other side of the wall. Nor have they used it for growing crops.
Instead, for hundreds, perhaps for thousands of years, they have posted guards on each side of the opening on the wall, and done their best to put it out of their minds.
Even today, two townsmen stand on either side of the opening, night and day, taking eight-hour shifts. They carry hefty wooden cudgels. They flank the opening on the town side.
Their main function is to prevent the town's children from going through the opening, into the meadow and beyond. Occasionally they are called upon to discourage a solitary rambler, or one of the few visitors to the town, from going through the gateway.
The children they discourage simply with displays of the cudgel. Where ramblers and visitors are concerned, they are more inventive, only using physical force as a last resort if tales of new-planted grass, or a dangerous bull on the loose, are not sufficient.
Very rarely someone comes to Wall knowing what they are looking for, and these people they will sometimes allow through. There is a look in the eyes, and once seen it cannot be mistaken.
There have been no cases of smuggling across the wall in all the Twentieth Century, that the townsfolk know of, and they pride themselves on this.
The guard is relaxed once every nine years, on May Day, when a fair comes to the meadow.
The events that follow transpired many years ago. Queen Victoria was on the throne of England, but she was not yet the black-clad widow of Windsor: she had apples in her cheeks and a spring in her step, and Lord Melbourne often had cause to upbraid, gently, the young queen for her flightmess. She was, as yet, unmarried, although she was very much in love.
Mr. Charles Dickens was serializing his novel Oliver Twist; Mr. Draper had just taken the first photograph of the moon, freezing her pale face on cold paper; Mr. Morse had recently announced a way of transmitting messages down metal wires.
Had you mentioned magic or Faerie to any of them, they would have smiled at you disdainfully, except, perhaps for Mr. Dickens, at the time a young man, and beardless. He would have looked at you wistfully.
People were coming to the British Isles that spring. They came in ones, and they came in twos, and they landed at Dover or in London or in Liverpool: men and women with skins as pale as paper, skins as dark as volcanic rock, skins the color of cinnamon, speaking in a multitude of tongues. They arrived all through April, and they traveled by steam train, by horse, by caravan or cart, and many of them walked.
At that time Dunstan Thorn was eighteen, and he was not a romantic.
He had nut-brown hair, and nut-brown eyes, and nut-brown freckles. He was middling tall, and slow of speech. He had an easy smile, which illuminated his face from within, and he dreamed, when he daydreamed in his father's meadow, of leaving the village of Wall and all its unpredictable charm, and going to London, or Edinburgh, or Dublin, or some great town where nothing was dependent on which way the wind was blowing. He worked on his father's farm and owned nothing save a small cottage in a far field given to him by his parents.
Visitors were coming to Wall that April for the fair, and Dunstan resented them. Mr. Bromios's inn, the Seventh Magpie, normally a warren of empty rooms, had filled a week earlier, and now the strangers had begun to take rooms in the farms and private houses, paying for their lodgings with strange coins, with herbs and spices, and even with gemstones.
As the day of the fair approached the atmosphere of anticipation mounted. People were waking earlier, counting days, counting minutes. The guards on the gate, at the sides of the wall, were restive and nervous. Figures and shadows moved in the trees at the edge of the meadow.
In the Seventh Magpie, Bridget Comfrey, who was widely regarded as the most beautiful pot-girl in living memory, was provoking friction between Tommy Forester, with whom she had been seen to step out over the previous year, and a huge man with dark eyes and a small, cluttering monkey. The man spoke little English, but he smiled expressively whenever Bridget came by.
In the pub's taproom the regulars sat in awkward proximity to the visitors, speaking so: "It's only every nine years."
"They say in the old days it was every year, at midsummer."
"Ask Mister Bromios. He'll know." Mr. Bromios was tall, and his skin was olive; his black hair was curled tightly on his head; his eyes were green. As the girls of the village became women they took notice of Mr. Bromios, but he did not return their notice. It was said he had come to the village quite some time ago, a visitor. But he had stayed in the village; and his wine was good, so the locals agreed.
A loud argument broke out in the public lounge between Tommy Forester and the dark-eyed man, whose name appeared to be Alum Bey.
"Stop them! In the name of Heaven! Stop them!" shouted Bridget. "They're going out the back to fight over me!" And she tossed her head, prettily, so that the light of the oil lamps caught her perfect golden curls.
Nobody moved to stop the men, although a number of people, villagers and newcomers alike, went outside to spectate.
Tommy Forester removed his shirt and raised his fists in front of him. The stranger laughed, and spat onto the grass, and then he seized Tommy's right hand and sent him flying onto the ground, chin-first. Tommy clambered to his feet and ran at the stranger. He landed a glancing blow on the man's cheek, before finding himself facedown in the dirt, his face being slammed into the mud, with the wind knocked out of him. Alum Bey sat on top of him and chuckled, and said something in Arabic.
That quickly, and that easily, the fight was over.
Alum Bey climbed off Tommy Forester and he strutted over to Bridget Comfrey, bowed low to her, and grinned with gleaming teeth.
Bridget ignored him, and ran to Tommy. "Why, whatever has he done to you, my sweet?" she asked, and mopped the mud from his face with her apron and called him all manner of endearments.
Alum Bey went, with the spectators, back into the public rooms of the inn, and he graciously bought Tommy Forester a bottle of Mr. Bromios's Chablis when Tommy returned. Neither of them was quite certain who had won, who had lost.
Dunstan Thorn was not in the Seventh Magpie that evening: he was a practical lad, who had, for the last six months, been courting Daisy Hempstock, a young woman of similar practicality. They would walk, on fair evenings, around the village, and discuss the theory of crop rotation, and the weather, and other such sensible matters; and on these walks, upon which they were invariably accompanied by Daisy's mother and younger sister walking a healthy six paces behind, they would, from time to time, stare at each other lovingly.
At the door to the Hempstocks" Dunstan would pause, and bow, and take his farewell.
And Daisy Hempstock would walk into her house, and remove her bonnet, and say, "I do so wish Mister Thorn would make up his mind to propose. I am sure Papa would not be averse to it."
"Indeed, I am sure that he would not," said Daisy's mama on this evening, as she said on every such evening, and she removed her own bonnet and her gloves and led her daughters to the drawing room, in which a very tall gentleman with a very long black beard was sitting, sorting through his pack. Daisy, and her mama, and her sister, bobbed curtseys to the gentleman (who spoke little English, and had arrived a few days before). The temporary lodger, in his turn, stood and bowed to them, then returned to his pack of wooden oddments, sorting, arranging and polishing.
It was chilly that April, with the awkward changeability of English spring.
The visitors came up the narrow road through the forest from the south; they filled the spare-rooms, they bunked out in cow byres and barns. Some of them raised colored tents, some of them arrived in their own caravans drawn by huge grey horses or by small, shaggy ponies.
In the forest there was a carpet of bluebells. On the morning of April the 29th Dunstan Thorn drew guard duty on the gap in the wall, with Tommy Forester. They stood on each side of the gap in the wall, and they waited.
Dunstan had done guard duty many times before, but hitherto his task had consisted of simply standing, and, on occasion, shooing away children.
Today he felt important: he held a wooden cudgel, and as each stranger to the village came up to the break in the wall, Dunstan or Tommy would say "Tomorrow, tomorrow. No one's coming through today, good sirs."
And the strangers would retreat a little way, and stare through the break in the wall at the unassuming meadow beyond it, at the unexceptional trees that dotted the meadow, at the rather dull forest behind it. Some of them attempted to strike up conversations with Dunstan or Tommy, but the young men, proud of their status as guards, declined to converse, contenting themselves by raising their heads, tightening their lips, and generally looking important.
At lunchtime, Daisy Hempstock brought by a small pot of shepherd's pie for them both, and Bridget Comfrey brought them each a mug of spiced ale.
And, at twilight, another two able-bodied young men of the village arrived to relieve them, carrying a lantern each, and Tommy and Dunstan walked down to the inn where Mr. Bromios gave each of them a mug of his best ale—and his best ale was very fine indeed—as their reward for doing guard duty. There was a buzz of excitement in the inn, now crowded beyond believing. It was filled with visitors to the village from every nation in the world, or so it seemed to Dunstan who had no sense of distance beyond the woods that surrounded the village of Wall, so he regarded the tall gentleman in the black top hat at the table beside him, all the way up from London, with as much awe as he regarded the taller ebony-colored gentleman in the white one-piece robe with whom he was dining. Dunstan knew that it was rude to stare, and that, as a villager of Wall, he had every right to feel superior to all of the "furriners." But he could smell unfamilar spices on the air, and hear men and women speaking to each other in a hundred tongues, and he gawked and gazed unashamedly.
The man in the black silk top hat noticed that Dunstan was staring at him, and motioned the lad over to him. "D'you like treacle pudden'?" he asked abruptly, by way of introduction. "Mutanabbi was called away, and there's more pudden" here than a man can manage on his own."
Dunstan nodded. The treacle pudding was steaming invitingly on its plate.
"Well then," said his new friend, "help yourself." He passed Dunstan a clean china bowl and a spoon. Dunstan needed no further encouragement, and he began to demolish the pudding.
"Now, young "un," said the tall gentleman in the black silk top hat to Dunstan, once their bowls and the pudding-plate were quite empty, "it'd seem the inn has no more rooms; also that every room in the village has already been let."
"Is that so?" said Dunstan, unsurprised.
"That it is," said the gentleman in the top hat. "And what I was wondering was, would you know of a house that might have a room?"
Dunstan shrugged. "All the rooms have gone by now," he said. "I remember that when I was a boy of nine, my mother and my father sent me to sleep out in the rafters of the cow byre for a week, and let my room to a lady from the Orient, and her family and servants. She left me a kite, as a thank you, and I flew it from the meadow until one day it snapped its string and flew away into the sky."
"Where do you live now?" asked the gentleman in the top hat.
"I have a cottage on the edge of my father's land," Dunstan replied. "It was our shepherd's cottage, until he died, two years ago last lammas-tide, and my parents gave it to me."
"Take me to it," said the gentleman in the hat, and it did not occur to Dunstan to refuse him.
The spring moon was high and bright, and the night was clear. They walked down from the village to the forest beneath it, and they walked the whole way past the Thorn family farm (where the gentleman in the top hat was startled by a cow, sleeping in the meadow, which snorted as it dreamed) until they reached Dunstan's cottage.
It had one room and a fireplace. The stranger nodded. "I like this well enough," he said. "Come, Dunstan Thorn, I'll rent it from you for the next three days."
"What'll you give me for it?"
"A golden sovereign, a silver sixpence, a copper penny, and a fresh shiny farthing," said the man.
Now a golden sovereign for two nights was more than a fair rent, in the days when a farm-worker might hope to make fifteen pounds in a good year. Still, Dunstan hesitated. "If you're here for the market," he told the tall man, "then it's miracles and wonders you'll be trading."
The tall man nodded. "So, it would be miracles and wonders that you would be after, is it?" He looked around Dunstan's one-room cottage again. It began to rain then, a gentle pattering on the thatch above them.
"Oh, very well," said the tall gentleman, a trifle testily, "a miracle, a wonder. Tomorrow, you shall attain your Heart's Desire. Now, here is your money," and he took it from Dunstan's ear, with one easy gesture. Dunstan touched it to the iron nail on the cottage door, checking for faerie gold, then he bowed low to the gentleman, and walked off into the rain. He tied the money up in his handkerchief.
Dunstan walked to the cow byre in the pelting rain. He climbed into the hayloft and was soon asleep.
He was aware, in the night, of thunder and of lightning, although he did not wake; and then in the small hours of the morning he was woken by someone treading, awkwardly, on his feet.
"Sorry," said a voice. "That is to say, "scuse me."
"Who's that? Who's there?" said Dunstan.
"Just me," said the voice. "I'm here for the market. I was sleeping in a hollow tree for the night, but the lightnin" toppled it, cracked it like an egg it did and smashed it like a twig, and the rain got down my neck, and it threatened to get into my baggage, and there's things in there must be kept dry as dust, and I'd kept it safe as houses on all my travelings here, though it was wet as..."
"Water?" suggested Dunstan.
"Ever-so," continued the voice in the darkness. "So I was wonderin'," it continued, "if you'd mind me stayin" here under your roof as I'm not very big, and I'd not disturb you or nothing."
"Just don't tread on me," sighed Dunstan. It was then that a flash of lightning illuminated the byre, and in the light, Dunstan saw something small and hairy in the corner, wearing a large floppy hat. And then, darkness.
"I hope I'm not disturbin" you," said the voice, which certainly sounded rather hairy, now Dunstan thought about it. "You aren't," said Dunstan, who was very tired. "That's good," said the hairy voice, "because I wouldn't want to disturb you."
"Please," begged Dunstan, "let me sleep. Please."
There was a snuffling noise, which was replaced by a gentle snoring.
Dunstan rolled over in the hay. The person, whoever, whatever it was, farted, scratched itself, and began to snore once more.
Dunstan listened to the rain on the byre roof, and thought about Daisy Hempstock, and in his thoughts they were walking together, and six steps behind them walked a tall man with a top hat and a small, furry creature whose face Dunstan could not see. They were off to see his Heart's Desire...
There was bright sunlight on his face, and the cow byre was empty. He washed his face, and walked up to the farmhouse.
He put on his very best jacket, and his very best shirt, and his very best britches. He scraped the mud from his boots with his pocketknife. Then he walked into the farm kitchen, and kissed his mother on the cheek, and helped himself to a cottage loaf and a large pat of fresh-churned butter.
And then, with his money tied up in his fine Sunday cambric handkerchief, he walked up to the village of Wall and bade good morning to the guards on the gate.
Through the gap in the wall he could see colored tents being raised, stalls being erected, colored flags, and people walking back and forth.
"We're not to let anyone through until midday," said the guard.
Dunstan shrugged, and went to the pub, where he pondered what he would buy with his savings (the shiny half-crown he had saved, and the lucky sixpence, with a hole drilled through it, on a leather thong around his neck) and with the additional pocket handkerchief filled with coins. He had, for the moment, quite forgotten there had been anything else promised the night before. At the stroke of midday Dunstan strode up to the wall and, nervously, as if he were breaking the greatest of taboos, he walked through beside, as he realized, the gentleman in the black silk top hat, who nodded to him.
"Ah. My landlord. And how are you today, sir?"
"Very well," said Dunstan.
"Walk with me," said the tall man. "Let us walk together."
They walked across the meadow, toward the tents.
"Have you been here before?" asked the tall man.
"I went to the last market, nine years ago. I was only a boy," admitted Dunstan.
"Well," said his tenant, "remember to be polite, and take no gifts. Remember that you're a guest. And now, I shall give you the last part of the rent that I owe you. For I swore an oath. And my gifts last a long time. You and your firstborn child and his or her firstborn child... It's a gift that will last as long as I live."
"And what would that be, sir?"
"Your Heart's Desire, remember," said the gentleman in the top hat. "Your Heart's Desire."
Dunstan bowed, and they walked on toward the fair.
"Eyes, eyes! New eyes for old!" shouted a tiny woman in front of a table covered with bottles and jars filled with eyes of every kind and color.
"Instruments of music from a hundred lands!"
"Penny whistles! Tuppenny hums! Threepenny choral anthems!"
"Try your luck! Step right up! Answer a simple riddle and win a wind-flower!"
"Everlasting lavender! Bluebell cloth!"
"Bottled dreams, a shilling a bottle!"
"Coats of night! Coats of twilight! Coats of dusk!"
"Swords of fortune! Wands of power! Rings of eternity! Cards of grace! Roll-up, roll-up, step this way!"
"Salves and ointments, philtres and nostrums!" Dunstan paused in front of a stall covered with tiny crystal ornaments; he examined the miniature animals, pondering getting one for Daisy Hempstock. He picked up a crystal cat, no bigger than his thumb. Sagely it blinked at him, and he dropped it, shocked; it righted itself in midair and, like a real cat, fell on its four paws. Then it stalked over to the corner of the stall and began to wash itself.
Dunstan walked on, through the thronged market. It was bustling with people; all the strangers who had come to Wall in the previous weeks were there, and many of the inhabitants of the town of Wall as well. Mr. Bromios had set up a wine-tent and was selling wines and pasties to the village folk, who were often tempted by the foods being sold by the folk from Beyond the Wall but had been told by their grandparents, who had got it from their grandparents, that it was deeply, utterly wrong to eat fairy food, to eat fairy fruit, to drink fairy water and sip fairy wine.
For every nine years, the folk from Beyond the Wall and over the hill set up their stalls, and for a day and a night the meadow played host to the Faerie Market; and there was, for one day and one night in nine years, commerce between the nations.
There were wonders for sale, and marvels, and miracles; there were things undreamed-of and objects unimagined (what need, Dunstan wondered, could someone have of the storm-filled eggshells?). He jingled his money in his pocket handkerchief, and looked for something small and inexpensive with which to amuse Daisy.
He heard a gentle chiming in the air, above the hubbub of the market; and this he walked toward.
He passed a stall in which five huge men were dancing to the music of a lugubrious hurdy-gurdy being played by a mournful-looking black bear; he passed a stall where a balding man in a brightly colored kimono was smashing china plates and tossing them into a burning bowl from which colored smoke was pouring, all the while calling out to the passersby.
The chinkling chiming grew louder.
Reaching the stall from which the sound was emanating, he saw that it was deserted. It was festooned with flowers: bluebells and foxgloves and harebells and daffodils, but also with violets and lilies, with tiny crimson dog-roses, pale snowdrops, blue forget-me-nots and a profusion of other flowers Dunstan could not name. Each flower was made of glass or crystal, spun or carved, he could not tell: they counterfeited life perfectly. And they chimed and jingled like distant glass bells.
"Hello?" called Dunstan.
"Good morrow to you, on this Market Day," said the stall holder, clambering down from the painted caravan parked behind the stall, and she smiled widely at him with white teeth in a dusky face. She was one of the folk from Beyond the Wall, he could tell at once from her eyes, and her ears which were visible beneath her curly black hair. Her eyes were a deep violet, while her ears were the ears of a cat, perhaps, gently curved, and dusted with a fine, dark fur. She was quite beautiful.
Dunstan picked up a flower from the stall. "It's very lovely," he said. It was a violet, and it chinkled and sang as he held it, making a noise similar to that produced by wetting a finger and rubbing it, gently, around a wineglass. "How much is it?"
She shrugged, and a delightful shrug it was.
"The cost is never discussed at the outset," she told him. "It might be a great deal more than you are prepared to pay; and then you would leave, and we would both be the poorer for it. Let us discuss the merchandise in a more general way."
Dunstan paused. It was then that the gentleman with the black silk top hat passed by the stall. "There," murmured Dunston's lodger. "My debt to you is settled, and my rent is paid in full."
Dunstan shook his head, as if to clear it of a dream, and turned back to the young lady. "So where do these flowers come from?" he asked.
She smiled knowingly. "On the side of Mount Calamon a grove of glass flowers grows. The journey there is perilous, and the journey back is more so."
"And of what purpose are they?" asked Dunstan.
"The use and function of these flowers is chiefly decorative and recreational; they bring pleasure; they can be given to a loved one as a token of admiration and affection, and the sound they make is pleasing to the ear. Also, they catch the light most delightfully." She held a bluebell up to the light; and Dunstan could not but observe that the color of sunlight glittering through the purple crystal was inferior in both hue and shade to that of her eyes.
"I see," said Dunstan.
"They are also used in certain spells and cantrips. If sir is a magician...?"
Dunstan shook his head. There was, he noticed, something remarkable about the young lady.
"Ah. Even so, they are delightful things," she said, and smiled again.
The remarkable thing was a thin silver chain that ran from the young lady's wrist, down to her ankle and into the painted caravan behind her.
Dunstan remarked upon it.
"The chain? It binds me to the stall. I am the personal slave of the witch-woman who owns the stall. She caught me many years ago—as I played by the waterfalls in my father's lands, high in the mountains—luring me on and on in the form of a pretty frog always but a moment out of my reach, until I had left my father's lands, unwittingly, whereupon she resumed her true shape and popped me into a sack."
"And you are her slave forever?"
"Not forever," and at that the faerie girl smiled. "I gain my freedom on the day the moon loses her daughter, if that occurs in a week when two Mondays come together. I await it with patience. And in the meantime I do as I am bid, and also I dream. Will you buy a flower from me now, young master?"
"My name is Dunstan."
"And an honest name it is, too," she said with a teasing grin. "Where are your pincers, Master Dunstan? Will you catch the devil by the nose?"
"And what is your name?" asked Dunstan, blushing a deep red.
"I no longer have a name. I am a slave, and the name I had was taken from me. I answer to "hey, you!" or to "girl!" or to "foolish slattern!" or to many another imprecation."
Dunstan noticed how the silken fabric of her robe pressed itself against her body; he was aware of elegant curves, and of her violet eyes upon him, and he swallowed.
Dunstan put his hand in his pocket and pulled out his kerchief. He could no longer look at the woman. He tumbled out his money onto the counter. "Take enough for this," he said, picking a pure white snowdrop from the table.
"We do not take money at this stall." She pushed the coins back toward him.
"No? What will you take?" For by now he was quite agitated, and his only mission was to obtain a flower for... for Daisy, Daisy Hempstock... to obtain his flower and to depart, for, truth to tell, the young lady was making him exceedingly uncomfortable.
"I could take the color of your hair," she said, "or all of your memories before you were three years of age. I could take the hearing from your left ear—not all of it, just enough that you'd not enjoy music or appreciate the running of a river or the soughing of the wind."
Dunstan shook his head.
"Or a kiss from you. One kiss, here on my cheek."
"That I'll pay with goodwill!" said Dunstan, and with that he leaned across the stall, amid the twinkling jingling of the crystal flowers, and planted a chaste kiss on her soft cheek. He smelled the scent of her then, intoxicating, magical; it filled the front of his head and his chest and his mind.
"There, now," she said, and she passed him his snowdrop. He took it with hands that suddenly seemed to him to be huge and clumsy and not at all small and in every way perfect like the hands of the faerie girl. "And I'll see you back here tonight, Dunstan Thorn, when the moon goes down. Come here and hoot like a little owl. Can you do that?"
He nodded, and stumbled away from her; he did not need to ask how she knew his surname; she had taken it from him along with certain other things, such as his heart, when he had kissed her.
The snowdrop chimed in his hand.
"Why, Dunstan Thorn," said Daisy Hempstock, when he encountered her by Mr. Bromios's tent, sitting with her family and Dunstan's parents, eating great brown sausages and drinking porter, "whatever is the matter?"
"I brought you a gift," Dunstan muttered, and thrust the chiming snowdrop toward her; it glinted in the afternoon sunlight. She took it from him, puzzled, with fingers still shiny with sausage grease. Impulsively, Dunstan leaned forward and, in front of her mother and father and sister, in front of Bridget Comfrey and Mr. Bromios and all, he kissed her on her fair cheek.
The outcry was predictable; but Mr. Hempstock, who had not lived on the border of Faerie and the Lands Beyond for fifty-seven years for nothing, exclaimed, "Hush, now! Look at his eyes. Can't you see the poor boy's dazed in his wits, dazed and confused? He's bespelled, I'll wager you. Hoy! Tommy Forester! Come here; take young Dunstan Thorn back to the village and keep an eye on him; let him sleep if he wishes, or talk if it's talk he needs..."
Tommy walked Dunstan out of the market and back to the village of Wall.
"There, now, Daisy," said her mother, stroking her hair, "he's just a little elf-touched, that's all. No need to take on so." And she pulled a lace kerchief from her capacious bosom, and dabbed at her daughter's cheeks, which had suddenly become covered with tears.
Daisy looked up at her, and seized the handkerchief, and blew her nose upon it, and sniffled into it. And Mrs. Hempstock observed, with a certain perplexity, that Daisy appeared to be smiling through her tears.
"But Mother, Dunstan kissed me," said Daisy Hempstock, and she fixed the crystal snowdrop at the front of her bonnet, where it chimed and glistened.
After some time spent searching for it, Mr. Hempstock and Dunstan's father found the stall where the crystal flowers were being sold; but the stall was being run by an elderly woman, accompanied by an exotic and very beautiful bird, which was chained to its perch by a thin silver chain. There was no reasoning with the old woman, for when they tried to question her about what had happened to Dunstan, all her talk was of one of the prizes of her collection, given away by a good-for-nothing, and that was what came of ingratitude, and of these sad modern times, and of today's servants.
In the empty village (for who'd be in the village during the Faerie Market?), Dunstan was taken into the Seventh Magpie, and given a wooden settle on which to sit. He rested his forehead on his hand, and stared off into no-one-knows-where and, from time to time, sighed huge sighs, like the wind.
Tommy Forester tried to talk to him, saying "Now then, old fellow, buck up, that's the ticket, let's see a smile, eh? How's about something to eat then? Or something to drink? No? My word, you do look queer, Dunstan, old fellow..." but gaining no response of any kind, Tommy began to pine after the market himself, where even now (he rubbed his tender jaw) the lovely Bridget was undoubtedly being escorted by some huge and imposing gentleman with exotic clothes and a little monkey that chattered. And, having assured himself that his friend would be safe in the empty inn, Tommy walked back through the village to the gap in the wall.
As Tommy reentered the market, he observed that the place was a hubbub: a wild place of puppet shows, of jugglers and dancing animals, of horses for auction and all kinds of things for sale or barter.
Later, at twilight, a different kind of people came out. There was a crier, who cried news as a modern newspaper prints headlines—"The Master of Stormhold Suffers a Mysterious Malady!", "The Hill of Fire Has Moved to the Fastness of Dene!", "The Squire of Garamond's Only Heir is Transformed into a Grunting Pig-wiggin!"—and would for a coin expand further on these stories.
The sun set, and a huge spring moon appeared, high already in the heavens. A chill breeze blew. Now the traders retreated into their tents, and the visitors to the market found themselves whispered at, invited to partake of numerous wonders, each available for a price.
And as the moon came low on the horizon Dunstan Thorn walked quietly down the cobbled streets of the village of Wall. He passed many a merry-maker—visitor or foreigner—although few enough of them observed him as he walked.
He slipped through the gap in the wall—thick it was, the wall—and Dunstan found himself wondering, as his father had before him, what would happen were he to walk along the top of it.
Through the gap and into the meadow, and that night, for the first time in his life, Dunstan entertained thoughts of continuing on through the meadow, of crossing the stream and vanishing into the trees on its far side. He entertained these thoughts awkwardly, as a man entertains unexpected guests. Then, as he reached his objective, he pushed these thoughts away, as a man apologizes to his guests, and leaves them, muttering something about a prior engagement.
The moon was setting.
Dunstan raised his hands to his mouth and hooted. There was no response; the sky above was a deep color—blue perhaps, or purple, not black—sprinkled with more stars than the mind could hold.
He hooted once more.
"That," she said severely in his ear, "is nothing like a little owl. A snowy owl it could be, a barn owl, even. If my ears were stopped up with twigs perhaps I'd imagine it an eagle-owl. But it's not a little owl."
Dunstan shrugged, and grinned, a little foolishly. The faerie woman sat down beside him. She intoxicated him: he was breathing her, sensing her through the pores of his skin. She leaned close to him.
"Do you think you are under a spell, pretty Dunstan?"
"I do not know."
She laughed, and the sound was a clear rill bubbling over rocks and stones.
"You are under no spell, pretty boy, pretty boy." She lay back in the grass and stared up at the sky. "Your stars," she asked. "What are they like?" Dunstan lay beside her in the cool grass, and stared up at the night sky. There was certainly something odd about the stars: perhaps there was more color in them, for they glittered like tiny gems; perhaps there was something about the number of tiny stars, the constellations; something was strange and wonderful about the stars. But then...
They lay back to back, staring up at the sky.
"What do you want from life?" asked the faerie lass.
"I don't know," he admitted. "You, I think."
"I want my freedom," she said.
Dunstan reached down to the silver chain that ran from her wrist to her ankle, and off away in the grass. He tugged on it. It was stronger than it looked.
"It was fashioned of cat's breath and fish-scales and moonlight mixed in with the silver," she told him. "Unbreakable until the terms of the spell are concluded."
"Oh." He moved back onto the grass.
"I should not mind it, for it is a long, long chain; but the knowledge of it irks me, and I miss my father's land. And the witch-woman is not the best of mistresses..."
And she was quiet. Dunstan leaned over toward her, reached a hand up to her face, felt something wet and hot splash against his hand.
"Why, you are crying."
She said nothing. Dunstan pulled her toward him, wiping ineffectually at her face with his big hand; and then he leaned into her sobbing face and, tentatively, uncertain of whether or not he was doing the correct thing given the circumstances, he kissed her, full upon her burning lips.
There was a moment of hesitation, and then her mouth opened against his, and her tongue slid into his mouth, and he was, under the strange stars, utterly, irrevocably, lost.
He had kissed before, with the girls of the village, but he had gone no further.
His hand felt her small breasts through the silk of her dress, touched the hard nubs of her nipples. She clung to him, hard, as if she were drowning, fumbling with his shirt, with his britches.
She was so small; he was scared he would hurt her and break her. He did not. She wriggled and writhed beneath him, gasping and kicking, and guiding him with her hand.
She placed a hundred burning kisses on his face and chest, and then she was above him, straddling him, gasping and laughing, sweating and slippery as a minnow, and he was arching and pushing and exulting, his head full of her and only her, and had he known her name he would have called it out aloud.
At the end, he would have pulled out, but she held him inside her, wrapped her legs around him, pushed against him so hard that he felt that the two of them occupied the same place in the universe. As if, for one powerful, engulfing moment, they were the same person, giving and receiving, as the stars faded into the predawn sky.
They lay together, side by side.
The faerie woman adjusted her silk robe and was once more decorously covered. Dunstan pulled his britches back up, with regret. He squeezed her small hand in his.
The sweat dried on his skin, and he felt chilled and lonely.
He could see her now, as the sky lightened into a dawn grey. Around them animals were stirring: horses stamped, birds began, waking, to sing the dawn in, and here and there across the market meadow, those in the tents were beginning to rise and move. "Now, get along with you," she said softly, and looked at him, half regretfully, with eyes as violet as the cirrus clouds, high in the dawn sky. And she kissed him, gently, on the mouth, with lips that tasted of crushed blackberries, then she stood up and walked back into the gypsy caravan behind the stall.
Dazed and alone, Dunstan walked through the market, feeling a great deal older than his eighteen years.
He returned to the cow byre, took off his boots, and slept until he woke, when the sun was high in the sky.
On the following day the market finished, although Dunstan did not return to it, and the foreigners left the village and life in Wall returned to normal, which was perhaps slightly less normal than life in most villages (particularly when the wind was in the wrong direction) but was, all things considered, normal enough.
Two weeks after the market, Tommy Forester proposed marriage to Bridget Comfrey, and she accepted. And the week after that, Mrs. Hempstock came to visit Mrs. Thorn of a morning. They took tea in the parlor.
"It is a blessing about the Forester boy," said Mrs. Hempstock.
"That it is," said Mrs. Thorn. "Have another scone, my dear. I expect your Daisy shall be a bridesmaid."
"I trust she shall," said Mrs. Hempstock, "if she should live so long."
Mrs. Thorn looked up, alarmed. "Why, she is not ill, Mrs. Hempstock? Say it is not so."
"She does not eat, Mrs. Thorn. She wastes away. She drinks a little water from time to time."
"Oh, my!"
Mrs. Hempstock went on, "Last night I finally discovered the cause. It is your Dunstan."
"Dunstan? He has not..." Mrs. Thorn raised one hand to her mouth.
"Oh, no," said Mrs. Hempstock, hastily shaking her head and pursing her lips, "nothing like that. He has ignored her. She has not seen him for days and days. She has taken it into her head that he no longer cares for her, and all she does is hold the snowdrop he gave her, and she sobs."
Mrs. Thorn measured out more tea from the jar into the pot, added hot water. "Truth to tell," she admitted, "we're a little concerned about Dunstan, Thorney and me. He's been mooning. That's the only word for it. His work isn't getting done. Thorney was saying that he needs some settling down, that boy. If he'd but settle down, why Thorney was saying he'd settle all the Westward Meadows on the lad."
Mrs. Hempstock nodded slowly. "Hempstock would certainly not be averse to seeing our Daisy happy. Certain he'd settle a flock of our sheep on the girl." The Hempstocks" sheep were notoriously the finest for miles around: shaggy-coated and intelligent (for sheep), with curling horns and sharp hooves. Mrs. Hempstock and Mrs. Thorn sipped their tea. And so it was settled.
Dunstan Thorn was married in June to Daisy Hempstock. And if the groom seemed a little distracted, well, the bride was as glowing and lovely as ever any bride has been.
Behind them, their fathers discussed the plans for the farmhouse they would build for the newlyweds in the western meadow. Their mothers agreed how lovely Daisy looked, and what a pity it was that Dunstan had stopped Daisy from wearing the snowdrop he had bought for her at the market at the end of April, in her wedding dress.
And it is there we will leave them, in a falling flurry of rose petals, scarlet and yellow and pink and white.
Or almost.
They lived in Dunstan's cottage, while their little farmhouse was erected, and they were certainly happy enough; and the day-to-day business of raising sheep, and herding sheep, and shearing them, and nursing them, slowly took the faraway look from Dunstan's eyes.
First autumn came, then winter. It was at the end of February, in lambing season, when the world was cold, and a bitter wind howled down the moors and through the leafless forest, when icy rains fell from the leaden skies in continual drizzling showers, at six in the evening, after the sun had set and the sky was dark, that a wicker basket was pushed through the space in the wall. The guards, on each side of the gap, at first did not notice the basket. They were facing the wrong way, after all, and it was dark and wet, and they were busy stamping the ground and staring gloomily and longingly at the lights of the village.
And then a high, keening wail began.
It was then that they looked down, and saw the basket at their feet. There was a bundle in the basket: a bundle of oiled silk and woolen blankets, from the top of which protruded a red, bawling face, with screwed-up little eyes, a mouth, open and vocal, and hungry.
And there was, attached to the baby's blanket with a silver pin, a scrap of parchment, upon which was written in an elegant, if slightly archaic, handwriting the following words:
Tristran Thorn
|
Years passed.
The next Faerie Market was held on schedule on the other side of the wall. Young Tristran Thorn, eight years old, did not attend, finding himself packed off to stay with extremely distant relations in a village a day's ride away.
His little sister, Louisa, six months his junior, was, however, allowed to go to the market, and this was a source of great ranklement to the boy, as was the fact that Louisa brought back from the market a glass globe, filled with speckles of light that glittered and flashed in the twilight, and which cast a warm and gentle radiance into the darkness of their bedroom in the farmhouse, while all Tristran brought back from his relatives was a nasty case of the measles.
Shortly afterward, the farm cat had three kittens: two black-and-white ones like herself, and a tiny kitten with a dusty blue sheen to her coat, and eyes that changed color depending on her mood, from green and gold to salmon, scarlet and vermilion.
This kitten was given to Tristran to make up for missing the market. She grew slowly, the blue cat, and she was the sweetest cat in the world, until, one evening, she began to prowl the house impatiently, to mrowll and to flash her eyes, which were the purple-red of foxgloves; and when Tristran's father came back from a day in the fields, the cat yowled, bolted through the door and was off into the dusk.
The guards on the wall were for people, not cats; and Tristran, who was twelve by this time, never saw the blue cat again. He was inconsolable for a while. His father came into his bedroom one night and sat at the end of his bed, saying gruffly, "She'll be happier, over the wall. With her own kind. Don't you fret now, lad."
His mother said nothing to him about the matter, as she said little to him on any subject. Sometimes Tristran would look up to see his mother staring at him intently, as if she were trying to tease some secret from his face.
Louisa, his sister, would needle him about this as they walked to the village school in the morning, as she would goad him about so many other things: the shape of his ears, for example (the right ear was flat against his head, and almost pointed; the left one was not), and about the foolish things he said: once he told her that the tiny clouds, fluffy and white, that clustered across the horizon at sunset as they walked home from school, were sheep. It was no matter that he later claimed that he had meant simply that they reminded him of sheep, or that there was something fluffy and sheeplike about them. Louisa laughed and teased and goaded like a goblin; and what was worse, she told the other children, and incited them to "baa" quietly whenever Tristran walked past. Louisa was a born inciter, and danced circles around her brother.
The village school was a fine school, and under the tutelage of Mrs. Cherry the schoolmistress Tristran Thorn learned all about fractions, and longitude and latitude; he could ask in French for the pen of the gardener's aunt, indeed for the pen of his own aunt; he learned the kings and queens of England from William the Conqueror, 1066, to Victoria, 1837. He learned his reading, and had a fair copperplate hand. Travelers to the village were rare, but occasionally a peddler would come through the village, selling "penny dreadful" accounts of grisly murders, fateful encounters, dire doings and remarkable escapes. Most peddlers sold song sheets, two for a penny, and families would buy them and gather about their pianos to sing songs such as "Cherry Ripe" and "In My Father's Garden."
So the days went by, and the weeks went by, and the years went by also. At age fourteen, by a process of osmosis, of dirty jokes, whispered secrets and filthy ballads, Tristran learned of sex. When he was fifteen he hurt his arm falling from the apple tree outside Mr. Thomas Forester's house: more specifically, from the apple tree outside Miss Victoria Forester's bedroom window. To Tristran's regret, he had caught no more than a pink and tantalizing glimpse of Victoria, who was his sister's age and, without any doubt, the most beautiful girl for a hundred miles around.
By the time Victoria was seventeen, and Tristran also, she was in all probability, he was certain, the most beautiful girl in the British Isles. Tristran would have insisted on the most beautiful girl in the entire British Empire, if not the world, and boxed you, or been prepared to, had you argued with him. You would have been hard-pressed to find anyone in Wall who would have argued with him, though; she turned many heads and, in all probability, broke many hearts.
A description: She had her mother's grey eyes and heart-shaped face, her father's curling chestnut hair. Her lips were red and perfectly shaped, her cheeks blushed prettily when she spoke. She was pale, and utterly delightful. When she was sixteen she had fought vigorously with her mother, for Victoria had taken it into her head that she would work in the Seventh Magpie as a pot-maid. "I have spoken to Mister Bromios about this," she told her mother, "and he has no objection."
"What Mister Bromios thinks or does not think," replied her mother, the former Bridget Comfrey "is neither here nor there. That is a most improper occupation for a young lady."
The village of Wall watched the battle of wills with fascination, wondering what the outcome would be, for no one crossed Bridget Forester: she had a tongue that could, the villagers said, blister the paint from a barn door and tear the bark from an oak. There was no one in the village who would have wanted to get on the wrong side of Bridget Forester, and they did say that the wall would be more likely to walk than for Bridget Forester to change her mind.
Victoria Forester, however, was used to having her own way, and, if all else failed, or even if it did not, she would appeal to her father, and he would accede to her demands. But here even Victoria was surprised, for her father agreed with her mother, saying that working in the bar at the Seventh Magpie was something that a well-brought-up young lady would not do. And Thomas Forester set his chin and there the matter ended.
Every boy in the village was in love with Victoria Forester. And many a sedate gentleman, quietly married with grey in his beard, would stare at her as she walked down the street, becoming, for a few moments, a boy once more, in the spring of his years with a spring in his step.
"They say that Mister Monday himself is counted amongst your admirers," said Louisa Thorn to Victoria Forester one afternoon in May, in the apple orchard.
Five girls sat beside, and upon the branches of, the oldest apple tree in the orchard, its huge trunk making a fine seat and support; and whenever the May breeze blew, the pink blossoms tumbled down like snow, coming to rest in their hair and on their skirts. The afternoon sunlight dappled green and silver and gold through the leaves in the apple orchard.
"Mister Monday," said Victoria Forester with disdain, "is five and forty years of age if he is a day." She made a face to indicate just how old five-and-forty is, when you happen to be seventeen.
"Anyway," said Cecilia Hempstock, Louisa's cousin, "he has already been married. I would not wish to marry someone who had already been married. It would be," she opined, "like having someone else break in one's own pony."
"Personally I would imagine that to be the sole advantage of marrying a widower," said Amelia Robinson. "That someone else would have removed the rough edges; broken him in, if you will. Also, I would imagine that by that age his lusts would long since have been sated, and abated, which would free one from a number of indignities."
A flurry of hastily suppressed giggles amid the apple blossom.
"Still," said Lucy Pippin hesitantly, "it would be nice to live in the big house, and to have a coach and four, and to be able to travel to London for the season, and to Bath to take the waters, or to Brighton for the sea-bathing, even if Mister Monday is five and forty."
The other girls shrieked, and flung handfuls of apple blossom at her, and none shrieked more loudly, or flung more blossom, than Victoria Forester.
Tristran Thorn, at the age of seventeen, and only six months older than Victoria, was half the way between a boy and a man, and was equally uncomfortable in either role; he seemed to be composed chiefly of elbows and Adam's apples. His hair was the brown of sodden straw, and it stuck out at awkward, seventeen-year-old angles, wet and comb it howsoever much he tried.
He was painfully shy, which, as is often the manner of the painfully shy, he overcompensated for by being too loud at the wrong times. Most days Tristran was content—or as content as a seventeen-year-old youth with his world ahead of him can ever be—and when he daydreamed in the fields, or at the tall desk at the back of Monday and Brown's, the village shop, he fancied himself riding the train all the way to London or to Liverpool, of taking a steamship across the grey Atlantic to America, and making his fortune there among the savages in the new lands.
But there were times when the wind blew from beyond the wall, bringing with it the smell of mint and thyme and red-currants, and at those times there were strange colors seen in the flames in the fireplaces of the village. When that wind blew, the simplest of devices—from lucifer matches to lantern-slides—would no longer function.
And, at those times, Tristran Thorn's daydreams were strange, guilty fantasies, muddled and odd, of journeys through forests to rescue princesses from palaces, dreams of knights and trolls and mermaids. And when these moods came upon him, he would slip out of the house, and lie upon the grass, and stare up at the stars.
Few of us now have seen the stars as folk saw them then—our cities and towns cast too much light into the night—but, from the village of Wall, the stars were laid out like worlds or like ideas, uncountable as the trees in a forest or the leaves on a tree. Tristan would stare into the darkness of the sky until he thought of nothing at all, and then he would go back to his bed, and sleep like a dead man.
He was a gangling creature of potential, a barrel of dynamite waiting for someone or something to light his fuse; but no one did, so on weekends and in the evenings he helped his father on the farm, and during the day he worked for Mr. Brown, at Monday and Brown's, as a clerk.
Monday and Brown's was the village shop. While they kept a number of necessaries in stock, much of their business was conducted by means of lists: villagers would give Mr. Brown a list of what they needed, from potted meats to sheep-dip, from fish-knives to chimney-tiles; a clerk at Monday and Brown's would compile a master list of everything requested, and then Mr. Monday would take the master list, and a dray pulled by two huge shire horses, and he would set off for the nearest county town, and return in a handful of days with the dray loaded high with goods of all description.
It was a cold, blustery day in late October, of the kind that always seems about to rain but never actually does, and it was late in the afternoon. Victoria Forester walked into Monday and Brown's with a list, written in her mother's precise handwriting, and she rang the small bell on the counter for service.
She looked slightly disappointed to see Tristran Thorn appear from the back room. "Good day, Miss Forester."
She smiled a tight smile, and handed Tristran her list.
It read as follows:
" lb of sago
10 cans of sardines
1 bottle of mushroom ketchup
5 lb of rice
1 tin of golden syrup
2 lb of currants
a bottle of cochineal
1 lb of barley sugar
1 shilling box of Rowntrees Elect Cocoa
3d tin of Oakey's knife polish
6d of Brunswick black
1 packet of Swinbome's Isinglass
1 bottle of furniture cream
1 basting ladle
a ninepenny gravy strainer
a set of kitchen steps
Tristran read it to himself, looking for something about which he could begin to talk: a conversational gambit of some kind—any kind.
He heard his voice saying, "You'll be having rice pudding, then, I would imagine, Miss Forester." As soon as he said it, he knew it had been the wrong thing to say. Victoria pursed her perfect lips, and blinked her grey eyes, and said, "Yes, Tristran. We shall be having rice pudding."
And then she smiled at him, and said, "Mother says that rice pudding in sufficient quantity will help to stave off chills and colds and other autumnal ailments."
"My mother," Tristran confessed, "has always sworn by tapioca pudding."
He put the list on a spike. "We can deliver most of the provisions tomorrow morning, and the rest of it will come back with Mister Monday, early next week."
There was a gust of wind, then, so strong that it rattled the windows of the village, and whirled and spun the weathercocks until they could not tell north from west or south from east.
The fire that was burning in the grate of Monday and Brown's belched and twisted in a flurry of greens and scarlets, topped with a fizz of silver twinkles, of the kind one can make for oneself at the parlor fire with a handful of tossed iron filings.
The wind blew from Faerie and the East, and Tristran Thorn suddenly found inside himself a certain amount of courage he had not suspected that he had possessed. "You know, Miss Forester, I get off in a few minutes," he said. "Perhaps I could walk you a little way home. It's not much out of my way." And he waited, his heart in his mouth, while Victoria Forester's grey eyes stared at him, amused. After what seemed like a hundred years she said, "Certainly."
Tristran hurried into the parlor, and informed Mr. Brown that he would be off now. And Mr. Brown grunted in a not entirely ill-natured way, and told Tristran that when he was start younger he'd not only had to stay late each night and shut up the shop, but that he had also had to sleep on the floor beneath the counter with only his coat for a pillow.
Tristran agreed that he was indeed a lucky young man, and he wished Mr. Brown a good night, then he took his coat from the coat-stand and his new bowler hat from the hat-stand, and stepped out onto the cobblestones, where Victoria Forester waited for him.
The autumn twilight turned into deep and early night as they walked. Tristran could smell the distant winter on the air—a mixture of night-mist and crisp darkness and the tang of fallen leaves.
They took a winding lane up toward the Forester farm, and the crescent moon hung white in the sky and the stars burned in the darkness above them.
"Victoria," said Tristran, after a while.
"Yes, Tristran," said Victoria, who had been preoccupied for much of the walk.
"Would you think it forward of me to kiss you?" asked Tristran.
"Yes," said Victoria bluntly and coldly. "Very forward."
"Ah," said Tristran.
They walked up Dyties Hill, not speaking; at the top of the hill they turned, and saw beneath them the village of Wall, all gleaming candles and lamps glimmering through windows, warm yellow lights that beckoned and invited; and above them the lights of the myriad stars, which glittered and twinkled and blazed, chilly and distant and more numerous than the mind could encompass.
Tristran reached down his hand and took Victoria's small hand in his. She did not pull away.
"Did you see that?" asked Victoria, who was gazing out over the landscape.
"I saw nothing," said Tristran. "I was looking at you."
Victoria smiled in the moonlight.
"You are the most lovely woman in all the world," said Tristran, from the bottom of his heart.
"Get along with you," said Victoria, but she said it gently.
"What did you see?" asked Tristran.
"A falling star," said Victoria. "I believe they are not at all uncommon at this time of year."
"Vicky," said Tristran. "Will you kiss me?"
"No," she said.
"You kissed me when we were younger. You kissed me beneath the pledge-Oak, on your fifteenth birthday. And you kissed me last May Day, behind your father's cowshed."
"I was another person then," she said. "And I shall not kiss you, Tristran Thorn."
"If you will not kiss me," asked Tristran, "will you marry me?"
There was silence on the hill. Only the rustle of the October wind. Then a tinkling sound: it was the sound of the most beautiful girl in the whole of the British Isles laughing with delight and amusement.
"Marry you?" she repeated, incredulously. "And why ever should I marry you, Tristran Thorn? What could you give me?"
"Give you?" he said. "I would go to India for you, Victoria Forester, and bring you the tusks of elephants, and pearls as big as your thumb, and rubies the size of wren's eggs.
"I would go to Africa, and bring you diamonds the size of cricket balls. I would find the source of the Nile, and name it after you.
"I would go to America—all the way to San Francisco, to the gold-fields, and I would not come back until I had your weight in gold. Then I would carry it back here, and lay it at your feet.
"I would travel to the distant northlands did you but say the word, and slay the mighty polar bears, and bring you back their hides."
"I think you were doing quite well," said Victoria Forester, "until you got to the bit about slaying polar bears. Be that as it may, little shop-boy and farm-boy, I shall not kiss you; neither shall I marry you."
Tristran's eyes blazed in the moonlight. "I would travel to far Cathay for you, and bring you a huge junk I would capture from the king of the pirates, laden with jade and silk and opium.
"I would go to Australia, at the bottom of the world," said Tristran, "and bring you. Um." He ransacked the penny dreadfuls in his head, trying to remember if any of their heroes had visited Australia. "A kangaroo," he said. "And opals," he added. He was fairly sure about the opals.
Victoria Forester squeezed his hand. "And whatever would I do with a kangaroo?" she asked. "Now, we should be getting along, or my father and mother will be wondering what has kept me, and they will leap to some entirely unjustified conclusions. For I have not kissed you, Tristran Thorn."
"Kiss me," he pleaded. "There is nothing I would not do for your kiss, no mountain I would not scale, no river I would not ford, no desert I would not cross."
He gestured widely, indicating the village of Wall below them, the night sky above them. In the constellation of Orion, low on the Eastern horizon, a star flashed and glittered and fell.
"For a kiss, and the pledge of your hand," said Tristran, grandiloquently, "I would bring you that fallen star."
He shivered. His coat was thin, and it was obvious he would not get his kiss, which he found puzzling. The manly heroes of the penny dreadfuls and shilling novels never had these problems getting kissed.
"Go on, then," said Victoria. "And if you do, I will."
"What?" said Tristran.
"If you bring me that star," said Victoria, "the one that just fell, not another star, then I'll kiss you. Who knows what else I might do. There: now you need not go to Australia, nor to Africa, nor to far Cathay."
"What?" said Tristran.
And Victoria laughed at him, then, and took back her hand, and began to walk down the hill toward her father's farm.
Tristran ran to catch her up. "Do you mean it?" he asked her.
"I mean it as much as you mean all your fancy words of rubies and gold and opium," she replied. "What is an opium?"
"Something in cough mixture," said Tristran. "Like eucalyptus."
"It does not sound particularly romantic," said Victoria Forester. "Anyway, should you not be running off to retrieve my fallen star? It fell to the East, over there." And she laughed again. "Silly shop-boy. It is all you can do to ensure that we have the ingredients for rice pudding."
"And if I brought you the fallen star?" asked Tristran lightly. "What would you give me? A kiss? Your hand in marriage?"
"Anything you desire," said Victoria, amused.
"You swear it?" asked Tristran.
They were walking the last hundred yards now, up to the Foresters" farmhouse. The windows burned with lamplight, yellow and orange.
"Of course," said Victoria, smiling.
The track to the Foresters" farm was bare mud, trodden into mire by the feet of horses and cows and sheep and dogs. Tristran Thorn went down on his knees in the mud, heedless of his coat or his woolen trousers. "Very well," he said.
The wind blew from the east, then.
"I shall leave you here, my lady," said Tristran Thorn. "For I have urgent business, to the East." He stood up, unmindful of the mud and mire clinging to his knees and coat, and he bowed to her, and then he doffed his bowler hat.
Victoria Forester laughed at the skinny shop-boy, laughed long and loud and delightfully, and her tinkling laughter followed him back down the hill, and away.
Tristran Thorn ran all the way home. Brambles snagged at his clothes as he ran and a branch knocked his hat from his head.
He stumbled, breathless and torn, into the kitchen of the house on Westward Meadows.
"Look at the state of you!" said his mother. "Indeed! I never did!"
Tristran merely smiled at her.
"Tristran?" asked his father, who at five and thirty was still middling tall and still freckled, although there were more than a few silvering hairs in his nut-brown curls. "Your mother spoke to you. Did you not hear her?"
"I beg your pardon, Father, Mother," said Tristran, "but I shall be leaving the village tonight. I may be gone for some time."
"Foolishness and silliness!" said Daisy Thorn. "I never heard such nonsense."
But Dunstan Thorn saw the look in his son's eyes. "Let me talk to him," he said to his wife. She looked at him sharply, then she nodded. "Very well," she said. "But who's going to sew up the boy's coat? That's what I would like to know." She bustled out of the kitchen.
The kitchen fire fizzed in silver and glimmered green and violet. "Where are you going?" asked Dunstan.
"East," said his son.
East. His father nodded. There were two easts—east to the next county, through the forest, and East, the other side of the wall. Dunstan Thorn knew without asking to which his son was referring.
"And will you be coming back?" asked his father.
Tristran grinned widely. "Of course," he said.
"Well," said his father. "That's all right, then." He scratched his nose. "Have you given any thought to getting through the wall?"
Tristran shook his head. "I'm sure I can find a way," he said. "If necessary, I'll fight my way past the guards."
His father sniffed. "You'll do no such thing," he said. "How would you like it if it was you was on duty, or me? I'll not see anyone hurt." He scratched the side of his nose once more. "Go and pack a bag, and kiss your mother good-bye, and I'll walk you down to the village."
Tristran packed a bag, and his mother brought him six red, ripe apples and a cottage loaf and a round of white farmhouse cheese, which he placed inside his bag. Mrs. Thorn would not look at Tristran. He kissed her cheek and bade her farewell. Then he walked into the village with his father.
Tristran had stood his first watch on the wall when he was sixteen years old. He had only been given one instruction: That it was the task of the guards to prevent anyone from coming through the gap in the wall from the village, by any means possible. If it was not possible to prevent them, then the guards must raise the village for help.
He wondered as they walked what his father had in mind.
Perhaps the two of them together would overpower the guards. Perhaps his father would create some kind of distraction, and allow him to slip through... perhaps...
By the time they walked through the village and arrived at the gap in the wall, Tristran had imagined every possibility, except the one which occurred.
On wall duty that evening were Harold Crutchbeck and Mr. Bromios. Harold Crutchbeck was a husky young man several years older than Tristran, the miller's son. Mr. Bromios's hair was black, and curled, and his eyes were green, and his smile was white, and he smelled of grapes and of grape juice, of barley and of hops.
Dunstan Thorn walked up to Mr. Bromios, and stood in front of him. He stamped his feet against the evening chill.
"Evening, Mister Bromios. Evening, Harold," said Dunstan.
"Evening, Mister Thorn," said Harold Crutchbeck.
"Good evening, Dunstan," said Mr. Bromios. "I trust you are well."
Dunstan allowed as that he was; and they spoke of the weather, and agreed that it would be bad for the farmers, and that, from the quantity of holly berries and yew berries already apparent, it would be a cold, hard winter.
As he listened to them talking, Tristran was ready to burst with irritation and frustration, but he bit his tongue and said nothing.
Finally, his father said, "Mister Bromios, Harold, I believe you both know my son Tristran?" Tristran raised his bowler hat to them, nervously.
And then his father said something he did not understand.
"I suppose you both know about where he came from," said Dunston Thorn.
Mr. Bromios nodded, without speaking.
Harold Crutchbeck said he had heard tales, although you never should mind the half of what you hear.
"Well, it's true," said Dunstan. "And now it's time for him to go back."
"There's a star..." Tristran began to explain, but his father hushed him to silence.
Mr. Bromios rubbed his chin, and ran a hand through his thatch of black curls. "Very well," he said. He turned and spoke to Harold in a low voice, saying things Tristran could not hear.
His father pressed something cold into his hand.
"Go on with you, boy. Go, and bring back your star, and may God and all His angels go with you."
And Mr. Bromios and Harold Crutchbeck, the guards on the gate, stood aside to let him pass.
Tristran walked through the gap, with the stone wall on each side of him, into the meadow on the other side of the wall.
Turning, he looked back at the three men, framed in the gap, and wondered why they had allowed him through.
Then, his bag swinging in one hand, the object his father had pushed into his hand in the other, Tristran Thorn set off up the gentle hill, toward the woods.
As he walked, the chill of the night grew less, and once in the woods at the top of the hill Tristran was surprised to realize the moon was shining brightly down on him through a gap in the trees. He was surprised because the moon had set an hour before; and doubly surprised, because the moon that had set had been a slim, sharp silver crescent, and the moon that shone down on him now was a huge, golden harvest moon, full, and glowing, and deeply colored.
The cold thing in his hand chimed once: a crystalline tinkling like the bells of a tiny glass cathedral. He opened his hand and held it up to the moonlight.
It was a snowdrop, made all of glass.
A warm wind stroked Tristran's face: it smelled like peppermint, and blackcurrant leaves, and red, ripe plums; and the enormity of what he had done descended on Tristran Thorn. He was walking into Faerie, in search of a fallen star, with no idea how he would find the star, nor how to keep himself safe and whole as he tried. He looked back and fancied that he could see the lights of Wall behind him, wavering and glimmering as if in a heat-haze, but still inviting.
And he knew that if he turned around and went back, no one would think any less of him for it—not his father, nor his mother; and even Victoria Forester would likely as not merely smile at him the next time she saw him, and call him "shop-boy," and add that stars, once fallen, often proved difficult in the finding.
He paused, then.
He thought of Victoria's lips, and her grey eyes, and the sound of her laughter. He straightened his shoulders, placed the crystal snowdrop in the top buttonhole of his coat, now undone. And, too ignorant to be scared, too young to be awed, Tristran Thorn passed beyond the fields we know... and into Faerie.
|
The Stormhold had been carved out of the peak of Mount Huon by the first lord of Stormhold, who reigned at the end of the First Age and into the beginning of the Second. It had been expanded, improved upon, excavated and tunneled into by successive Masters of Stormhold, until the original mountain peak now raked the sky like the ornately carved tusk of some great, grey, granite beast. The Stormhold itself was perched high in the sky, where the thunder clouds gathered before they went down to the lower air, spilling rain and lightning and devastation upon the place beneath.
The eighty-first Lord of Stormhold lay dying in his chamber, which was carved from the highest peak like a hole in a rotten tooth. There is still death in the lands beyond the fields we know.
He summoned his children to his bedside and they came, the living and the dead of them, and they shivered in the cold granite halls. They gathered about his bed and waited respectfully, the living to his right side, the dead on his left.
Four of his sons were dead: Secundus, Quintus, Quartus and Sextus, and they stood unmoving, grey figures, insubstantial and silent.
Three of his sons remained alive: Primus, Tertius and Septimus. They stood, solidly, uncomfortably, on the right of the chamber, shifting from foot to foot, scratching their cheeks and noses, as if they were shamed by the silent repose of their dead brothers. They did not glance across the room toward their dead brothers, acting—as best they could—as if they and their father were the only ones in that cold room, where the windows were huge holes in the granite through which the cold winds blew. And whether this is because they could not see their dead brothers, or because, having murdered them (one apiece, save Septimus, who had killed both Quintus and Sextus, poisoning the former with a dish of spiced eels, and, rejecting artifice for efficiency and gravity, simply pushing Sextus off a precipice one night as they were admiring a lightning storm far below), they chose to ignore them, scared of guilt, or revelation, or ghosts, their father did not know.
Privately, the eighty-first lord had hoped that by the time his end came upon him, six of the seven young lords at Stormhold would be dead, and but one still alive. That one would be the eighty-second Lord of Stormhold and Master of the High Crags; it was, after all, how he had attained his own title several hundred years before.
But the youth of today were a pasty lot, with none of the get-up-and-go, none of the vigor and vim that he remembered from the days when he was young...
Somebody was saying something. He forced himself to concentrate.
"Father," repeated Primus in his deep boom of a voice. "We are all here. What would you do with us?"
The old man stared at him. With a ghastly wheezing he pulled a breath of the thin, chill air into his lungs, and then said, in high, cold tones, like the granite itself, "I am dying. Soon my time will be done, and you will take my remains deep into the mountain, to the Hall of Ancestors, and you will place them—me—in the one-and-eightieth hollow you come to, which is to say, the first that is not occupied, and there you shall leave me. If you do not do this thing, you will each be cursed, and the tower of Stormhold shall tumble and fall."
His three living sons said nothing. A murmur ran through the four dead sons, though: regret, perhaps, that their remains had been gobbled up by eagles, or carried away by the fast rivers, tumbled down waterfalls and off to the sea, never to rest in the Hall of Ancestors.
"Now. The matter of succession." The lord's voice wheezed out of him, like the wind being squeezed from a pair of rotten bellows. His living sons raised their heads: Primus, the oldest, with white hairs in his thick brown beard, his nose aquiline, his eyes grey, looked expectant; Tertius, his beard red-and-golden, his eyes a tawny brown, looked wary; Septimus, his black beard still coming in, tall and crowlike, looked blank, as he always looked blank.
"Primus. Go to the window."
Primus strode over to the opening in the rock wall and looked out.
"What do you see?"
"Nothing, sire. I see the evening sky above us, and clouds below us."
The old man shivered beneath the mountain-bear skin that covered him.
"Tertius. Go to the window. What do you see?"
"Nothing, Father. It is as Primus told you. The evening sky hangs above us, the color of a bruise, and clouds carpet the world beneath us, all grey and writhing."
The old man's eyes twisted in his face like the mad eyes of a bird of prey. "Septimus. You. Window."
Septimus strolled to the window and stood beside, although not too close to, his two elder brothers.
"And you? What do you see?"
He looked out of the opening. The wind was bitter on his face, and it made his eyes sting and tear. One star glimmered, faintly, in the indigo heavens.
"I see a star, Father."
"Ahh," wheezed the eighty-first lord. "Bring me to the window." His four dead sons looked at him sadly as his three living sons carried him to the window. The old man stood, or almost stood, leaning heavily on the broad shoulders of his children, staring into the leaden sky.
His fingers, swollen-knuckled and twiglike, fumbled with the topaz that hung on a heavy silver chain about his neck. The chain parted like a cobweb in the old man's grip. He held the topaz out in his fist, the broken ends of silver chain dangling.
The dead lords of Stormhold whispered amongst themselves, in the voices of the dead which sound like snow falling: the topaz was the Power of Stormhold. Who wore it would be Stormhold's master, as long as he was of the blood of Stormhold. To which of the surviving sons would the eighty-first lord give the stone?
The living sons said nothing, but looked, respectively, expectant, wary, and blank (but it was a deceptive blankness, the blankness of a rock face that one only realizes cannot be climbed when one is halfway up, and there is no longer any way down).
The old man pulled free of his sons, and stood straight and tall, then. He was, for a heartbeat, the lord of Stormhold who had defeated the Northern Goblins at the battle of Cragland's Head; who had fathered eight children—seven of them boys—on three wives; who had killed each of his four brothers in combat, before he was twenty years old, although his oldest brother had been almost five times his age and a mighty warrior of great renown. It was this man who held up the topaz and said four words in a long-dead tongue, words which hung on the air like the strokes of a huge bronze gong.
Then he threw the stone into the air. The living brothers caught their breath, as the stone arced up over the clouds. It reached what they were certain must be the zenith of its curve, and then, defying all reason, it continued to rise into the air.
Other stars glittered in the night sky, now.
"To he who retrieves the stone, which is the Power of Stormhold, I leave my blessing, and the Mastership of Stormhold and all its dominions," said the eighty-first lord, his voice losing power as he spoke, until once again it was the creak of an old, old man, like the wind blowing through an abandoned house.
The brothers, living and dead, stared at the stone. It fell upwards into the sky until it was lost to sight.
"And should we capture eagles, and harness them, to drag us into the heavens?" asked Tertius, puzzled and annoyed.
His father said nothing. The last of the daylight faded, and the stars hung above them, uncountable in their glory.
One star fell.
Tertius thought, although he was not certain, that it was the first star of the evening, the one that his brother Septimus had remarked upon.
The star tumbled, a streak of light, through the night sky, and it tumbled down somewhere to the south and west of them.
"There," whispered the eighty-first lord, and he fell to the stone floor of his chamber, and he breathed no more.
Primus scratched his beard, and looked down at the crumpled thing. "I've half a mind," he said, "to push the old bastard's corpse out of the window. What was all that idiocy about?"
"Better not," said Tertius. "We don't want to see Stormhold tumble and fall. Nor do we want a curse on our heads, for that matter. Better just place him in the Hall of Ancestors."
Primus picked his father's body up, and carried him back to the furs of his bed. "We will tell the people he is dead," he said.
The four dead brothers clustered with Septimus at the window.
"What do you think he's thinking?" asked Quintus of Sextus.
"He's wondering where the stone fell, and how to reach it first," said Sextus, remembering his fall down the rocks and into eternity.
"I damned well hope so," said the late eighty-first master of Stormhold to his four dead sons. But his three sons who were not yet dead heard nothing at all.
A question like "How big is Faerie?" does not admit of a simple answer.
Faerie, after all, is not one land, one principality or dominion. Maps of Faerie are unreliable, and may not be depended upon.
We talk of the kings and queens of Faerie as we would speak of the kings and queens of England. But Faerie is bigger than England, as it is bigger than the world (for, since the dawn of time, each land that has been forced off the map by explorers and the brave going out and proving it wasn't there has taken refuge in Faerie; so it is now, by the time that we come to write of it, a most huge place indeed, containing every manner of landscape and terrain). Here, truly, there be Dragons. Also gryphons, wyverns, hippogriffs, basilisks, and hydras. There are all manner of more familiar animals as well, cats affectionate and aloof, dogs noble and cowardly, wolves and foxes, eagles and bears.
In the middle of a wood so thick and so deep it was very nearly a forest was a small house, built of thatch and wood and daubed grey clay, which had a most foreboding aspect. A small, yellow bird in a cage sat on its perch outside the house. It did not sing, but sat mournfully silent, its feathers ruffled and wan. There was a door to the cottage, from which the once-white paint was peeling away.
Inside, the cottage consisted of one room, undivided. Smoked meats and sausages hung from the rafters, along with a wizened crocodile carcass. A peat fire burned smokily in the large fireplace against one wall, and the smoke trickled out of the chimney far above. There were three blankets upon three raised beds—one large and old, the other two little more than truckle beds.
There were cooking implements, and a large wooden cage, currently empty, in another corner. There were windows too filthy to see through, and over everything was a thick layer of oily dust.
The only thing in the house that was clean was a mirror of black glass, as high as a tall man, as wide as a church door, which rested against one wall.
The house belonged to three aged women. They took it in turns to sleep in the big bed, to make the supper, to set snares in the wood for small animals, to draw water up from the deep well behind the house.
The three women spoke little.
There were three other women in the little house. They were slim, and dark, and amused. The hall they inhabited was many times the size of the cottage; the floor was of onyx, and the pillars were of obsidian. There was a courtyard behind them, open to the sky, and stars hung in the night sky above.
A fountain played in the courtyard, the water rolling and falling from a statue of a mermaid in ecstasy, her mouth wide open. Clean, black water gushed from her mouth into the pool below, shimmering and shaking the stars.
The three women, and their hall, were in the black mirror. The three old women were the Lilim—the witch-queen—all alone in the woods.
The three women in the mirror were also the Lilim: but whether they were the successors to the old women, or their shadow-selves, or whether only the peasant cottage in the woods was real, or if, somewhere, the Lilim lived in a black hall, with a fountain in the shape of a mermaid playing in the courtyard of stars, none knew for certain, and none but the Lilim could say.
On this day, one crone came in from the woods, carrying a stoat, its throat a splash of red.
She placed it on the dusty chopping board and took a sharp knife. She cut it around at the arms and legs and neck, then, with one filthy hand, she pulled the skin off the creature, as if pulling a child from its pyjamas, and she dropped the naked thing onto the wooden chopping block.
"Entrails?" she asked, in a quavering voice.
The smallest, oldest, most tangle-headed of the women, rocking back and forth in a rocking chair, said, "Might as well."
The first old woman picked up the stoat by the head, and sliced it from neck to groin. Its innards tumbled out onto the cutting board, red and purple and plum-colored, intestines and vital organs like wet jewels on the dusty wood.
The woman screeched, "Come quick! Come quick!"
Then she pushed gently at the stoat-guts with her knife, and screeched once more.
The crone in the rocking chair pulled herself to her feet. (In the mirror, a dark woman stretched and rose from her divan.) The last old woman, returning from the outhouse, scurried as fast as she could from the woods.
"What?" she said. "What is it?"
(In the mirror, a third young woman rejoined the other two. Her breasts were small and high, and her eyes were dark.)
"Look," gestured the first old woman, pointing with her knife.
Their eyes were the colorless grey of extreme age, and they squinted at the organs on the slab.
"At last," said one of them, and "About time," said another.
"Which of us, then, to find it?" asked the third.
The three women closed their eyes, and three old hands stabbed into the stoat-guts on the board.
An old hand opened. "I've a kidney."
"I've his liver."
The third hand opened. It belonged to the oldest of the Lilim. "I've his heart," she said, triumphantly.
"How will you travel?"
"In our old chariot, drawn by what I find at the crossroads."
"You'll be needing some years."
The oldest one nodded.
The youngest, the one who had come in from the outhouse, walked, painfully slowly, over to a high and ramshackle chest of drawers, and bent over. She took a rusting iron box from the bottommost drawer, and carried it over to her sisters. It was tied around with three pieces of old string, each with a different knot in it. Each of the women unknotted her own piece of string, then the one who had carried the box opened the lid. Something glittered golden in the bottom of the box. "Not much left," sighed the youngest of the Lilim, who had been old when the wood they lived in was still beneath the sea.
"Then it's a good thing that we've found a new one, isn't it?" said the oldest, tartly, and with that she thrust a clawed hand into the box. Something golden tried to avoid her hand, but she caught it, wiggling and glimmering, opened her mouth, and popped it inside.
(In the mirror, three women stared out.) There was a shivering and a shuddering at the center of all things.
(Now, two women stared from the black mirror.) In the cottage, two old women stared, envy and hope mixing in their faces, at a tall, handsome woman with black hair and dark eyes and red, red lips.
"My," she said, "but this place is filthy." She strode to the bed. Beside it was a large wooden chest, covered by a faded tapestry. She twitched off the tapestry, and opened the chest, rummaging inside.
"Here we go," she said, holding up a scarlet kirtle. She tossed it onto the bed, and pulled off the rags and tatters she had worn as an old woman.
Her two sisters stared across at her naked body hungrily. "When I return with her heart, there will be years aplenty for all of us," she said, eying her sisters" hairy chins and hollow eyes with disfavor. She slipped a scarlet bracelet onto her wrist, in the shape of a small snake with its tail between its jaws.
"A star," said one of her sisters.
"A star," echoed the second.
"Exactly," said the witch-queen, putting a circlet of silver upon her head. "The first in two hundred years. And I'll bring it back to us." She licked her scarlet lips with a deep red tongue.
"A fallen star," she said.
It was night in the glade by the pool and the sky was bespattered with stars beyond counting.
Fireflies glittered in the leaves of the elm trees and in the ferns and in the hazel bushes, flickering on and off like the lights of a strange and distant city. An otter splashed in the brook that fed the pool. A family of stoats wove and wound their way to the water to drink. A fieldmouse found a fallen hazelnut and began to bite into the hard shell of the nut with its sharp, ever-growing front teeth, not because it was hungry, but because it was a prince under an enchantment who could not regain his outer form until he chewed the Nut of Wisdom. But its excitement made it careless, and only the shadow that blotted out the moonlight warned it of the descent of a huge grey owl, who caught the mouse in its sharp talons and rose again into the night.
The mouse dropped the nut, which fell into the brook and was carried away, to be swallowed by a salmon. The owl swallowed the mouse in just a couple of gulps, leaving just its tail trailing from her mouth, like a length of bootlace. Something snuffled and grunted as it pushed through the thicket—a badger, thought the owl (herself under a curse, and only able to resume her rightful shape if she consumed a mouse who had eaten the Nut of Wisdom), or perhaps a small bear.
Leaves rustled, water rilled, and then the glade became filled with light shining down from above, a pure white light which grew brighter and brighter. The owl saw it reflected in the pool, a blazing, glaring thing of pure light, so bright that she took to the wing and flew to another part of the forest. The wild things looked about them in terror.
First the light in the sky was no bigger than the moon, then it seemed larger, infinitely larger, and the whole grove trembled and quivered and every creature held its breath and the fireflies glowed brighter than they had ever glowed in their lives, each one convinced that this at last was love, but to no avail...
And then--
There was a cracking sound, sharp as a shot, and the light that had filled the grove was gone.
Or almost gone. There was a dim glow pulsing from the middle of the hazel thicket, as if a tiny cloud of stars were glimmering there.
And there was a voice, a high clear, female voice, which said, "Ow," and then, very quietly, it said "Fuck," and then it said "Ow," once more.
And then it said nothing at all, and there was silence in the glade.
|
October moved further away with every step Tristran took; he felt as if he were walking into summer. There was a path through the woods, with a high hedgerow to one side, and he followed the path. High above him the stars glittered and gleamed, and the harvest moon shone golden yellow, the color of ripe corn. In the moonlight he could see briar-roses in the hedge.
He was becoming sleepy now. For a time he fought to stay awake, and then he took off his overcoat, and put down his bag—a large leather bag of the kind that, in twenty years" time, would become known as a Gladstone bag—and he laid his head on his bag, and covered himself with his coat.
He stared up at the stars: and it seemed to him then that they were dancers, stately and graceful, performing a dance almost infinite in its complexity. He imagined he could see the very faces of the stars; pale, they were, and smiling gently, as if they had spent so much time above the world, watching the scrambling and the joy and the pain of the people below them, that they could not help being amused every time another little human believed itself the center of its world, as each of us does.
And then it came to Tristran that he was dreaming, and he walked into his bedroom, which was also the schoolroom of the village of Wall: and Mrs. Cherry tapped the blackboard and bade them all be silent, and Tristran looked down at his slate to see what the lesson would be about, but he could not read what he had written there. Then Mrs. Cherry, who resembled his mother so much that Tristran found himself astonished he had never before realized that they were the same person, called upon Tristran to tell the class the dates of all the kings and queens of England...
"Scuse me," said a small and hairy voice in his ear, "but would you mind dreamin" a bit quieter? Your dreams is spillin" over into my dreams, and if there's one thing I've never been doin" with, it's dates. William the Conker, ten sixty-six, that's as far as I go, and I'd swap that for a dancing mouse."
"Mm?" said Tristran.
"Keep it down," said the voice. "If you don't mind."
"Sorry," said Tristran, and his dreams after that were of the dark.
"Breakfast," said a voice close to his ear. "It's mushrumps, fried in butter, with wild garlic."
Tristran opened his eyes: daylight shone through the briar-rose hedge, dappling the grass in gold and green. Something smelled like heaven.
A tin container was placed beside him.
"Poor fare," said the voice. "Country fare, it is. Nothing like the gentry are used to, but the likes of me treasures a fine mushrump."
Tristran blinked, and reached into the tin bowl and took out a large mushroom between finger and thumb. It was hot. He took a careful bite, felt the juices flood his mouth. It was the finest thing he had ever eaten and, after he had chewed and swallowed it, he said so.
"That's kind of you," said the small figure who sat on the other side of a little fire which crackled and smoked in the morning air. "Kind of you, I'm sure. But you know, and I know, that it's just fried field-mushrumps, and never a patch on nothing proper..."
"Is there any more?" asked Tristran, realizing just how hungry he was: sometimes a little food can do that to you.
"Ah now, that's manners for you," said the little figure, who wore a large, floppy hat and a large, flappy overcoat. "Is there more? he says, as if it were poached quail's eggs and smoked gazelle and truffles, not just a mushrump, what tastes more or less like something what's been dead for a week and a cat wouldn't touch. Manners."
"I really, truly would like another mushroom," said Tristran, "if it's not too much trouble."
The little man—if man he was, which Tristran found rather unlikely—sighed mournfully, and reached into the pan sizzling on the fire, with his knife, and flicked two large mushrooms into Tristran's tin bowl.
Tristran blew on them, then ate them with his fingers. "Look at you," said the little hairy person, his voice a mixture of pride and gloom, "eatin" those mushrumps as if you liked them, as if they wasn't sawdust and wormwood and rue in your mouth."
Tristran licked his fingers, and assured his benefactor that they had been the very finest mushrooms he had ever had the privilege of eating.
"You says that now," said his host with gloomy relish, "but you'll not be sayin" that in an hour's time. They'll undoubtedly disagree with you, like the fishwife who disagreed with her young man over a mermaid. And that could be heard from Garamond to Stormhold. Such language! It fair turned my ears blue, it did." The little hairy personage sighed deeply. "Talkin" about your guts," he said, "I'm going to attend to mine behind that tree over there. Would you do me the signal honor of keepin" an eye on that there pack of mine? I'd be obliged."
"Of course," said Tristran, politely. The little hairy man vanished behind an oak tree; Tristran heard a few grunts, and then his new friend reappeared, saying, "There. I knowed a man in Paphlagonia who'd swallow a live snake every morning, when he got up. He used to say, he was certain of one thing, that nothing worse would happen to him all day. "Course they made him eat a bowlful of hairy centipedes before they hung him, so maybe that claim was a bit presumptive."
Tristran excused himself. He urinated against the side of the oak tree, next to which was a small mound of droppings, certainly not produced by any human being. They looked like deer pellets, or rabbit-droppings.
"My name is Tristran Thorn," said Tristran, when he returned. His breakfast companion had packed up the morning's breakfast—fire, pans and all—and made it vanish into his pack.
He removed his hat, pressed it to his chest, and looked up at Tristran. "Charmed," he said. He tapped the side of his pack, on it was written: charmed, enchanted, ensorcelled and confusticated. "I used to be confusticated," he confided, "but you know how these things go."
And with that he set off along the path. Tristran walked behind him. "Hey! I say!" called Tristran. "Slow down, can't you?" For despite the huge pack (which put Tristran in mind of Christian's burden in Pilgrim's Progress, a book from which Mrs. Cherry had read to them every Monday morning, telling them that, although it was written by a tinker, it was a fine book for all of that) the little man—Charmed? Was that his name?—was moving away from him as fast as a squirrel up a tree.
The little creature hurried back down the path. "Somethin" wrong?" he asked.
"I cannot keep up," confessed Tristran. "You walk so confoundedly fast."
The little hairy man slowed his pace. "Beg your puddin'," he said, as Tristran stumbled after him. "Bein" on me own so much, I gets used to settin" me own pace."
They walked side by side, in the golden-green light of the sun through the newly opened leaves. It was a quality of light Tristran had observed, unique to springtime. He wondered if they had left summer as far behind as October. From time to time Tristran would remark on a flash of color in a tree or bush, and the little hairy man would say something like, "Kingfisher. Mr. Halcyon they used to call him. Pretty bird," or "Purple hummingbird. Drinks nectar from flowers. Hovers," or "Redcap. They'll keep their distance, but don't you go scrutinizin" "em or looking for trouble, "cos you'll find it with those buggers."
They sat beside a brook to eat their lunch. Tristran produced the cottage loaf, the ripe, red apples, and round of cheese—hard, tart and crumbly—that his mother had given him. And although the little man eyed them both suspiciously, he wolfed them down and licked the crumbs of bread and cheese from his fingers, and munched noisily on the apple. Then he filled a kettle from the brook, and boiled it up for tea.
"Suppose you tell me what you're about?" said the little hairy man as they sat on the ground and drank their tea.
Tristran thought for some moments, and then he said, "I come from the village of Wall, where there lives a young lady named Victoria Forester, who is without peer among women, and it is to her, and to her alone, that I have given my heart. Her face is--"
"Usual complement of bits?" asked the little creature. "Eyes? Nose? Teeth? All the usual?"
"Of course."
"Well then, you can skip that stuff," said the little hairy man. "We'll take it all as said. So what damn-fool silly thing has this young lady got you a-doin" of?"
Tristran put down his wooden cup of tea, and stood up, offended.
"What," he asked, in what he was certain were lofty and scornful tones, "would possibly make you imagine that my lady-love would have sent me on some foolish errand?"
The little man stared up at him with eyes like beads of jet. "Because that's the only reason a lad like you would be stupid enough to cross the border into Faerie. The only ones who ever come here from your lands are the minstrels, and the lovers, and the mad. And you don't look like much of a minstrel, and you're—pardon me saying so, lad, but it's true—ordinary as cheese-crumbs. So it's love, if you ask me."
"Because," announced Tristran, "every lover is in his heart a madman, and in his head a minstrel."
"Really?" said the little man, doubtfully. "I'd never noticed. So there's some young lady. Has she sent you here to seek your fortune? That used to be very popular. You'd get young fellers wanderin" all over, looking for the hoard of gold that some poor wyrm or ogre had taken absolute centuries to accumulate."
"No. Not my fortune. It was more of a promise I made to this lady I mentioned. I... we were talking, and I was promising her things, and we saw this falling star, and I promised to bring it to her. And it fell..." he waved an arm toward a mountain range somewhere in the general direction of the sunrise "...over there."
The little hairy man scratched his chin. Or his muzzle; it might well have been his muzzle. "You know what I would do?"
"No," said Tristran, hope rising within him, "what?"
The little man wiped his nose. "I'd tell her to go shove her face in the pig pen, and go out and find another one who'll kiss you without askin" for the earth. You're bound to find one. You can hardly throw half a brick back in the lands you come from without hittin" one."
"There are no other girls," said Tristran confidently.
The little man sniffed, and they packed up their things and walked on together.
"Did you mean it?" said the little man. "About the fallen star?"
"Yes," said Tristran.
"Well, I'd not mention it about if I were you," said the little man. "There's those as would be unhealthily interested in such information. Better keep mum. But never lie."
"So what should I say?"
"Well," he said, "f'r example, if they ask where you've come from, you could say "Behind me," and if they asked where you're going, you'd say "In front of me." "
"I see," said Tristran.
The path they were walking became harder to discern. A cold breeze ruffled Tristran's hair, and he shivered. The path led them into a grey wood of thin, pale birch trees.
"Do you think it will be far?" asked Tristran. "To the star?"
"How many miles to Babylon?" said the little man rhetorically. "This wood wasn't here, last time I was by this way," he added.
"How Many Miles to Babylon," recited Tristran, to himself, as they walked through the grey wood.
"Three score miles and ten.
Can I get there by candlelight?
Yes, and back again.
Yes, if your feet are nimble and light,
You can get there by candlelight."
"That's the one," said the little hairy man, his head questing from side to side as if he were preoccupied, or a little nervous.
"It's only a nursery rhyme," said Tristran.
"Only a nursery...? Bless me, there's some on this side of the wall would give seven years" hard toil for that little cantrip. And back where you come from you mutter "em to babes alongside of a "Rock-a-Bye-Baby" or a "Rub-a-Dub-Dub," without a second thought... Are you chilled, lad?"
"Now that you mention it, I am a bit cold, yes."
"Look around you. Can you see a path?"
Tristran blinked. The grey wood soaked up light and color and distance. He had thought they were following a path, but now that he tried to see the path, it shimmered, and vanished, like an optical illusion. He had taken that tree, and that tree, and that rock as markers of the path... but there was no path, only the mirk, and the twilight, and the pale trees. "Now we're for it," said the hairy man, in a small voice.
"Should we run?" Tristran removed his bowler hat, and held it in front of him.
The little man shook his head. "Not much point," he said. "We've walked into the trap, and we'll still be in it even if we runs."
He walked over to the nearest tree, a tall, pale, birchlike tree trunk, and kicked it, hard. Some dry leaves fell, and then something white tumbled from the branches to the earth with a dry, whispering sound.
Tristran walked over to it and looked down; it was the skeleton of a bird, clean and white and dry.
The little man shivered. "I could castle," he told Tristran, "but there's no one I could castle with'd be any better off here than we are... There's no escape by flying, not judgin" by that thing." He nudged the skeleton with one pawlike foot. "And your sort of people never could learn to burrow—not that that'd do us much good..."
"Perhaps we could arm ourselves," said Tristran.
"Arm ourselves?"
"Before they come."
"Before they come? Why—they're here, you puddenhead. It's the trees themselves. We're in a serewood."
"Serewood?"
"It's me own fault—I should've been paying more attention to where we was goin'. Now you'll never get your star, and I'll never get my merchandise. One day some other poor bugger lost in the wood'll find our skellingtons picked clean as whistles and that'll be that."
Tristran stared about him. In the gloom it seemed that the trees were crowding about more thickly, although he had seen nothing actually move. He wondered if the little man were being foolish, or imagining things.
Something stung his left hand. He slapped at it, expecting to see an insect. He looked down to see a pale yellow leaf. It fell to the ground with a rustle. On the back of his hand, a veining of red, wet blood welled up. The wood whispered about them.
"Is there anything we can do?" Tristran asked.
"Nothing I can think of. If only we knew where the true path was... even a serewood couldn't destroy the true path. Just hide it from us, lure us off of it..." The little man shrugged, and sighed.
Tristran reached his hand up and rubbed his forehead. "I... I do know where the path is," he said. He pointed. "It's down that way."
The little man's bead-black eyes glittered. "Are you sure?"
"Yes, sir. Through that copse and up a little way to the right. That's where the path is."
"How do you know?" asked the man.
"I know" replied Tristran.
"Right. Come on!" And the little man took his burden and ran, slowly enough that Tristran, his leather bag swinging and banging against his legs, his heart pounding, his breath coming in gasps, was able to keep up.
"No! Not that way. Over to the left!" shouted Tristran. Branches and thorns ripped and tore at his clothes. They ran on in silence.
The trees seemed to have arranged themselves into a wall. Leaves fell around them in flurries, stinging and smarting when they touched Tristran's skin, cutting and slicing at his clothes. He clambered up the hill, swiping at the leaves with his free hand, swatting at the twigs and branches with his bag.
The silence was broken by something wailing. It was the little hairy man. He had stopped dead where he stood, and, his head thrown back, had begun to howl at the sky.
"Buck up," said Tristran. "We're nearly there." He grasped the little hairy man's free hand in his own larger hand, and pulled him forward.
And then they were standing on the true path: a swath of green sward running through the grey wood. "Are we safe here?" asked Tristran, panting, and looking about apprehensively.
"We're safe, as long as we stay on the path," said the little hairy man, and he put down his burden, sat down on the grass of the path and stared at the trees about them.
The pale trees shook, although no wind blew, and it seemed to Tristran that they shook in anger.
His companion had begun to shudder, his hairy fingers raking and stroking the green grass. Then he looked up at Tristran. "I don't suppose you have such a thing as a bottle of something spirituous upon you? Or perchance a pot of hot, sweet tea?"
"No," said Tristran. " "fraid not."
The little man sniffed, and fumbled at the lock of his huge package. "Turn round," he said to Tristran. "No peekin'."
Tristran turned away.
There was a rummaging, scuffling noise. Then the sound of a lock clicking shut, and then, "You can turn around, if you like." The little man was holding an enamel bottle. He was tugging, vainly, at the stopper.
"Um. Would you like me to help you with that?" Tristran hoped the little hairy man would not be offended by his request. He should not have worried; his companion thrust the bottle into his hands.
"Here go," he said. "You've got the fingers for it."
Tristran tugged and pulled out the stopper of the bottle. He could smell something intoxicating, like honey mixed with wood smoke and cloves. He passed the bottle back to the little man.
"It's a crime to drink something as rare and good as this out of the bottle," said the little hairy man. He untied the little wooden cup from his belt, and, trembling, poured a small amount of an amber-colored liquid into it. He sniffed it, then sipped it, then he smiled, with small, sharp teeth.
"Aaaahhhh. That's better."
He passed the cup to Tristran.
"Sip it slowly," he said. "It's worth a king's ransom, this bottle. It cost me two large blue-white diamonds, a mechanical bluebird which sang, and a dragon's scale."
Tristran sipped the drink. It warmed him down to his toes and made him feel like his head was filled with tiny bubbles.
"Good, eh?"
Tristran nodded.
"Too good for the likes of you and me, I'm afraid. Still. It hits the spot in times of trouble, of which this is certainly one. Let's get out of this wood," said the little hairy man. "Which way, though...?"
"That way," said Tristran, pointing to their left.
The little man stoppered and pocketed the little bottle, shouldered his pack, and the two of them walked together down the green path through the grey wood.
After several hours, the white trees began to thin, and then they were through the serewood and walking between two low rough-stone walls, along a high bank. When Tristran looked back the way they had come there was no sign of any wood at all; the way behind them was purple-headed, heathery hills.
"We can stop here," said his companion. "There's stuff we needs to talk about. Sit down."
He put down his enormous bag, and climbed on top of it, so he was looking down at Tristran, who sat on a rock beside the road. "There's something here I'm not properly gettin'. Now, tell me. Where are you from?"
"Wall," said Tristran. "I told you."
"Who's your father and mother?"
"My father's name is Dunstan Thorn. My mother is Daisy Thorn."
"Mmm. Dunstan Thorn... Mm. I met your father once. He put me up for the night. Not a bad chap, although he doesn't half go on a bit while a fellow's trying to get a little kip." He scratched his muzzle. "Still doesn't explain... there isn't anythin" unusual in your family, is there?"
"My sister, Louisa, can wiggle her ears."
The little hairy man wiggled his own large, hairy ears, dismissively. "No, that's not it," he said. "I was thinkin" more of a grandmother who was a famous enchantress, or an uncle who was a prominent warlock, or a brace of fairies somewhere in the family tree."
"None that I know of," admitted Tristran.
The little man changed his tack. "Where's the village of Wall?" he asked. Tristran pointed. "Where are the Debatable Hills?" Tristran pointed once more, without hesitation. "Where's the Catavarian Isles?" Tristran pointed to the southwest. He had not known there were Debatable Hills, or Catavarian Isles until the little man had mentioned them, but he was as certain in himself of their location as he was of the whereabouts of his own left foot or the nose on his face.
"Hmm. Now thens. Do you know where His Vastness the Freemartin Muskish is?"
Tristran shook his head.
"D'you know where His Vastness the Freemartin Muskish's Transluminary Citadel is?"
Tristran pointed, with certainty.
"And what of Paris? The one in France?"
Tristran thought for a moment. "Well, if Wall's over there, I suppose that Paris must be sort of in the same sort of direction, mustn't it."
"Let's see," said the little hairy man, talking to himself as much as to Tristran. "You can find places in Faerie, but not in your world, save for Wall, and that's a boundary. You can't find people... but... tell me, lad, can you find this star you're lookin" for?"
Tristran pointed, immediately. "It's that way," he said.
"Hmm. That's good. But it still doesn't explain nuffink. You hungry?"
"A bit. And I'm tattered and torn," said Tristran, fingering the huge holes in his trousers, and in his coat, where the branches and the thorns had seized at him, and the leaves had cut at him as he ran. "And look at my boots..."
"What's in your bag?"
Tristran opened his Gladstone bag. "Apples. Cheese. Half a cottage loaf. And a pot of fishpaste. My penknife. I've got a change of underwear, and a couple of pairs of woolen socks. I suppose I should have brought more clothes..."
"Keep the fishpaste," said his traveling companion, and he rapidly divided the remaining food into two equal piles.
"You done me a good turn," he said, munching a crisp apple, "and I doesn't forget something like that. First we'll get your clothes took care of, and then we'll send you off after your star. Yus?"
"That's extremely kind of you," said Tristran, nervously, slicing his cheese onto his crust of bread.
"Right," said the little hairy man. "Let's find you a blanket."
At dawn three lords of Stormhold rode down the craggy mountain road, in a coach pulled by six black horses. The horses wore bobbing black plumes, the coach was fresh painted in black, and each of the lords of Stormhold was dressed in mourning.
In the case of Primus, this took the shape of a long, black, monkish robe; Tertius was dressed in the sober costume of a merchant in mourning, while Septimus wore a black doublet and hose, a black hat with a black feather in it, and looked for all the world like a foppish assassin from a minor Elizabethan historical play.
The lords of Stormhold eyed each other, one cautious, one wary, one blank. They said nothing: had alliances been possible, Tertius might have sided with Primus against Septimus. But there were no alliances that could be made.
The carriage clattered and shook.
Once, it stopped, for each of the three lords to relieve himself. Then it clattered on down the hilly road. Together, the three lords of Stormhold had placed their father's remains in the Hall of Ancestors. Their dead brothers had watched them from the doors of the hall, but had said nothing.
Toward evening, the coachman called out, "Nottaway!" and he reined his team outside a tumbledown inn, built against what resembled the ruins of a giant's cottage.
The three lords of Stormhold got out of the coach, and stretched their cramped legs. Faces peered at them through the bottle-glass windows of the inn.
The innkeeper, who was a choleric gnome of poor disposition, looked out of the door. "We'll need beds aired, and a pot of mutton stew on the fire," he called.
"How many beds to be aired?" asked Letitia the chambermaid, from the stairwell.
"Three," said the gnome. "I'll wager they'll have their coachman sleep with the horses."
"Three indeed," whispered Tilly, the pot-girl, to Lacey, the ostler, "when anyone could see a full seven of those fine gentlemen standing in the road."
But when the lords of Stormhold entered there were but three of them, and they announced that their coachman would sleep in the stables.
Dinner was mutton stew, and bread loaves so hot and fresh they exhaled steam as they were cracked open, and each of the lords took an unopened bottle of the finest Baragundian wine (for none of the lords would share a bottle with his fellows, nor even permit the wine to be poured from the bottle into a goblet). This scandalized the gnome, who was of the opinion—not, however, uttered in the hearing of his guests—that the wine should be permitted to breathe.
Their coachman ate his bowl of stew, and drank two pots of ale, and went to sleep in the stables. The three brothers went to their respective rooms and barred the doors.
Tertius had slipped a silver coin to Letitia the chambermaid when she had brought him the warming-pan for his bed, so he was not surprised at all when, shortly before midnight, there came a tap-tapping on his door.
She wore a one-piece white chemise, and curtsied to him as he opened the door, and smiled, shyly. She held a bottle of wine in her hand.
He locked the door behind him, and led her to the bed, where, having first made her remove her chemise, and having examined her face and body by candlelight, and having kissed her on the forehead, lips, nipples, navel and toes, and having extinguished the candle, he made love to her, without speaking, in the pale moonlight.
After some time, he grunted, and was still.
"There, lovey, was that good, now?" asked Letitia.
"Yes," said Tertius, warily, as if her words guarded some trap. "It was."
"Would you be wanting another turn, before I leave?"
In reply, Tertius pointed between his legs. Letitia giggled. "We can have him upstanding again in a twinkling," she said.
And she pulled out the cork from the bottle of wine she had carried in, and had placed beside the bed, and passed it to Tertius.
He grinned at her, and gulped down some wine, then pulled her to him.
"I bet that feels good," she said to him. "Now, lovey, this time let me show you how I like it... why, whatever is the matter?" For Lord Tertius of Stormhold was writhing back and forth on the bed, his eyes wide, his breathing labored.
"That wine?" he gasped. "Where did you get it?"
"Your brother," said Letty. "I met him on the stairs. He told me it was a fine restorative and stiffener, and it would provide us with a night we should never forget."
"And so it has," breathed Tertius, and he twitched, once, twice, three times, and then was stiff. And very still.
Tertius heard Letitia begin to scream, as if from a very long way away. He was conscious of four familiar presences, standing with him in the shadows beside the wall.
"She was very beautiful," whispered Secundus, and Letitia thought she heard the curtains rustle.
"Septimus is most crafty," said Quintus. "That was the self-same preparation of baneberries he slipped into my dish of eels," and Letitia thought she heard the wind, howling down from the mountain crags.
She opened the door to the household, woken by her screams, and a search ensued. Lord Septimus, however, was nowhere to be found, and one of the black stallions was gone from the stable (in which the coachman slept and snored and could not be wakened).
Lord Primus was in a foul mood when he arose the next morning.
He declined to have Letitia put to death, stating she was as much a victim of Septimus's craft as Tertius had been, but ordered that she accompany Tertius's body back to the castle of Stormhold.
He left her one black horse to carry the body, and a pouch of silver coins. It was enough to pay a villager of Nottaway to travel with her—to ensure no wolves made off with the horse or his brother's remains—and to pay off the coachman when finally he awoke.
And then, alone in the coach, pulled by a team of four coal-black stallions, Lord Primus left the village of Nottaway, in significantly worse temper than he had arrived there.
Brevis arrived at the crossroads tugging at a rope. The rope was attached to a bearded, horned, evil-eyed billy goat, which Brevis was taking to market to sell.
That morning, Brevis's mother had placed a single radish upon the table in front of him and had said, "Brevis, son. This radish was all I was able to pull from the ground today. All our crops have failed, and all our food has gone. We've nothing to sell but the billy goat. So I want you to halter the goat, and take him to the market, and sell him to a farmer. And with the coins you get for the goat—and you'll take nothing less than a florin, mark you—buy a hen, and buy corn, and turnips; and perhaps we shall not starve."
So Brevis had chewed his radish, which was woody, and peppery to the tongue, and spent the rest of the morning chasing the goat about its pen, sustaining a bruise to the rib and a stare bite to the thigh in the process, and, eventually, and with the help of a passing tinker, he had subdued the goat enough to have it haltered, and, leaving his mother to bandage the tinker's goat-inflicted injuries, he dragged the billy goat toward the market.
Sometimes the goat would take it into his head to charge on ahead, and Brevis would be dragged behind him, the heels of his boots grinding into the dried mud of the roadway, until the goat would decide—suddenly and without warning, for no reason Brevis was able to discern—to stop. Then Brevis would pick himself up and return to dragging the beast.
He reached the crossroads on the edge of the wood, sweaty and hungry and bruised, pulling an uncooperative goat. There was a tall woman standing at the crossroads. A circlet of silver sat in the crimson headpiece that surrounded her dark hair, and her dress was as scarlet as her lips.
"What do they call you, boy?" she asked, in a voice like musky brown honey.
"They call me Brevis, ma'am," said Brevis, observing something strange behind the woman. It was a small cart, but there was nothing harnessed between the shafts. He wondered how it had ever got there.
"Brevis," she purred. "Such a nice name. Would you like to sell me your goat, Brevis-boy?"
Brevis hesitated. "My mother told me I was to take the goat to the market," he said, "and to sell him for a hen, and some corn, and some turnips, and to bring her home the change."
"How much did your mother tell you to take for the goat?" asked the woman in the scarlet kirtle.
"Nothing less than a florin," he said.
She smiled, and held up one hand. Something glinted yellow. "Why, I will give you this golden guinea," she said, "enough to buy a coopful of hens and a hundred bushels of turnips."
The boy's mouth hung open.
"Do we have a deal?"
The boy nodded, and thrust out the hand which held the billy goat's rope halter. "Here," was all he could say, visions of limitless wealth and turnips beyond counting tumbling through his head.
The lady took the rope. Then she touched one finger to the goat's forehead, between its yellow eyes, and let go of the rope.
Brevis expected the billy goat to bolt for the woods or down one of the roads, but it stayed where it was, as if frozen into position. Brevis held out his hand for the golden guinea.
The woman looked at him then, examining him from the soles of his muddy feet, to his sweaty, cropped hair, and once more she smiled.
"You know," she said, "I think that a matched pair would be so much more impressive than just one. Don't you?"
Brevis did not know what she was talking about, and opened his mouth to tell her so. But just then she reached out one long finger, and touched the bridge of his nose, between his eyes, and he found he could not say anything at all.
She snapped her fingers, and Brevis and the billy goat hastened to stand between the shafts of her cart; and Brevis was surprised to notice that he was walking on four legs, and he seemed to be no taller than the animal beside him.
The witch-woman cracked her whip, and her cart jolted off down the muddy road, drawn by a matched pair of horned white billy goats.
The little hairy man had taken Tristran's ripped coat and trousers and waistcoat, and, leaving him covered by a blanket, had walked into the village which nestled in the valley between three heather-covered hills.
Tristran sat under the blanket, in the warm evening, and waited.
Lights flickered in the hawthorn bush behind him. He thought they were glow-worms or fireflies, but, on closer inspection, he perceived they were tiny people, flickering and flitting from branch to branch.
He coughed, politely. A score of tiny eyes stared down at him. Several of the little creatures vanished. Others retreated high into the hawthorn bush, while a handful, braver than the others, flitted toward him.
They began to laugh, in high, bell-tinkling tones, pointing at Tristran, in his broken boots and blanket, and underclothes, and bowler hat. Tristran blushed red, and pulled the blanket about himself.
One of the little folk sang:
Hankety pankety
Boy in a blanket, he's
Off on a goose-chase to
Look for a star
Incontrovertibly
Journeys through Faerie
Strip off the blanket to
See who you are.
And another one sang:
Tristran Thorn
Tristran Thorn
Does not know why he was born
And a foolish oath has sworn
Trews and coat and shirt are torn
So he sits here all forlorn
Soon to face his true love's scorn
Wistran
Bistran
Tristran
Thorn.
"Be off with you, you silly things," said Tristran, his face burning, and, having nothing else to hand, he threw his bowler hat at them.
Thus it was, that when the little hairy man arrived back from the village of Revelry (although why it was so called no man alive could say, for it was a gloomy, somber place, and had been for time out of mind) he found Tristran sitting glumly beside a hawthorn bush, wrapped in a blanket, and bewailing the loss of his hat.
"They said cruel things about my true love," said Tristran. "Miss Victoria Forester. How dare they?"
"The little folk dare anything," said his friend. "And they talks a lot of nonsense. But they talks an awful lot of sense, as well. You listen to "em at your peril, and you ignore "em at your peril, too."
"They said I was soon to face my true love's scorn."
"Did they, indeed?" The little hairy man was laying a variety of clothes out upon the grass. Even in the moonlight, Tristran could see that the clothes he was laying out bore no manner of resemblance to the clothes that Tristran had removed earlier in the day.
In the village of Wall, men wore brown, and grey, and black; and even the reddest neckerchief worn by the ruddiest of farmers was soon faded by the sun and the rain to a more mannerly color. Tristran looked at the crimson and canary and russet cloth, at clothes which looked more like the costumes of traveling players or the contents of his cousin Joan's charades chest, and said, "My clothes?"
"These are your clothes now," said the little hairy man, proudly. "I traded "em. This stuff's better quality—see, it won't rip and tear as easy—and it's neither tattered nor torn, and withal, you'll not stick out so much as a stranger. This is what people wears hereabouts, y'see."
Tristran contemplated making the rest of his quest wrapped in a blanket, like a savage aboriginal from one of his schoolbooks. Then, with a sigh, he took off his boots, and let the blanket fall to the grass, and, with the little hairy man as his guide ("No, no, laddie, those go over that. Mercy, what do they teach them nowadays?") he was soon dressed in his fine new clothes.
The new boots fit him better than the old ones ever had.
They certainly were fine new clothes. While clothes do not, as the saying would sometimes have it, make the man, and fine feathers do not make fine birds, sometimes they can add a certain spice to a recipe. And Tristran Thorn in crimson and canary was not the same man that Tristran Thorn in his overcoat and Sunday suit had been. There was a swagger to his steps, a jauntiness to his movements, that had not been there before. His chin went up instead of down, and there was a glint in his eye that he had not possessed when he had worn a bowler hat.
By the time they had eaten the meal the little hairy man had brought back with him from Revelry—which consisted of smoked trout, a bowl of fresh shelled peas, several small raisin-cakes, and a bottle of small beer—Tristran felt quite at home with his new garb.
"Now then," said the little hairy man. "You've saved my life, laddie, back there in the serewood, and your father, he done me a good turn back before you was born, and let it never be said that I'm a cove what doesn't pay his debts--"
Tristran began to mutter something about how his friend had already done more than enough for him, but the little hairy man ignored him and continued. "--so I was a-ponderin': you know where your star is, don't you?"
Tristran pointed, without hesitation, to the dark horizon.
"Now then, how far is it, to your star? D'you know that?"
Tristran had not given the matter any thought, hitherto, but he found himself saying, "A man could walk, only stopping to sleep, while the moon waxed and waned above him a half a dozen times, crossing treacherous mountains and burning deserts, before he reached the place where the star has fallen."
It did not sound like the kind of thing that he would say at all, and he blinked with surprise.
"As I thought," said the little hairy man, approaching his burden, and bending over it, so Tristran could not see how it unlocked. "And it's not like you're the only one'll be lookin" for it. You remember what I told you before?"
"About digging a hole to bury my dung in?"
"Not that."
"About telling no one my true name, nor my destination?"
"Nor yet that."
"Then what?"
"How many miles to Babylon?" recited the man.
"Oh. Yes. That."
"Can I get there by candlelight? There and back again. Only it's the candle-wax, you see. Most candles won't do it. This one took a lot of findin'." And he pulled out a candle-stub the size of a crabapple, and handed it to Tristran.
Tristran could see nothing in any way out of the ordinary about the candle-stub. It was a wax candle, not tallow, and it was much used and melted. The wick was charred and black.
"What do I do with it?" he asked.
"All in good time," said the little hairy man, and took something else from his pack. "Take this, too. You'll need it."
It glittered in the moonlight. Tristran took it; the little man's gift seemed to be a thin silver chain, with a loop at each end. It was cold and slippery to the touch. "What is it?"
"The usual. Cat's breath and fish-scales and moonlight on a mill-pond, melted and smithied and forged by the dwarfs. You'll be needin" it to bring your star back with you."
"I will?"
"Oh, yes."
Tristran let the chain fall into his palm: it felt like quicksilver. "Where do I keep it? I have no pockets in these confounded clothes."
"Wrap it around your wrist until you need it. Like that. There you go. But you've a pocket in your tunic, under there, see?"
Tristran found the concealed pocket. Above it there was a small buttonhole, and in the buttonhole he placed the snowdrop, the glass flower that his father had given him as a luck token when he had left Wall. He wondered whether it was in fact bringing him luck, and if it were, was it good luck or bad?
Tristran stood up. He held his leather bag tightly in his hand.
"Now then," said the little hairy man. "This is what you got to do. Take up the candle in your right hand; I'll light it for you. And then, walk to your star. You'll use the chain to bring it back here. There's not much wick left on the candle, so you'd best be snappy about it, and step lively—any dawdlin" and you'll regret it. Feet be nimble and light, yes?"
"I... I suppose so, yes," said Tristran.
He stood expectantly. The little hairy man passed a hand over the candle, which lit with a flame yellow above and blue below. There was a gust of wind, but the flame did not flicker even the slightest bit.
Tristran took the candle in his hand, and he began to walk forward. The candlelight illuminated the world: every tree and bush and blade of grass.
With Tristran's next step he was standing beside a lake, and the candlelight shone brightly on the water; and then he was walking through the mountains, through lonely crags, where the candlelight was reflected in the eyes of the creatures of the high snows; and then he was walking through the clouds, which, while not entirely substantial, still supported his weight in comfort; and then, holding tightly to his candle, he was underground, and the candlelight glinted back at him from the wet cave walls; now he was in the mountains once more; and then he was on a road through wild forest, and he glimpsed a chariot being pulled by two goats, being driven by a woman in a red dress who looked, for the glimpse he got of her, the way Boadicea was drawn in his history books; and another step and he was in a leafy glen, and he could hear the chuckle of water as it splashed and sang its way into a small brook.
He took another step, but he was still in the glen. There were high ferns, and elm trees, and foxgloves in abundance, and the moon had set in the sky. He held up the candle, looking for a fallen star, a rock, perhaps, or a jewel, but he saw nothing.
He heard something, though, under the babbling of the brook: a sniffling, and a swallowing. The sound of someone trying not to cry.
"Hello?" said Tristran.
The sniffling stopped. But Tristran was certain he could see a light beneath a hazel tree, and he walked toward it.
"Excuse me," he said, hoping to pacify whoever was sitting beneath the hazel tree, and praying that it was not more of the little people who had stolen his hat. "I'm looking for a star."
In reply, a clod of wet earth flew out from under the tree, hitting Tristran on the side of the face. It stung a little, and fragments of earth fell down his collar and under his clothes.
"I won't hurt you," he said, loudly.
This time, as another clod of earth came hurtling toward him, he ducked out of the way, and it smashed into an elm tree behind him. He walked forward.
"Go away," said a voice, all raw and gulping, as if it had just been crying, "just go away and leave me alone."
She was sprawled, awkwardly, beneath the hazel tree, and she gazed up at Tristran with a scowl of complete unfriendliness. She hefted another clod of mud at him, menacingly, but did not throw it.
Her eyes were red and raw. Her hair was so fair it was almost white, her dress was of blue silk which shimmered in the candlelight. She glittered as she sat there. "Please don't throw any more mud at me," pleaded Tristran. "Look. I didn't mean to disturb you. It's just there's a star fallen somewhere around here, and I have to get it back before the candle burns out."
"I broke my leg," said the young lady.
"I'm sorry, of course," said Tristran. "But the star."
"I broke my leg," she told him sadly, "when I fell." And with that, she heaved her lump of mud at him. Glittering dust fell from her arm, as it moved.
The clod of mud hit Tristran in the chest.
"Go away," she sobbed, burying her face in her arms. "Go away and leave me alone."
"You're the star," said Tristran, comprehension dawning.
"And you're a clodpoll," said the girl, bitterly, "and a ninny, a numbskull, a lackwit and a coxcomb!"
"Yes," said Tristran. "I suppose I am at that." And with that he unwound one end of the silver chain, and slipped it around the girl's slim wrist. He felt the loop of the chain tighten about his own.
She stared up at him, bitterly. "What," she asked, in a voice that was suddenly beyond outrage, beyond hate, "do you think you are doing?"
"Taking you home with me," said Tristran. "I made an oath."
And at that the candle-stub guttered, violently, the last of the wick afloat in the pool of wax. For a moment the candle flame flared high, illuminating the glen, and the girl, and the chain, unbreakable, that ran from her wrist to his.
Then the candle went out.
Tristran stared at the star—at the girl—and, with all his might, managed to say nothing at all.
Can I get there by candlelight? he thought. There, and back again. But the candlelight was gone, and the village of Wall was six months" hard travel from here.
"I just want you to know," said the girl, coldly, "that whoever you are, and whatever you intend with me, I shall give you no aid of any kind, nor shall I assist you, and I shall do whatever is in my power to frustrate your plans and devices." And then she added, with feeling, "Idiot."
"Mm," said Tristran. "Can you walk?"
"No," she said. "My leg's broken. Are you deaf, as well as stupid?"
"Do your kind sleep?" he asked her.
"Of course. But not at night. At night, we shine."
"Well," he said, "I'm going to try to get some sleep. I can't think of anything else to do. It's been a long day for me, what with everything. And maybe you should try to sleep, too. We've got a long way to go."
The sky was beginning to lighten. Tristran put his head on his leather bag in the glen, and did his best to ignore the insults and imprecations that came his way from the girl in the blue dress at the end of the chain.
He wondered what the little hairy man would do, when Tristran did not return.
He wondered what Victoria Forester was doing at the moment, and decided that she was probably asleep, in her bed, in her bedroom, in her father's farmhouse.
He wondered whether six months was a long walk, and what they would eat on the way.
He wondered what stars ate...
And then he was asleep.
"Dunderhead. Bumpkin. Dolt," said the star.
And then she sighed, and made herself as comfortable as she could, under the circumstances. The pain from her leg was dull but continual. She tested the chain about her wrist, but it was tight and fast, and she could neither slip from it nor break it. "Cretinous, verminous oaf," she muttered. And then she, too, slept.
|
In the morning's bright light the young lady seemed more human and less ethereal. She had said nothing since Tristran had woken.
He took his knife and cut a fallen treebranch into a Y-shaped crutch while she sat beneath a sycamore tree and glared at him and glowered at him and scowled at him from her place on the ground. He peeled the bark from a green branch and wound it around the upper fork of the Y.
They had had no breakfast yet, and Tristran was ravenous; his stomach rumbled as he worked. The star had said nothing about being hungry. Then again, she had done nothing at all but look at him, first reproachfully, and then with undisguised hatred.
He pulled the bark tight, then looped it under itself and tugged on it once more. "This is honestly nothing personal," he said, to the woman and to the grove. With the full sunlight shining down she scarcely glittered at all, save for where the darkest shadows touched her.
The star ran one pale forefinger up and down the silver chain that went between them, tracing the line of it about her slim wrist, and made no reply.
"I did it for love," he continued. "And you really are my only hope. Her name—that is, the name of my love—is Victoria. Victoria Forester. And she is the prettiest, wisest, sweetest girl in the whole wide world."
The girl broke her silence with a snort of derision. "And this wise, sweet creature sent you here to torture me?" she said.
"Well, not exactly. You see, she promised me anything I desired—be it her hand in marriage or her lips to kiss—were I to bring her the star that we saw fall the night before last. I had thought," he confessed, "that a fallen star would probably look like a diamond or a rock. I certainly wasn't expecting a lady."
"So, having found a lady, could you not have come to her aid, or left her alone? Why drag her into your foolishness?"
"Love," he explained.
She looked at him with eyes the blue of the sky. "I hope you choke on it," she said, flatly.
"I won't," said Tristran, with more confidence and good cheer than he actually felt. "Here. Try this." He passed her the crutch, and, reaching down, tried to help her to her feet. His hands tingled, not unpleasantly, where his skin touched hers. She sat on the ground like a tree stump, making no effort stare to get up.
"I told you," she said, "that I would do everything in my power to frustrate your plans and devices." She looked around the grove. "How very bland this world does look by day. And how dull."
"Just put your weight on me, and the rest on the crutch," he said. "You'll have to move sometime." He tugged on the chain and, reluctantly, the star began to get to her feet, leaning first against Tristran, and then, as if proximity to him disgusted her, on the crutch.
She gasped, then, in a hard intake of breath, and tumbled to the grass, where she lay with her face contorted, making small noises of pain. Tristran knelt down beside her. "What's wrong?" he asked.
Her blue eyes flashed, but they were swimming with tears. "My leg. I can't stand on it. It must really be broken." Her skin had gone as white as a cloud, and she was shivering.
"I'm sorry," said Tristran, uselessly. "I can make you a splint. I've done it for sheep. It'll be all right." He squeezed her hand, and then he went to the brook, and dipped his handkerchief in it, and gave it to the star to wipe her forehead.
He split more fallen wood with his knife. Then he removed his jerkin, and took off his shirt, which he proceeded to tear into strips which he used to bind the sticks, as firmly as he could, about her injured leg. The star made no sounds while he did this, although, when he pulled the last knot tight, he thought he heard her whimper to herself.
"Really," he told her, "we ought to get you to a proper doctor. I'm not a surgeon or anything."
"No?" she said dryly. "You astonish me."
He let her rest for a little, in the sun. And then he said, "Better try again, I suppose," and he raised her to her feet.
They left the glade at a hobble, the star leaning heavily on her crutch and on Tristran's arm, wincing at every step. And every time she winced or flinched Tristran felt guilty and awkward, but he calmed himself by thinking of Victoria Forester's grey eyes. They followed a deer path through the hazel-wood, while Tristran—who had decided that the right thing to do was to make conversation with the star—asked how long she had been a star, whether it was enjoyable to be a star and whether all stars were women, and informed her that he had always supposed stars to be, as Mrs. Cherry had taught them, flaming balls of burning gas many hundreds of miles across, just like the sun only further away.
To all of these questions and statements she made no answer.
"So why did you fall?" he asked. "Did you trip over something?"
She stopped moving, and turned, and stared at him, as if she were examining something quite unpleasant a very long way away.
"I did not trip," she said at length. "I was hit. By this." She reached into her dress, and pulled out a large yellowish stone, which dangled from two lengths of silver chain. "There's a bruise on my side where it hit me and knocked me from the sky. And now I am obligated to carry it about with me."
"Why?"
She seemed as if she were about to answer, and then she shook her head, and her lips closed, and she said nothing at all. A stream rilled and splashed to their right, keeping pace with them. The noonday sun was overhead, and Tristran found himself getting increasingly hungry. He took the heel of the dry loaf from his bag, moistened it in the stream, and shared it out, half and half.
The star inspected the wet bread with disdain, and did not put it in her mouth.
"You'll starve," warned Tristran.
She said nothing, just raised her chin a little higher.
They continued through the woodland, making slow progress. They were laboring up a deer path on the side of a hill, which led them over fallen trees, and which had now become so steep it threatened to tumble the stumbling star and her captor down to the bottom. "Is there not an easier path?" asked the star, at length. "Some kind of road, or a level clearing?"
And once the question was asked, Tristran knew the answer. "There is a road half a mile that way," he told her, pointing, "and a clearing over there, beyond that thicket," he said, turning to motion in another direction.
"You knew that?"
"Yes. No. Well, I only knew it once you asked me."
"Let us make for the clearing," she said, and they pushed through the thicket as best they could. It still took them the better part of an hour to reach the clearing, but the ground, when they got there, was as level and flat as a playing field. The space seemed to have been cleared with a purpose, but what that purpose was Tristran could not imagine.
In the center of the glade, on the grass some distance from them, was an ornate golden crown, which glittered in the afternoon sunlight. It was studded with red and blue stones: rubies and sapphires, thought Tristran. He was about to walk over to the crown when the star touched his arm and said, "Wait. Do you hear drums?"
He realized that he did: a low, throbbing beat, coming from all around them, near at hand and far away, which echoed through the hills. And then there came a loud crashing noise from the trees at the far side of the clearing, and a high, wordless screaming. Into the glade came a huge white horse, its flanks gashed and bloody. It charged into the middle of the clearing, and then it turned, and lowered its head, and faced its pursuer—which bounded into the clearing with a growl that made Tristran's flesh prickle. It was a lion, but it looked little enough like the lion Tristran had seen at a fair in the next village, which had been a mangy, toothless, rheumy thing. This lion was huge, the color of sand in the late afternoon. It entered the clearing at a run, and then it stopped, and snarled at the white horse.
The horse looked terrified. Its mane was matted with sweat and blood, and its eyes were wild. Also, Tristran realized, it had a long, ivory horn jutting from the center of its forehead. It reared up on its hind legs, whinnying and snorting, and one sharp, unshod hoof connected with the lion's shoulder, causing the lion to howl like a huge, scalded cat, and to spring backwards. Then, keeping its distance, the lion circled the wary unicorn, its golden eyes at all times fixed upon the sharp horn that was always turned toward it.
"Stop them," whispered the star. "They will kill each other."
The lion growled at the unicorn. It began as a soft growl, like distant thunder, and finished as a roar that shook the trees and the rocks of the valley and the sky. Then the lion sprang and the unicorn plunged, and the glade was filled with gold and silver and red, for the lion was on the unicorn's back, claws gashing deeply into its flanks, mouth at its neck, and the unicorn was wailing and bucking and throwing itself onto its back in an effort to dislodge the great cat, flailing uselessly with its hooves and its horn in an effort to reach its tormentor.
"Please, do something. The lion will kill him," pleaded the girl, urgently.
Tristran would have explained to her that all he could possibly hope for if he approached the raging beasts was to be skewered, and kicked, and clawed, and eaten; and he would further have explained that, should he somehow survive approaching them, there was still nothing that he could do, having with him not even the pail of water which had been the traditional method of breaking up animal fights in Wall. But by the time all these thoughts had gone through his head, Tristran was already standing in the center of the clearing, an arm's length from the beasts. The scent of the lion was deep, animal, terrifying, and Tristran was close enough to see the beseeching expression in the unicorn's black eyes...
The Lion and the Unicorn were fighting for the crown, thought Tristran to himself, remembering the old nursery rhyme.
The Lion beat the Unicom all about the town.
He beat him once
He beat him twice
With all his might and main
He beat him three times over
His power to maintain
And with that, he picked up the crown from the grass; it was as heavy and as soft as lead. He walked toward the animals, talking to the lion as he had talked to the ill-tempered rams and agitated ewes in his father's fields, saying "Here, now... Easy... Here's your crown..."
The lion shook the unicorn in its jaws, like a cat worrying a woolen scarf, and darted a look of pure puzzlement at Tristran.
"Hullo," said Tristran. There were burrs and leaves in the lion's mane. He held the heavy crown out toward the great beast. "You won. Let the unicorn go." And he took a step closer. Then he reached out both trembling hands, and placed the crown upon the lion's head.
The lion clambered off the prone body of the unicorn and began to pad, silently, about the clearing, its head raised high. It reached the edge of the wood, where it paused for several minutes to lick its wounds with its red, red tongue, and then, purring like an earthquake, the lion slipped away into the forest.
The star hobbled over to the injured unicorn and lowered herself to the grass, awkwardly, her broken leg splayed out by her side. She stroked its head. "Poor, poor creature," she said. It opened its dark eyes and stared at her, and then it laid its head upon her lap, and it closed its eyes once more.
That evening,Tristran ate the last of the hard bread for his supper, and the star ate nothing at all. She had insisted they wait beside the unicorn, and Tristran had not the heart to refuse her.
The clearing was dark, now. The sky above them was filled with the twinkling of a thousand stars. The star-woman glittered too, as if she had been brushed by the Milky Way; while the unicorn glowed gently in the darkness, like a moon seen through clouds. Tristran lay beside the huge bulk of the unicorn, feeling its warmth radiating out into the night. The star was lying on the other side of the beast. It sounded almost as if she were murmuring a song to the unicorn; Tristran wished that he could hear her properly. The fragments of melody he could make out were strange and tantalizing, but she sang so quietly he could hear next to nothing at all.
His fingers touched the chain that bound them: cold as snow it was, and tenuous as moonlight on a millpond or the glint of light on a trout's silver scales as it rises at dusk to feed.
And soon he slept.
The witch-queen drove her chariot down a forest path, lashing the flanks of the twin white billy goats with a whip when they flagged. She had observed the small cooking fire burning beside the path from almost half a mile back, and she knew from the color of the flames that it was the fire of one of her people, for witch-fires burn with certain unusual hues. So she reined in her goats when she reached the brightly painted gypsy caravan, and the cooking fire, and the iron-haired old woman who sat beside the fire, tending to the spit over the flames on which a hare was roasting. Fat dripped from the hare's open gut, hissing and sizzling in the fire, which gave off the twin aromas of cooking meat and of wood smoke.
A multicolored bird sat by the driver's seat at the front of the caravan, on a wooden perch. It raised its feathers and called out in alarm when it saw the witch-queen, but it was chained to its perch and could not leave.
"Before you says anything," said the grey-haired woman, "I should tell ye that I'm just a poor old flower-seller, a harmless old biddy who's never done nothing to no one, and that the sight of a grand and terrifying lady such as yourself fills me with dread and fear."
"I will not harm you," said the witch-queen.
The harridan screwed her eyes to slits, and looked the lady in the red kirtle up and down. "That's what you says," she said. "But how am I to know that it's so, a sweet old dear like me, who's all a-tremble from her toes to her water? You might be planning to rob me in the night, or worse." And she poked the fire with a stick, so it leapt up. The smell of the cooked meat hung on the still evening air.
"I swear," said the lady in the scarlet kirtle, "that, by the rules and constraints of the Sisterhood to which you and I belong, by the puissance of the Lilim, and by my lips and breasts and maidenhood, that I mean you no harm, and shall treat you as if you were my own guest."
"That's good enough for me, dearie-ducks," said the old woman, her face breaking into a smile. "Come and sit down. Supper'll be cooked in two shakes of a lamb's tail."
"With good will," said the lady in the red kirtle.
The goats snuffled and munched at the grass and the leaves beside the chariot, eyeing with distaste the tethered mules that pulled the caravan. "Fine goats," said the harridan. The witch-queen inclined her head and smiled modestly. The firelight glinted on the little scarlet snake wrapped as a bracelet about her wrist.
The harridan went on, "Now, my dear, my old eyes aren't what once they were by any means, but would I be correct in supposing that one of those fine fellows started life walking on two legs, not four?"
"Such things have been heard of," admitted the witch-queen. "That splendid bird of yours, for example."
"That bird gave away one of the prizes of my stock of items for sale, gave it away to a good-for-nothing, nearly twenty years ago. And afterward, the trouble she put me through scarcely bears considering. So these days, she stays a bird, unless there's work that needs doing, or the flower-stall to run; and if I could find a good strong servant, not afraid of a little hard work, why then she would stay a bird forever."
The bird chirruped sadly upon her perch.
"They call me Mistress Semele," said the harridan.
They called you Ditchwater Sal, when you were a young chit of a thing, thought the witch-queen, but she did not say this aloud. "You may call me Morwanneg," said the witch instead. It was, she reflected, almost a joke (for Morwanneg means wave of the sea, and her true name was long since drowned and lost beneath the cold ocean).
Mistress Semele got to her feet and made her way into the interior of the caravan, emerging with two painted wooden bowls, two wooden-handled knives, and a small pot of herbs, dried and flaked to a green powder. "I was going to be eating with fingers on a plate of fresh leaves," she said, handing a bowl to the lady in the scarlet kirtle. The bowl had a sunflower painted upon it, under a layer of dust. "But I thought, well, how often does I get such fine company? So nothing but the best. Heads or tails?"
"Let it be your choice," said her guest.
"Head, then, for you, with the luscious eyes and brains, and the crispy-crunchy ears of him. And I'll have the rump, with nothing but dull meat to nibble." She lifted the spit off the fire as she spoke, and, using both knives so fast they seemed little more than a glitter of blades, she parted the carcass and sliced the meat from the bones, and dealt it out, fairly equitably, into each bowl. She passed the pot of herbs to her guest. "There's no salt, my dear, but if you shake this on it will do the trick. A little basil, a little mountain thyme—my own receipt."
The witch-queen took her portion of roasted hare, and one of the knives, and sprinkled a little of the herbs onto the dish. She speared a bite on the point of the knife and ate it with relish, while her hostess toyed with her own portion, then blew on it fastidiously, steam coming from the crisp brown meat.
"How is it?" asked the old woman.
"Perfectly palatable," said her guest, honestly.
"It is the herbs make it so fine," explained the harridan.
"I can taste the basil and the thyme," said the guest, "but there is another taste I find harder to place."
"Ah," said Madame Semele, and she nibbled a sliver of the meat.
"It is certainly a most uncommon taste."
"That it is. It's a herb that grows only in Garamond, on an island in the midst of a wide lake. It is most pleasant with all manner of meats and fishes, and it reminds me in flavor a little of the leaves of fennel, with but a hint of nutmeg. The flowers of it are a most attractive shade of orange. It is good for wind and the ague, and it is, in addition, a gentle soporific, which has the curious property of causing one who tastes of it to speak nothing but the truth for several hours."
The lady in the scarlet kirtle dropped her wooden bowl onto the ground. "Limbus grass?" she said. "You dared to feed me limbus grass."
"That's how it would seem, dearie," and the old woman cackled and hooted with delight. "So, tell me now, Mistress Morwanneg, if that's your name, where are you a-going-of, in your fine chariot? And why do you remind me so of someone I knew once...? And Madame Semele forgets nothing and no one."
"I am on my way to find a star," said the witch-queen, "which fell in the great woods on the other side of Mount Belly. And when I find her, I shall take my great knife and cut out her heart, while she lives, and while her heart is her own. For the heart of a living star is a sovereign remedy against all the snares of age and time. My sisters wait for me to return."
Madame Semele hooted and hugged herself, swaying back and forth, bony fingers clutching her sides. "The heart of a star, is it? Hee! Hee! Such a prize it will make for me. I shall taste enough of it that my youth will come back, and my hair turn from grey to golden, and my dugs swell and soften and become firm and high. Then I shall take all the heart that's left to the Great Market at Wall. Hee!"
"You shall not do this thing," said her guest, very quietly.
"No? You are my guest, my dear. You swore your oath. You've tasted of my food. According to the laws of our sisterhood, there is nothing you can do to harm me."
"Oh, there are so many things I could do to harm you, Ditchwater Sal, but I shall simply point out that one who has eaten limbus grass can speak nothing but the truth for several hours afterward; and one more thing..." Distant lightning flickered in her words as she spoke, and the forest was hushed, as if every leaf and every tree were listening intently to what she said. "This I say: you have stolen knowledge you did not earn, but it shall not profit you. For you shall be unable to see the star, unable to perceive it, unable to touch it, to taste it, to find it, to kill it. Even if another were to cut out its heart and give it to you, you would not know it, never know what you had in your hand. This I say. These are my words, and they are a true-speaking. And know this also: I swore, by the compact of the Sisterhood, that I would do you no harm. Had I not so sworn I would change you into a black-beetle, and I would pull your legs off, one by one, and leave you for the birds to find, for putting me to this indignity."
Madame Semele's eyes opened wide with fright, and she stared over the flames of the fire at her guest. "Who are you?" she said.
"When you knew me last," said the woman in the scarlet kirtle, "I ruled with my sisters in Carnadine, before it was lost."
"Vow? But you are dead, long dead."
"They have said that the Lilim were dead before now, but they have always lied. The squirrel has not yet found the acorn that will grow into the oak that will be cut to form the cradle of the babe who will grow to slay me."
Silver flashes glittered and flared in the flames as she spoke.
"So it is you. And you have your youth back." Madame Semele sighed. "And now I, too, shall be young again."
The lady in the scarlet kirtle stood up then, and placed the bowl which had contained her portion of hare into the fire. "You shall be nothing of the kind," she said. "Did you not hear me? A moment after I leave, you shall forget that ever you saw me. You shall forget all of this, even my curse, although the knowledge of it shall vex and irritate you, like an itch in a limb long since amputated. And may you treat your guests with more grace and respect in the future."
The wooden bowl burst into flames then, a huge gout of flame which singed the leaves of the oak tree far above them. Madame Semele knocked the blackened bowl from the fire with a stick, and she stamped it out in the long grass. "Whatever could have possessed me to drop the bowl into the fire?" she exclaimed aloud. "And look, one of my nice knives, all burned up and ruined. Whatever was I a-thinking of?"
There came no answer. From further down the road came the drumming beats of something that might have been the hooves of goats, racing on into the night. Madame Semele shook her head, as if to clear it of dust and cobwebs. "I'm getting old," she said to the multicolored bird who sat on its perch by the driver's seat, and who had observed everything and forgotten nothing. "Getting old. And there's no doing anything about that." The bird shifted uncomfortably on the perch.
A red squirrel quested, hesitating a little, into the firelight. It picked up an acorn, held it for a moment in its handlike front paws, as if it were praying. Then it ran away—to bury the acorn, and to forget it.
Scaithe's Ebb is a small seaport town built on granite, a town of chandlers and carpenters and sailmakers; of old sailors with missing fingers and limbs who have opened their own grog houses or spend their days in them, what is left of their hair still tarred into long queues, though the stubble on their chins has long since dusted to white. There are no whores in Scaithe's Ebb, or none that consider themselves as such, although there have always been many women who, if pressed, would describe themselves as much-married, with one husband on this ship here every six months, and another husband on that ship, back in port for a month or so every nine months.
The mathematics of the thing have always kept most folk satisfied; and if ever it disappoints and a man returns to his wife while one of her other husbands is still in occupancy, why, then there is a fight—and the grog shops to comfort the loser. The sailors do not mind the arrangement, for they know that this way there will, at the least, be one person who, at the last, will notice when they do not come back from the sea, and will mourn their loss; and their wives content themselves with the certain knowledge that their husbands are also unfaithful, for there is no competing with the sea in a man's affections, since she is both mother and mistress, and she will wash his corpse also, in time to come, wash it to coral and ivory and pearls.
So it was to Scaithe's Ebb that Lord Primus of Stormhold came one night, all dressed in black with a beard as thick and serious as one of the storks" nests in the town's chimneys. He came in a carriage drawn by four black horses and he took a room in the Seaman's Rest on Crook Street.
He was considered most peculiar in his needs and requests, for he brought his own food and drink into his rooms, and kept it locked in a wooden chest, which he would only open to take himself an apple, or a wedge of cheese, or a cup of pepper-wine. His was the topmost room in the Seaman's Rest, a high and spindly building, built on a rocky outcrop to facilitate smuggling.
He bribed a number of the local street urchins to report to him the moment they saw any fellow they did not know come to town, by land or sea; in particular, they were to look for a very tall, angular, dark-haired fellow, with a thin hungry face, and blank eyes.
"Primus is certainly learning caution," said Secundus to his five other dead brothers.
"Well, you know what they say," whispered Quintus, in the wistful tones of the dead, which sounded, on that day, like the lapping of distant waves upon the shingle, "a man who is tired of looking over his shoulder for Septimus is tired of life."
In the mornings, Primus would talk to the sea captains with ships in Scaithe's Ebb, buying them grog liberally, but neither drinking nor eating with them. In the afternoon he would inspect the ships in the docks.
Soon the gossips of Scaithe's Ebb (and there were many) had the gist and juice of it all: the bearded gentleman was to be taking ship to the East. And this tale was soon chased by another, that he would be sailing out on the Heart of a Dream under Captain Yann, a black-trimmed ship with its decks painted crimson red, of more or less savory reputation (by which I mean that it was generally held that she kept her piracies for distant waters) and this would be happening as soon as he gave the word.
"Good master!" said a street urchin to Lord Primus. "There's a man in town, come by land. He lodges with Mistress Pettier. He is thin and crowlike, and I saw him in the Ocean's Roar, buying grog for every man in the room. He says he is a distressed seafaring man, seeking a berth."
Primus patted the boy's filthy head and handed him a coin. Then he returned to his preparations, and that afternoon it was announced that the Heart of a Dream would leave harbor in three short days.
The day before the Heart of a Dream was to set sail, Primus was seen to sell his coach and four horses to the stableman on Wardle Street, after which he walked down to the quay, dispensing small coins to the urchins. He entered his cabin in the Heart of a Dream and gave strict orders that none was to disturb him, for any reason, good or bad, until they were at least a week out of port.
That evening an unfortunate accident befell an able seaman who had crewed the rigging on the Heart of a Dream. He fell, when drunk, on the slippery cobblestones of Revenue Street, and broke his hip. Luckily there was a replacement at the ready: the very sailor with whom he had been drinking that evening, and to whom the injured man had been persuaded to demonstrate a particularly complicated hornpipe step on the wet cobbles. And this sailor, tall, dark and crowlike, marked his ship's papers with a circle that night and was on deck at dawn when the ship sailed out of the harbor, in the morning mist. The Heart of a Dream sailed east.
Lord Primus of Stormhold, his beard freshly shaven, watched it sail from the cliff top until it was lost to view. Then he walked down to Wardle Street, where he returned the stableman's money and something more besides, and he rode off on the coast road toward the west, in a dark coach pulled by four black horses.
It was an obvious solution. After all, the unicorn had been ambling hugely behind them for most of the morning, occasionally nudging the star's shoulder with its big forehead. The wounds on its dappled flanks, which had blossomed like red flowers under the lion's claws the day before, were now dried to brown and scabbed over.
The star limped and hobbled and stumbled, and Tristran walked beside her, cold chain binding wrist to wrist.
On the one hand, Tristran felt there was something almost sacrilegious about the idea of riding the unicorn: it was not a horse, did not subscribe to any of the ancient pacts between Man and Horse. There was a wildness in its black eyes, and a twisting spring to its step which was dangerous and untamed. On the other hand, Tristran had begun to feel, in a way that he could not articulate, that the unicorn cared about the star, and wished to help her. So he said, "Look, I know all that stuff about frustrating my plans every step of the way, but if the unicorn is willing, perhaps it would carry you on its back, for a little way."
The star said nothing.
"Well?"
She shrugged.
Tristran turned to the unicorn, stared into its pool-black eyes. "Can you understand me?" he asked. It said nothing. He had hoped it would nod its head or stamp a hoof, like a trained horse he had once seen on the village green when he was younger. But it simply stared. "Will you carry the lady? Please?"
The beast said not a word, nor did it nod or stamp. But it walked to the star, and it knelt down at her feet.
Tristran helped the star onto the unicorn's back. She grasped its tangled mane with both hands and sat sidesaddle upon it, her broken leg sticking out. And that was how they traveled for some hours.
Tristran walked along beside them, carrying her crutch over his shoulder, with his bag dangling from the end. He found it as hard to travel with the star riding the unicorn as it had been before. Then he had been forced to walk slowly, trying to keep pace with the star's limping hobble—now he was hurrying to keep up with the unicorn, nervous lest the unicorn should get too far ahead and the chain that linked them both should pull the star from the beast's back. His stomach rumbled, as he walked. He was painfully aware how hungry he was; soon Tristran began to think of himself as nothing more than hunger, thinly surrounded by flesh, and, as fast as he could, walking, walking...
He stumbled and knew that he was going to fall.
"Please, stop," he gasped.
The unicorn slowed, and stopped. The star looked down at him. Then she made a face, and shook her head. "You had better come up here, too," she said. "If the unicorn will let you. Otherwise you'll just faint or something, and drag me onto the ground with you. And we need to go somewhere so that you can get food."
Tristran nodded, gratefully.
The unicorn appeared to offer no opposition, waiting, passively, so Tristran attempted to clamber up onto it. It was like climbing a sheer wall, and as fruitless. Eventually Tristran led the animal over to a beech tree that had been uprooted several years before by a storm, or a high wind, or an irritable giant, and, holding his bag and the star's crutch, he scrambled up the roots onto the trunk, and from there onto the back of the unicorn.
"There is a village on the other side of that hill," said Tristran. "I expect that we can find something to eat when we get there." He patted the unicorn's flanks with his free hand. The beast began to walk. Tristran moved his hand to the star's waist, to steady himself. He could feel the silken texture of her thin dress, and beneath that, the thick chain of the topaz about her waist.
Riding a unicorn was not like riding a horse: it did not move like a horse; it was a wilder ride, and a stranger one. The unicorn waited until Tristran and the star were comfortable upon its back, and then, slowly and easily, it began to put on speed.
The trees surged and leapt past them. The star leaned forward, her fingers tangled into the unicorn's mane; Tristran—his hunger forgotten in his fear—gripped the sides of the unicorn with his knees, and simply prayed that he would not be knocked to the ground by a stray branch. Soon he found he was beginning to enjoy the experience. There is something about riding a unicorn, for those people who still can, which is unlike any other experience: exhilarating and intoxicating and fine.
The sun was setting when they reached the outskirts of the village. In a rolling meadow, beneath an oak tree, the unicorn came to a skittish halt and would go no further. Tristran dismounted, and landed with a bump on the grass of the meadow. His rump felt sore, but, with the star looking down at him, uncomplaining, he dared not rub it.
"Are you hungry?" he asked the star.
She said nothing.
"Look," he said, "I'm starving. Perfectly famished. I don't know if you—if stars—eat, or what they eat. But I won't have you starving yourself." He looked up at her, questioning. She stared down at him, first impassively, then, in a trice, her blue eyes filled with tears. She raised a hand to her face and wiped away the tears, leaving a smudge of mud on her cheeks.
"We eat only darkness," she said, "and we drink only light. So I'm nuh-not hungry. I'm lonely and scared and cold and muh-miserable and cuh-captured but I'm nuh-not hungry."
"Don't cry," said Tristran. "Look, I'll go into the village and get some food. You just wait here. The unicorn will protect you, if anyone comes." He reached up and gently lifted her down from the unicorn's back. The unicorn shook its mane, then began to crop the grass of the meadow, contentedly.
The star sniffed, "Wait here?" she asked, holding up the chain that joined them.
"Oh," said Tristran. "Give me your hand."
She reached her hand out to him. He fumbled with the chain to undo it, but it would not undo. "Hmm," said Tristran. He tugged at the chain around his own wrist, but it, too, held fast. "It looks," he said, "as if I'm as tied to you as you are to me."
The star threw her hair back, closed her eyes, and sighed deeply. And then, opening her eyes, once again self-possessed, she said, "Perhaps there's a magic word or something."
"I don't know any magic words," said Tristran. He held the chain up. It glittered red and purple in the light of the setting sun. "Please?" he said. There was a ripple in the fabric of the chain, and he slid his hand out of it.
"Here you go," he said, passing the star the other end of the chain that had bound her. "I'll try not to be too long. And if any of the fair folk sing their silly songs at you, for heaven's sake, don't throw your crutch at them. They'll only steal it."
"I won't," she said.
"I'll have to trust you, on your honor as a star, not to run away," he said.
She touched her splinted leg. "I will do no running for quite some time," she said, pointedly. And with that Tristran had to content himself.
He walked the last half a mile into the village. It had no inn, being far off the beaten track for travelers, but the portly old woman who explained this to him then insisted he accompany her to her cottage, where she pressed upon him a wooden bowlful of barley porridge with carrots in it, and a mug of small beer. He exchanged his cambric handkerchief for a bottle of elderflower cordial, a round of green cheese and a number of unfamiliar fruits: they were soft and fuzzy, like apricots, but were the purple-blue of grapes, and they smelled a little like ripe pears; also the woman gave him a small bale of hay, for the unicorn.
He walked back to the meadow where he had left them, munching on a piece of the fruit, which was juicy, and chewy and quite sweet. He wondered if the star would like to try one, whether she would like it if she did. He hoped that she would be pleased with what he had brought her.
At first, Tristran thought that he must have made a mistake, and that he had lost his way in the moonlight. No: that was the same oak tree, the one beneath which the star had been sitting.
"Hello?" he called. Glow-worms and fireflies glittered green and yellow in the hedgerows and in the branches of trees. There came no reply, and Tristran felt a sick, stupid feeling in the pit of his stomach. "Hello?" he called. He stopped calling, then, because there was no one to answer.
He dropped the bale of hay, and then he kicked it.
She was to the southwest of him, moving faster than he could walk. He followed after her in the bright moonlight. Inside, he felt numbed and foolish; stung by a pang of guilt and shame and regret. He should not have loosed her chain, he should have tied it to a tree; he should have forced the star to go with him into the village. This went through his head as he walked; but another voice spoke to him also, pointing out that if he had not unchained her then, he would have done it sometime soon, and she would have run from him then.
He wondered if he would ever see the star again, and he stumbled over roots as the way led him between old trees, into the deep woods. The moonlight slowly vanished beneath the thick canopy of leaves, and after stumbling vainly in the dark for a short while, he laid himself down beneath a tree, rested his head on his bag, and closed his eyes, and felt sorry for himself until he fell asleep.
On a rocky mountain pass, on the southernmost slopes of Mount Belly, the witch-queen reined in her goat-drawn chariot and stopped and sniffed the chilly air.
The myriad stars hung cold in the sky above her.
Her red, red lips curved up into a smile of such beauty, such brilliance, such pure and perfect happiness that it would have frozen your blood in your veins to have seen it. "There," she said. "She is coming to me."
And the wind of the mountain pass howled about her triumphantly, as if in answer.
Primus sat beside the embers of his fire and he shivered beneath his thick black robe. One of the black stallions, waking or dreaming, whinnied and snorted, and then rested once more. Primus's face felt strangely cold; he missed his thick beard. With a stick he pushed a clay ball from the embers. He spat on his hands, then he split open the hot clay and smelled the sweet flesh of the hedgehog, which had cooked, slowly, in the embers, as he had slept.
He ate his breakfast meticulously, spitting the tiny bones into the fire circle once he had chewed the meat from them.
He washed the hedgehog down with a lump of hard cheese and a slightly vinegary white wine.
Once he had eaten, he wiped his hands upon his robe and then he cast the runes to find the topaz stone which conferred the lordship of the crag towns and the vast estates of the Stormhold. He cast them, then he stared, puzzled, at the small, square, red granite tiles. He picked them up once more, shook them in his long-fingered hands, dropped them onto the ground and stared at them again. Then Primus spat into the embers, which hissed lazily. He swept the tiles up and dropped them into the pouch at his belt.
"It is moving faster, further," said Primus to himself.
He pissed on the embers of the fire, for he was in wild country, and there were bandits and hobgoblins and worse in those lands, and he had no desire to alert them to his presence. Then, he hitched the horses to the carriage and climbed into the driver's seat, and drove them toward the forest, to the west, and to the mountain range beyond.
The girl held tight to the unicorn's neck as it tumbled headlong through the dark forest.
There was no moonlight between the trees, but the unicorn glimmered and shone with pale light, like the moon, while the girl herself glittered and glowed as if she trailed a dust of lights. And, as she passed through the trees, it might have appeared to a distant observer that she seemed to twinkle, on and off and off and on, like a tiny star.
|
Tristran Thorn was dreaming.
He was in an apple tree, staring through a window at Victoria Forester, who was getting undressed. As she removed her dress, revealing a healthy expanse of petticoat, Tristran felt the branch begin to give way beneath his feet, and then he was tumbling down through the air in the moonlight...
He was falling into the moon.
And the moon was talking to him: Please, whispered the moon, in a voice that reminded him a little of his mother's, protect her. Protect my child. They mean her harm. I have done all I can. And the moon would have told him more, and perhaps she did, but the moon became the glimmer of moonlight on water far below him, and then he became aware of a small spider walking across his face, and of a crick in his neck, and he raised a hand and brushed the spider carefully from his cheek, and the morning sun was in his eyes And the world was gold and green.
"You were dreaming," said a young woman's voice from somewhere above him. The voice was gentle, and oddly accented. He could hear leaves rustle in the copper beech tree overhead.
"Yes," he said, to whoever was in the tree, "I was dreaming."
"I had a dream last night, too," said the voice. "In my dream, I looked up and I could see the whole forest, and something huge was moving through it. And it got closer, and closer, and I knew what it was." She stopped talking abruptly.
"What was it?" asked Tristran.
"Everything," she said. "It was Pan. When I was very young, somebody—maybe it was a squirrel, they talk so much, or a magpie, or maybe a fishie—told me that Pan owned all this forest. Well, not owned owned. Not like he would sell the forest to someone else, or put a wall all around it--"
"Or cut down the trees," said Tristran, helpfully. There was a silence. He wondered where the girl had gone. "Hello?" he said. "Hello?"
There was another rustle of leaves from above him.
"You shouldn't say things like that," she said.
"Sorry," said Tristran, not entirely sure what he was apologizing for. "But you were telling me that Pan owned the forest..."
"Of course he does," said the voice. "It's not hard to own something. Or everything. You just have to know that it's yours, and then be willing to let it go. Pan owns this forest, like that. And in my dream he came over to me. You were in my dream, too, leading a sad girl by a chain. She was a very sad, sad girl. Pan told me to help you."
"Me?"
"And it made me feel all warm and tingly and squishy inside, from the tips of my leaves to the end of my roots. So I woke up, and there you were, fast asleep with your head by my trunk, snoring like a pig-wiggin."
Tristran scratched his nose. He stopped looking for a woman in the branches of the copper beech tree above him, and looked instead at the tree itself. "You are a tree," said Tristran, putting his thoughts into words.
"I didn't always used to be a tree," said the voice in the rustling of the copper beech leaves. "A magician made me a tree."
"What were you before?" asked Tristran.
"Do you think he likes me?"
"Who?"
"Pan. If you were the Lord of the Forest, you wouldn't give a job to someone, tell them to give all possible aid and succor, unless you liked them, would you?"
"Well..." said Tristran, but before he had decided on the politic answer, the tree had already said, "A nymph. I was a wood-nymph. But I got pursued by a prince, not a nice prince, the other kind, and, well, you'd think a prince, even the wrong kind, would understand about boundaries, wouldn't you?"
"You would?"
"Exactly what I think. But he didn't, so I did a bit of invoking while I was running, and—ba-boom—tree. What do you think?"
"Well," said Tristran. "I do not know what you were like as a wood-nymph, madam, but you are a magnificent tree."
The tree made no immediate reply, but her leaves rustled prettily. "I was pretty cute as a nymph, too," she admitted, coyly.
"What kind of aid and succor, exactly?" asked Tristran. "Not that I am grumbling. I mean, right now I need all the aid and succor I can get. But a tree is not necessarily the obvious place to look for it. You cannot come with me, or feed me, or bring the star here, or send us back to Wall to see my true love. I am certain you would do a remarkable job of keeping off the rain, were it to rain, but it is not, at present, raining..."
The tree rustled. "Why don't you tell me your story so far," said the tree, "and let me be the best judge of whether or not I can be of help."
Tristran began to protest. He could feel the star moving further and further away from him, at the speed of a cantering unicorn, and if there was one thing he did not have time for, it was the recitation of the adventures of his life to date. But then it occurred to him that any progress he had made on his quest so far he had made by accepting the help that had been offered to him. So he sat on the woodland floor and he told the copper beech everything he could think of: about his love, pure and true, for Victoria Forester; his promise to bring her a fallen star—not any fallen star, but the one they had seen, together, from the top of Dyties Hill; and of his journey into Faerie. He told the tree of his journeyings, of the little hairy man and of the small fair folk who stole his bowler hat; he told her of the magic candle, and his walk across the leagues to the star's side in the glade, and of the lion and the unicorn, and of how he had lost the star.
He finished his story, and there was silence. The copper leaves on the tree shivered, softly, as if in a gentle wind, and then harder, as if a storm were coming. And then the leaves formed a fierce, low voice, which said, "If you had kept her chained, and she had escaped her chains, then there is no power on earth or sky could ever make me help you, not if Great Pan or Lady Sylvia herself were to plead or implore me. But you unchained her, and for that I will help you."
"Thank you," said Tristran.
"I will tell you three true things. Two of them I will tell you now, and the last is for when you need it most. You will have to judge for yourself when that will be.
"First, the star is in great danger. What occurs in the midst of a wood is soon known at its furthest borders, and the trees talk to the wind, and the wind passes the word along to the next wood it comes to. There are forces that mean her harm, and worse than harm. You must find her, and protect her.
"Secondly, there is a path through the forest, off past that fir tree (and I could tell you things about that fir tree that would make a boulder blush), and in a few minutes a carriage will be coming down that path. Hurry, and you will not miss it.
"And thirdly, hold out your hands."
Tristran held out his hands. From high above him a copper-colored leaf came falling slowly, spinning and gliding and tumbling down. It landed neatly in the palm of his right hand.
"There," said the tree. "Keep it safe. And listen to it, when you need it most. Now," she told him, "the coach is nearly here. Run! Run!"
Tristran picked up his bag and he ran, fumbling the leaf into the pocket of his tunic as he did so. He could hear hoof-beats through the glade, coming closer and closer. He knew that he could not reach it in time, despaired of reaching it, but still he ran faster, until all he could hear was his heart pounding in his chest and his ears, and the hiss of air as he pulled it into his lungs. He scrambled and dashed through the bracken and made it to the path as the carriage came down the track.
It was a black coach drawn by four night-black horses, driven by a pale fellow in a long black robe. It was twenty paces from Tristran. He stood there, gulping breath, and then he tried to call out, but his throat was dry, and his wind was gone, and his voice came from him in a dry sort of croaking whisper. He tried to shout, and simply wheezed.
The carriage passed him by without slowing.
Tristran sat on the ground and caught his breath. Then, afraid for the star, he got back to his feet and walked, as fast as he could manage, along the forest path. He had not walked for more than ten minutes when he came upon the black coach. A huge branch, itself as big as some trees, had fallen from an oak tree onto the path directly in front of the horses, and the driver, who was also the coach's sole occupant, was endeavoring to lift it out of the way.
"Damnedest thing," said the coachman, who wore a long black robe and who Tristran estimated to be in his late forties, "there was no wind, no storm. It simply fell. Terrified the horses." His voice was deep and booming.
Tristran and the driver unhitched the horses, and roped them to the oak branch. Then the two men pushed, and the four horses pulled, and together they dragged the branch to the side of the track. Tristran said a silent thank you to the oak tree whose branch had fallen, to the copper beech and to Pan of the forests, and then he asked the driver if he would give him a ride through the forest.
"I do not take passengers," said the driver, rubbing his bearded chin.
"Of course," said Tristran. "But without me you would still be stuck here. Surely Providence sent you to me, just as Providence sent me to you. I will not take you out of your path, and there may again come a time when you are glad of another pair of hands."
The coach driver looked Tristran over from his head to his feet. Then he reached into the velvet bag that hung from his belt, and removed a handful of square red granite tiles.
"Pick one," he said to Tristran.
Tristran picked a stone tile, and showed the symbol carved upon it to the man. "Hmm," was all the driver said. "Now pick another." Tristran did so. "And another." The man rubbed his chin once more. "Yes, you can come with me," he said. "The runes seem certain of that. Although there will be danger. But perhaps there will be more fallen branches to move. You can sit up front, if you wish, on the driver's seat beside me, and keep me company."
It was a peculiar thing, observed Tristran as he climbed up into the driver's seat, but the first time he had glanced into the interior of the coach he had fancied that he saw five pale gentlemen, all in grey, staring sadly out at him. But the next time he had looked inside, nobody had been there at all.
The carriage rattled and pounded over the grassy track beneath a golden-green canopy of leaves. Tristran worried about the star. She might be ill-tempered, he thought, but it was with a certain amount of justification, after all. He hoped that she could stay out of trouble until he caught up with her.
It was sometimes said that the grey-and-black mountain range which ran like a spine north to south down that part of Faerie had once been a giant, who grew so huge and so heavy that, one day, worn out from the sheer effort of moving and living, he had stretched out on the plain and fallen into a sleep so profound that centuries passed between heartbeats. This would have been a long time ago, if it ever happened, in the First Age of the world, when all was stone and fire, water and wind, and there were few left alive to put the lie to it if it was not true. Still, true or not, they called the four great mountains of the range Mount Head, Mount Shoulder, Mount Belly and Mount Knees, and the foothills to the south were known as the Feet. There were passes through the mountains, one between the head and the shoulders, where the neck would have been, and one immediately to the south of Mount Belly.
They were wild mountains, inhabited by wild creatures: slate-colored trolls, hairy wild-men, strayed wodwos, mountain goats and mining gnomes, hermits and exiles and the occasional peak-witch. This was not one of the really high mountain ranges of Faerie, such as Mount Huon, on the top of which is the Stormhold. But it was a hard range for lone travelers to cross nonetheless.
The witch-queen had crossed the pass south of Mount Belly in a couple of days, and now waited at the opening of the pass. Her goats were tethered to a thorn bush, which they chewed without enthusiasm. She sat on the side of the unhitched chariot and sharpened her knives with a whetstone.
The knives were old things: the hilts were made of bone, while the blades were chipped, volcanic glass, black as jet, with white snowflake-shapes frozen forever into the obsidian. There were two knives: the smaller, a hatchet-bladed cleaver, heavy and hard, for cutting through the rib cage, for jointing and segmenting; the other a long, daggerlike blade, for cutting out the heart. When the knives were so sharp that she could have drawn either blade across your throat, and you would never have felt more than the touch of the lightest hair, as the spreading warmth of your life's blood made a quiet escape, the witch-queen put them away and commenced her preparations.
She walked over to the goats and whispered a word of power to each of them.
Where the goats had been stood a man with a white chin-beard, and a boyish, dull-eyed young woman. They said nothing.
She crouched beside her chariot, and whispered several words to it. The chariot did nothing, and the witch-woman stamped her foot on the rock.
"I am getting old," she said to her two servants. They said nothing in reply, gave no indication that they even understood her. "Things inanimate have always been more difficult to change than things animate. Their souls are older and stupider and harder to persuade. If I but had my true youth again... why, in the dawn of the world I could transform mountains into seas and clouds into palaces. I could populate cities with the pebbles on the shingle. If I were young again..."
She sighed and raised a hand: a blue flame flickered about her fingers for a moment, and then, as she lowered her hand and bent down to touch her chariot, the fire vanished.
She stood up straight. There were streaks of grey now in her raven-black hair, and dark pouches beneath her eyes; but the chariot was gone, and she stood in front of a small inn at the edge of the mountain pass.
Far away the thunder rumbled, quietly, and lightning flickered in the distance.
The inn sign swung and creaked in the wind. There was a picture of a chariot painted upon it.
"You two," said the witch-woman, "inside. She is riding this way, and she will have to come through this pass. Now I simply have to ensure that she will come inside. You," she said to the man with the white chin-beard, "are Billy, the owner of this tavern. I shall be your wife, and this," pointing to the dull-eyed girl, who had once been Brevis, "is our daughter, the pot-maid."
Another crash of thunder echoed down from the mountain peaks, louder than before.
"It will rain soon," said the witch-woman. "Let us prepare the fire."
Tristran could feel the star ahead of them, moving steadily onward. He felt as if he were gaining ground upon her.
And, to his relief, the black carriage continued to follow the star's path. Once, when the road diverged, Tristran was concerned that they might take the wrong fork. He was ready to leave the coach and travel on alone, if that should happen.
His companion reined in the horses, clambered down from the driver's seat, and took out his runes. Then, his consultation complete, he climbed back up, and took the carriage down the left-hand fork.
"If it is not too forward of me to enquire," said Tristran, "might I ask what it is that you are in search of?"
"My destiny," said the man, after a short pause. "My right to rule. And you?"
"There's a young lady that I have offended with my behavior," said Tristran. "I wish to make amends." As he said it, he knew it to be true.
The driver grunted.
The forest canopy was thinning rapidly. Trees became sparser, and Tristran stared up at the mountains in front of them, and he gasped. "Such mountains!" he said.
"When you are older," said his companion, "you must visit my citadel, high on the crags of Mount Huon. Now that is a mountain, and from there we can look down upon mountains next to which these" and he gestured toward the heights of Mount Belly, ahead of them, "are the merest foothills."
"Truth to tell," said Tristran, "I hope to spend the rest of my life as a sheep farmer in the village of Wall, for I have now had as much excitement as any man could rightly need, what with candles and trees and the young lady and the unicorn. But I take the invitation in the spirit in which it was given, and thank you for it. If ever you visit Wall then you must come to my house, and I shall give you woolen clothes and sheep-cheese, and all the mutton stew you can eat."
"You are far too kind," said the driver. The path was easier now, made of crushed gravel and graded rocks, and he cracked his whip to urge the four black stallions on faster. "You saw a unicorn, you say?"
Tristran was about to tell his companion all about the encounter with the unicorn, but he thought better of it, and simply said, "He was a most noble beast."
"The unicorns are the moon's creatures," said the driver. "I have never seen one. But it is said that they serve the moon and do her bidding. We shall reach the mountains by tomorrow evening. I shall call a halt at sunset tonight. If you wish, you may sleep inside the coach; I, myself, shall sleep beside the fire." There was no change in his tone of voice, but Tristran knew, with a certainty that was both sudden and shocking in its intensity, that the man was scared of something, frightened to the depths of his soul.
Lightning flickered on the mountaintops that night. Tristran slept on the leather seat of the coach, his head on a sack of oats; he dreamed of ghosts, and of the moon and stars.
The rain began at dawn, abruptly, as if the sky had turned to water. Low, grey clouds hid the mountains from sight. In the driving rain Tristran and the coach driver hitched the horses to the carriage and set off. It was all uphill, now, and the horses went no faster than a walk.
"You could go inside," said the driver. "No point in us both getting wet." They had put on one-piece oilskins they had found beneath the driver's seat.
"It would be hard for me to be wetter," said Tristran, "without my first leaping into a river. I shall stay here. Two pairs of eyes and two pairs of hands may well be the saving of us."
His companion grunted. He wiped the rain from his eyes and mouth with a cold wet hand, and then he said, "You're a fool, boy. But I appreciate it." He transferred the reins to his left hand, and extended his right hand. "I am known as Primus. The Lord Primus."
"Tristran. Tristran Thorn," he said, feeling that the man had, somehow, earned the right to know his true name.
They shook hands. The rain fell harder. The horses slowed to the slowest walk as the path became a stream, and the heavy rain cut off all vision as effectively as the thickest fog.
"There is a man," said the Lord Primus, shouting to be heard now over the rain, the wind whipping the words from his lips. "He is tall, looks a little like me, but thinner, more crowlike. His eyes seem innocent and dull, but there is death in them. He is called Septimus, for he was the seventh boy-child our father spawned. If ever you see him, run and hide. His business is with me. But he will not hesitate to kill you if you stand in his way, or, perhaps, to make you his instrument with which to kill me."
A wild gust of wind drove a tankardful of rainwater down Tristran's neck.
"He sounds a most dangerous man," said Tristran.
"He is the most dangerous man you will ever meet."
Tristran peered silently into the rain, and the gathering darkness. It was becoming harder to see the road. Primus spoke again, saying, "If you ask me, there is something unnatural about this storm."
"Unnatural?"
"Or more-than-natural; super-natural, if you will. I hope there is an inn along the way. The horses need a rest, and I could do with a dry bed and a warm fire. And a good meal."
Tristran shouted his agreement. They sat together, getting wetter. Tristran thought about the star and the unicorn. She would be cold by now, and wet. He worried about her broken leg, and thought about how saddle sore she must be. It was all his fault. He felt wretched.
"I am the most miserable person who ever lived," he said to the Lord Primus, when they stopped to feed the horses feedbags of damp oats.
"You are young, and in love," said Primus. "Every young man in your position is the most miserable young man who ever lived."
Tristran wondered how Lord Primus could have divined the existence of Victoria Forester. He imagined himself recounting his adventures to her, back at Wall, in front of a blazing parlor fire; but somehow all of his tales seemed a little flat.
Dusk seemed to have started at dawn that day, and now the sky was almost black. Their path continued to climb. The rain would let up for moments, and then redouble, falling harder than ever.
"Is that a light over there?" asked Tristran.
"I cannot see anything. Maybe it was fool's fire, or lightning..." said Primus. And then they gained a bend in the road, and he said, "I was wrong. That is a light. Well-spotted, young "un. But there are bad things in these mountains. We must only hope that they are friendly."
The horses put on a fresh burst of speed, now that their destination was in sight. A flash of lightning revealed the mountains, rising steeply up on either side of them.
"We're in luck!" said Primus, his bass voice booming like thunder. "It's an inn!"
|
The star had been soaked to the skin when she arrived at the pass, sad and shivering. She was worried about the unicorn; they had found no food for it on the last day's journey, as the grasses and ferns of the forest had been replaced by grey rocks and stunted thorn bushes. The unicorn's unshod hooves were not meant for the rocky road, nor was its back meant to carry riders, and its pace became slower and slower.
As they traveled, the star cursed the day she had fallen to this wet, unfriendly world. It had seemed so gentle and welcoming when seen from high in the sky. That was before. Now, she hated everything about it, except the unicorn; and, saddle sore and uncomfortable, she would have even happily spent time away from the unicorn.
After a day of pelting rain, the lights of the inn were the most welcoming sight she had seen in her time on the Earth. "Watch your step, watch your step," pattered the raindrops on the stone. The unicorn stopped, fifty yards from the inn, and would approach no closer. The door to the inn was opened, flooding the grey world with warm yellow light.
"Hello there, dearie," called a welcoming voice from the open doorway.
The star stroked the unicorn's wet neck and spoke softly to the animal, but it made no move, stood there frozen in the light of the inn like a pale ghost.
"Will you be coming in, dearie? Or will you be stopping out there in the rain?" The woman's friendly voice warmed the star, soothed her: just the right mixture of practicality and concern. "We can get you food, if it's food you're after. There's a fire blazing in the hearth, and enough hot water for a tub that'll melt the chill from your bones."
"I... I will need help coming in..." said the star. "My leg..."
"Ach, poor mite," said the woman. "I'll have my husband Billy carry you inside. There's hay and fresh water in the stables, for your beast."
The unicorn looked about wildly as the woman approached. "There, there, dearie. I won't be coming too close. After all, it's been many a long year since I was maiden enough to touch a unicorn, and many a long year since such a one was seen in these parts..."
Nervously, the unicorn followed the woman into the stables, keeping its distance from her. It walked along the stable to the furthest stall, where it lay down in the dry straw, and the star scrambled off its back, dripping and miserable.
Billy turned out to be a white-bearded, gruff sort of fellow. He said little, but carried the star into the inn, and put her down on a three-legged stool in front of a crackling log fire.
"Poor dear," said the innkeeper's wife, who had followed them inside. "Look at you, wet as a water-nixie, look at the puddle under you, and your lovely dress, oh the state of it, you must be soaked to the bone..." And, sending her husband away, she helped the star remove her dripping wet dress, which she placed on a hook near the fire, where each drip hissed and fizzed when it fell to the hot bricks of the hearth.
There was a tin tub in front of the fire, and the innkeeper's wife put up a paper screen around it. "How d'you like your baths?" she asked, solicitously, "warm, hot, or boil-a-lobster?"
"I do not know," said the star, naked but for the topaz-stone on the silver chain about her waist, her head all in a whirl at the strange turn that events had taken, "for I have never had a bath before."
"Never had one?" The innkeeper's wife looked astonished. "Why, you poor duck; well, we won't make it too hot, then. Call me if you need another copperful of water, I've got some going over the kitchen fire; and when you're done with the bath, I'll bring you some mulled wine, and some sweet-roasted turnips."
And, before the star could protest that she neither ate nor drank, the woman had bustled off, leaving the star sitting in the tin tub, her broken leg in its splints sticking out of the water and resting on the three-legged stool. Initially the water was indeed too hot, but as she became used to the heat she relaxed, and was, for the first time since she had tumbled from the sky, utterly happy.
"There's a love," said the innkeeper's wife, returning. "How are you feeling now?"
"Much, much better, thank you," said the star.
"And your heart? How does your heart feel?" asked the woman.
"My heart?" It was a strange question, but the woman seemed genuinely concerned. "It feels happier. More easy. Less troubled."
"Good. That's good. Let us get it burning high and hot within you, eh? Burning bright inside you."
"I am sure that under your care my heart shall blaze and burn with happiness," said the star.
The innkeeper's wife leaned over and chucked the star under the chin. "There's a pet, such a duck it is, the fine things it says." And the woman smiled indulgently, and ran a hand through her grey-streaked hair. She hung a thick toweling robe on the edge of the screen. "This is for you to wear when you are done with your bath—oh no, not to hurry, ducks—it'll be nice and warm for you, and your pretty dress will still be damp for a while now. Just give us a shout when you want to hop out of the tub and I'll come and give you a hand." Then she leaned over, and touched the star's chest, between her breasts, with one cold finger. And she smiled. "A good strong heart," she said.
There were good people on this benighted world, the star decided, warmed and contented. Outside the rain and the wind pattered and howled through the mountain pass, but in the inn, at the Sign of the Chariot, all was warm and comfortable.
Eventually the innkeeper's wife, assisted by her dull-faced daughter, helped the star out of her bath. The firelight glinted on the topaz set in silver which the star wore on a knotted silver chain about her waist, until the topaz, and the star's body, vanished beneath the thick toweling of her robe.
"Now my sweet," said the innkeeper's wife, "you come over here and make yourself comfortable." She helped the star over to a long wooden table, at the head of which were laid a cleaver and a knife, both of them with hilts of bone and blades of dark glass. Leaning and limping, the star made it to the table, and sat down at the bench beside it.
Outside there was a gust of wind, and the fire flared up green and blue and white. Then a deep voice boomed from outside the inn, over the howl of the elements. "Service! Food! Wine! Fire! Where is the stableboy?"
Billy the innkeeper and his daughter made no move, but only looked at the woman in the red dress as if for instructions. She pursed her lips. And then she said, "It can wait. For a little. After all, you are not going anywhere, my dearie?" This last to the star. "Not on that leg of yours, and not until the rain lets up, eh?"
"I appreciate your hospitality more than I can say," said the star, simply and with feeling.
"Of course you do," said the woman in the red dress, and her fidgeting fingers brushed the black knives impatiently, as if there were something she could not wait to be doing. "Plenty of time when these nuisances have gone, eh?"
The light of the inn was the happiest and best thing Tristran had seen on his journey through Faerie. While Primus bellowed for assistance, Tristran unhitched the exhausted horses, and led them one by one into the stables on the side of the inn. There was a white horse asleep in the furthest stall, but Tristran was too busy to pause to inspect it.
He knew—somewhere in the odd place inside him that knew directions and distances of things he had never seen and the places he had never been—that the star was close at hand, and this comforted him, and made him nervous. He knew that the horses were more exhausted and more hungry than he was. His dinner—and thus, he suspected, his confrontation with the star—could wait. "I'll groom the horses," he told Primus. "They'll catch a chill otherwise."
The tall man rested his huge hand on Tristran's shoulder. "Good lad. I'll send a pot-boy out with some burnt ale for you."
Tristran thought about the star as he brushed down the horses and picked out their hooves. What would he say? What would she say? He was brushing the last of the horses when a blank-looking pot-girl came out to him with a tankard of steaming wine.
"Put it down over there," he told her. "I'll drink it with goodwill as soon as my hands are free." She put it down on the top of a tack box, and went out, without saying anything. It was then that the horse in the end stall got to its feet and began to kick against the door.
"Settle down, there," called Tristran, "settle down, fellow, and I'll see if I cannot find warm oats and bran for all of you." There was a large stone in the stallion's front inside hoof, and Tristran removed it with care. Madam, he had decided he would say, please accept my heartfelt and most humble apologies. Sir, the star would say in her turn, that I shall do with all my heart. Now, let us go to your village, where you shall present me to your true love, as a token of your devotion to her...
His ruminations were interrupted by an enormous clattering, as a huge white horse—but, he realized immediately, it was not a horse—kicked down the door of its stall, and came charging, desperately, toward him, its horn lowered.
Tristran threw himself onto the straw on the stable floor, his arms about his head.
Moments passed. He raised his head. The unicorn had stopped in front of the tankard, was lowering its horn into the mulled wine.
Awkwardly, Tristran got to his feet. The wine was steaming and bubbling, and it came to Tristran then—the information surfacing from some long-forgotten fairy tale or piece of children's lore—that a unicorn's horn was proof against... "Poison?" he whispered, and the unicorn raised its head, and stared into Tristran's eyes, and Tristran knew that it was the truth. His heart was pounding hard in his chest. Around the inn the wind was screaming like a witch in her madness. Tristran ran to the stable door, then he stopped, and thought. He fumbled in his tunic pocket, finding the lump of wax, which was all that remained of his candle, with a dried copper leaf sticking to it. He peeled the leaf away from the wax with care. Then he raised the leaf to his ear, and listened to what it told him.
"Wine, milord?" asked the middle-aged woman in the long red dress, when Primus had entered the inn.
"I am afraid not," he said. "I have a personal superstition that, until the day I see my brother's corpse cold on the ground before me, I shall drink only my own wine, and eat only food I have obtained and prepared myself. This I shall do here, if you have no objection. I shall, of course, pay you as if it were your own wine I was drinking. If I might trouble you to put this bottle of mine near the fire to take the chill from it? Now, I have a companion on my journey, a young man who is attending to the horses; he has sworn no such oath, and I am sure that if you could send him a mug of burnt ale it would help take the chill from his bones...?"
The pot-maid bobbed a curtsey, and she scuttled back to the kitchens.
"So, mine host," said Primus to the white-bearded innkeeper, "how are your beds here at the back of beyond? Have you straw mattresses? Are there fires in the bedrooms? And I note with increasing pleasure that there is a bathtub in front of your fireplace—if there's a fresh copper of steaming water, I shall have a bath later. But I shall pay you no more than a small silver coin for it, mind."
The innkeeper looked to his wife, who said, "Our beds are good, and I shall have the maid make up a fire in the bedroom for you and your companion."
Primus removed his dripping black robe and hung it by the fire, beside the star's still-damp blue dress. Then he turned, and saw the young lady sitting at the table. "Another guest?" he said. "Well-met, milady, in this noxious weather." At that, there was a loud clattering from the stable next door. "Something must have disturbed the horses," said Primus, concerned.
"Perhaps the thunder," said the innkeeper's wife.
"Aye, perhaps," said Primus. Something else was occupying his attention. He walked over to the star and stared into her eyes for several heartbeats. "You..." he hesitated. Then, with certainty, "You have my father's stone. You have the Power of Stormhold."
The girl glared up at him with eyes the blue of sky. "Well, then," she said. "Ask me for it, and I can have done with the stupid thing."
The innkeeper's wife hurried over, and stood at the head of the table. "I'll not have you bothering the other guests now, my dearie-ducks," she told him, sternly.
Primus's eyes fell upon the knives upon the wood of the tabletop. He recognized them: there were tattered scrolls in the vaults of Stormhold in which those knives were pictured, and their names were given. They were old things, from the First Age of the world.
The front door of the inn banged open.
"Primus!" called Tristran, running in. "They have tried to poison me!"
The Lord Primus reached for his short-sword, but even as he went for it the witch-queen took the longest of the knives, and drew the blade of it, in one smooth, practical movement, across his throat...
For Tristran, it all happened too fast to follow. He entered, saw the star and Lord Primus, and the innkeeper and his strange family, and then the blood was spurting in a crimson fountain in the firelight.
"Get him!" called the woman in the scarlet dress. "Get the brat!"
Billy and the maid ran toward Tristran; and it was then that the unicorn entered the inn.
Tristran threw himself out of the way. The unicorn reared up on its hind legs, and a blow from one of its sharp hooves sent the pot-maid flying.
Billy lowered his head and ran, headlong, at the unicorn, as if he were about to butt it with his forehead. The unicorn lowered its head also, and Billy the Innkeeper met his unfortunate end.
"Stupid!" screamed the innkeeper's wife, furiously, and she advanced upon the unicorn, a knife in each hand, blood staining her right hand and forearm the same color as her dress.
Tristran had thrown himself onto his hands and knees, and had crawled toward the fireplace. In his left hand he had hold of the lump of wax, all that remained of the candle that had brought him here. He had been squeezing it in his hand until it was soft and malleable.
"This had better ought to work," said Tristran to himself. He hoped that the tree had known what she was talking about.
Behind him, the unicorn screamed in pain.
Tristran ripped a lace from his jerkin and closed the wax around it.
"What is happening?" asked the star, who had crawled toward Tristran on her hands and knees.
"I don't really know," he admitted.
The witch-woman howled, then; the unicorn had speared her with its horn, through the shoulder. It lifted her off the ground, triumphantly, preparing to hurl her to the ground and then to dash her to death beneath its sharp hooves, when, impaled as she was, the witch-woman swung around and thrust the point of the longer of the rock-glass knives into the unicorn's eye and far into its skull.
The beast dropped to the wooden floor of the inn, blood dripping from its side and from its eye and from its open mouth. First it fell to its knees, and then it collapsed, utterly, as the life fled. Its tongue was piebald, and it protruded most pathetically from the unicorn's dead mouth.
The witch-queen pulled her body from the horn, and, one hand gripping her wounded shoulder, the other holding her cleaver, she staggered to her feet.
Her eyes scanned the room, alighting on Tristran and the star huddled by the fire. Slowly, agonizingly slowly, she lurched toward them, a cleaver in her hand and a smile upon her face.
"The burning golden heart of a star at peace is so much finer than the flickering heart of a little frightened star," she told them, her voice oddly calm and detached, coming, as it was, from that blood-bespattered face. "But even the heart of a star who is afraid and scared is better by far than no heart at all."
Tristran took the star's hand in his right hand. "Stand up," he told her.
"I cannot," she said, simply.
"Stand, or we die now," he told her, getting to his feet. The star nodded, and, awkwardly, resting her weight on him, she began to try to pull herself to her feet.
"Stand, or you die now?" echoed the witch-queen. "Oh, you die now, children, standing or sitting. It is all the same to me." She took another step toward them.
"Now," said Tristran, one hand gripping the star's arm, the other holding his makeshift candle, "now, walk!"
And he thrust his left hand into the fire.
There was pain, and burning, such that he could have screamed, and the witch-queen stared at him as if he were madness personified.
Then his improvised wick caught, and burned with a steady blue flame, and the world began to shimmer around them. "Please walk," he begged the star. "Don't let go of me."
And she took an awkward step.
They left the inn behind them, the howls of the witch-queen ringing in their ears.
They were underground, and the candlelight flickered from the wet cave walls; and with their next halting step they were in a desert of white sand, in the moonlight; and with their third step they were high above the earth, looking down on the hills and trees and rivers far below them.
And it was then that the last of the wax ran molten over Tristran's hand, and the burning became impossible for him to bear, and the last of the flame burned out forever.
|
It was dawn in the mountains. The storms of the last few days had passed on and the air was clean and cold.
Lord Septimus of Stormhold, tall and crowlike, walked up the mountain pass, looking about him as he walked as if he were seeking something he had lost. He was leading a brown mountain pony, shaggy and small. Where the pass grew wider he stopped, as if he had found what he was looking for beside the trail. It was a small, battered chariot, little more than a goat-cart, which had been tipped onto its side. Nearby it lay two bodies. The first was that of a white billy goat, its head stained red with blood. Septimus prodded the dead goat experimentally with his foot, moving its head; it had received a deep and fatal wound to its forehead, equidistant between its horns. Next to the goat was the body of a young man, his face as dull in death as it must have been in life. There were no wounds to show how he had died, nothing but a leaden bruise upon his temple.
Several yards away from these bodies, half-hidden beside a rock, Septimus came upon the corpse of a man in his middle years, facedown, dressed in dark clothes. The man's flesh was pale, and his blood had pooled upon the rocky floor below him. Septimus crouched down beside the body, and, gingerly, lifted its head by the hair; its throat had been cut, expertly, slit from one ear to the other. Septimus stared at the corpse in puzzlement. He knew it, yet...
And then, in a dry, hacking cough of a noise, he began to laugh. "Your beard," he told the corpse, aloud. "You cut your beard. As if I would not have known you with your beard gone, Primus."
Primus, who stood, grey and ghostly, beside his other brothers, said, "You would have known me, Septimus. But it might have bought me a few moments, wherein I might have seen you before you knew me," and his dead voice was nothing but the morning breeze rattling the thorn bush.
Septimus stood up. The sun began to rise, then, over the easternmost peak of Mount Belly, framing him in light. "So I am to be the eighty-second Lord of the Stormhold," he said to the corpse on the ground, and to himself, "not to mention the Master of the High Crags, Seneschal of the Spire-Towns, Keeper of the Citadel, Lord High Guardian of Mount Huon and all the rest of it."
"Not without the Power of Stormhold about your neck you're not, my brother," said Quintus, tartly.
"And then there's the matter of revenge," said Secundus, in the voice of the wind howling through the pass. "You must take revenge upon your brother's killer before anything else, now. It's blood-law."
As if he had heard them, Septimus shook his head. "Why could you not have waited just a few more days, brother Primus?" he asked the corpse at his feet. "I would have killed you myself. I had a fine plan for your death. When I discovered you were no longer on the Heart of a Dream, it took me little enough time to steal the ship's boat and get on your trail. And now I must revenge your sad carcass, and all for the honor of our blood and the Stormhold."
"So Septimus will be the eighty-second Lord of Stormhold," said Tertius.
"There is a proverbial saying chiefly concerned with warning against too closely calculating the numerical value of un-hatched chicks," pointed out Quintus.
Septimus walked away from the body to piss against a grey boulder. Then he walked back to Primus's corpse. "If I had killed you, I could leave you here to rot," he said. "But because that pleasure was another's, I shall carry you with me a little way, and leave you on a high crag, to be eaten by eagles." With that, grunting with the effort, he picked up the sticky-fronted body and hauled it over the back of the pony. He fumbled at the corpse's belt, removing the bag of rune stones. "Thank you for these, my brother," he said, and he patted the corpse on the back.
"May you choke on them if you do not take revenge on the bitch who slit my gullet," said Primus, in the voice of the mountain birds waking to greet the new day.
They sat side by side on a thick, white cumulus cloud the size of a small town. The cloud was soft beneath them, and a little cold. It became colder the deeper into it one sank, and Tristran pushed his burned hand as far as he could down into the fabric of it: it resisted him slightly, but accepted his hand. The interior of the cloud felt spongy and chilly, real and insubstantial at once. The cloud cooled a little of the pain in his hand, allowing him to think more clearly.
"Well," he said, after some time, "I'm afraid I've made rather a mess of everything."
The star sat on the cloud beside him, wearing the robe she had borrowed from the woman in the inn, with her broken leg stretched out on the thick mist in front of her. "You saved my life," she said, eventually. "Didn't you?"
"I suppose I must have done, yes."
"I hate you," she said. "I hated you for everything already, but now I hate you most of all."
Tristran flexed his burned hand in the blessed cool of the cloud. He felt tired and slightly faint. "Any particular reason?"
"Because," she told him, her voice taut, "now that you have saved my life, you are, by the law of my people, responsible for me, and I for you. Where you go, I must also go."
"Oh," he said. "That's not that bad, is it?"
"I would rather spend my days chained to a vile wolf or a stinking pig or a marsh-goblin," she told him flatly.
"I'm honestly not that bad," he told her, "not when you get to know me. Look, I'm sorry about all that chaining you up business. Perhaps we could start all over again, just pretend it never happened. Here now, my name's Tristran Thorn, pleased to meet you." He held out his unburned hand to her.
"Mother Moon defend me!" said the star. "I would sooner take the hand of an--"
"I'm sure you would," said Tristran, not waiting to find out what he was going to be unflatteringly compared to this time. "I've said I'm sorry," he told her. "Let's start afresh. I'm Tristran Thorn. Pleased to meet you."
She sighed.
The air was thin and chill so high above the ground, but the sun was warm, and the cloud-shapes about them reminded Tristran of a fantastical city or an unearthly town. Far, far below he could see the real world: the sunlight pricking out every tiny tree, turning every winding river into a thin silver snail-trail glistening and looping across the landscape of Faerie.
"Well?" said Tristran.
"Aye," said the star. "It is a mighty joke, is it not? Whither thou goest, there I must go. Even if it kills me." She swirled the surface of the cloud with her hand, rippling the mist. Then, momentarily, she touched her hand to Tristran's. "My sisters called me Yvaine," she told him. "For I was an evening star."
"Look at us," he said. "A fine pair. You with your broken leg, me with my hand."
"Show me your hand."
He pulled it from the cool of the cloud: his hand was red, and blisters were coming up on each side of it and on the back of it, where the flames had licked against his flesh. "Does it hurt?" she asked.
"Yes," he said. "Quite a lot, really."
"Good," said Yvaine.
"If my hand had not been burned, you would probably be dead now," he pointed out. She had the grace to look down, ashamed. "You know," he added, changing the subject, "I left my bag in that madwoman's inn. We have nothing now, save the clothes we stand up in."
"Sit down in," corrected the star.
"There's no food, no water, we're half a mile or so above the world with no way of getting down, and no control over where the cloud is going. And both of us are injured. Did I leave anything out?"
"You forgot the bit about clouds dissipating and vanishing into nothing," said Yvaine. "They do that. I've seen them. I could not survive another fall."
Tristran shrugged. "Well," he said. "We're probably doomed, then. But we may as well have a look around while we're up here."
He helped Yvaine to her feet and, awkwardly, the two of them took several faltering steps on the cloud. Then Yvaine sat down again. "This is no use," she told him. "You go and look around. I will wait here for you."
"Promise?" he asked. "No running away this time?"
"I swear it. On my mother the moon I swear it," said Yvaine, sadly. "You saved my life."
And with that Tristran had to content himself.
Her hair was mostly grey, now, and her face was pouched, and wrinkled at the throat and eyes and at the corners of the mouth. There was no color to her face, although her skirt was a vivid, bloody splash of scarlet; it had been ripped at the shoulder, and beneath the rip could be seen, puckered and obscene, a deep scar. The wind whipped her hair about her face as she drove the black carriage on through the Barrens. The four stallions stumbled often: thick sweat dripped from their flanks and a bloody foam dripped from their lips. Still, their hooves pounded along the muddy path through the Barrens, where nothing grows.
The witch-queen, oldest of the Lilim, reined in the horses beside a pinnacle of rock the color of verdigris, which jutted from the marshy soil of the Barrens like a needle. Then, as slowly as might be expected from any lady no longer in her first, or even her second, youth, she climbed down from the driver's seat to the wet earth.
She walked around the coach, and opened the door. The head of the dead unicorn, her dagger still in its cold eye-socket, flopped down as she did so. The witch clambered up into the coach, and pulled open the unicorn's mouth. Rigor mortis was starting to set in, and the jaw opened only with difficulty. The witch-woman bit down, hard, on her own tongue, bit hard enough that the pain was metal-sharp in her mouth, bit down until she could taste the blood. She swirled it around in her mouth, mixing the blood with spittle (she could feel that several of her front teeth were beginning to come loose), then she spat onto the dead unicorn's piebald tongue. Blood flecked her lips and chin. She grunted several syllables that shall not be recorded here, then pushed the unicorn's mouth closed once more. "Get out of the coach," she told the dead beast.
Stiffly, awkwardly, the unicorn raised its head. Then it moved its legs, like a newborn foal or fawn just learning to walk, and twitched and pushed itself up onto all fours and, half climbing, half falling, it tumbled out of the carriage door and onto the mud, where it raised itself to its feet. Its left side, upon which it had lain in the coach, was swollen and dark with blood and fluids. Half-blind, the dead unicorn stumbled toward the green rock needle until it reached a depression at its base, where it dropped to the knees of its forelegs in a ghastly parody of prayer.
The witch-queen reached down and pulled her knife from out of the beast's eye-socket. She sliced across its throat. Blood began to ooze, too slowly, from the gash she had made. She walked back to the carriage and returned with her cleaver. Then she began to hack at the unicorn's neck, until she had separated it from the body, and the severed head tumbled into the rock hollow, now filling with a dark red puddle of brackish blood.
She took the unicorn's head by the horn and placed it beside the body, on the rock; thereupon she looked with her hard, grey eyes into the red pool she had made. Two faces stared out at her from the puddle: two women, older by far in appearance than she was now.
"Where is she?" asked the first face, peevishly. "What have you done with her?"
"Look at you!" said the second of the Lilim. "You took the last of the youth we had saved—I tore it from the star's breast myself, long, long ago, though she screamed and writhed and carried on ever-so. From the looks of you, you've squandered most of the youth already."
"I came so close," said the witch-woman to her sisters in the pool. "But she had a unicorn to protect her. Now I have the unicorn's head, and I will bring it back with me, for it's long enough since we had fresh ground unicorn's horn in our arts."
"Unicorn's horn be damned," said her youngest sister. "What about the star?"
"I cannot find her. It is almost as if she were no longer in Faerie."
There was a pause.
"No," said one of her sisters. "She is still in Faerie. But she is going to the Market at Wall, and that is too close to the world on the other side of the wall. Once she goes into that world, she will be lost to us."
For they each of them knew that, were the star to cross the wall and enter the world of things as they are, she would become, in an instant, no more than a pitted lump of metallic rock that had fallen, once, from the heavens: cold and dead and of no more use to them.
"Then I shall go to Diggory's Dyke and wait there, for all who go to Wall must pass that way."
The reflections of the two old women gazed disapprovingly out of the pool. The witch-queen ran her tongue over her teeth (that one at the top will be out by nightfall, she thought, the way it wobbles so) and then she spat into the bloody pool. The ripples spread across it, erasing all traces of the Lilim; now the pool reflected only the sky over the Barrens and the faint white clouds far above them.
She kicked the headless corpse of the unicorn so it tumbled over onto its side. Then she took up its head, and she carried it with her up to the driver's seat. She placed it beside her, picked up the reins and whipped the restive horses into a tired trot.
Tristran sat at the top of the spire of cloud and wondered why none of the heroes of the penny dreadfuls he used to read so avidly were ever hungry. His stomach rumbled, and his hand hurt him so.
Adventures are all very well in their place, he thought, but there's a lot to be said for regular meals and freedom from pain.
Still, he was alive, and the wind was in his hair, and the cloud was scudding through the sky like a galleon at full sail. Looking out over the world from above, he could never remember feeling so alive as he did at that moment. There was a shyness to the sky and a newness to the world that he had never seen or felt or realized before.
He understood that he was, in some way, above his problems, just as he was above the world. The pain in his hand was a long way away. He thought about his actions and his adventures, and about the journey ahead of him, and it seemed to Tristran that the whole business was suddenly very small and very straightforward. He stood up on the cloud spire and called "Halloo!" several times, as loudly as he could. He even waved his tunic over his head, feeling a little foolish as he did so. Then he clambered down the spire; ten feet from the bottom he missed his footing and fell into the misty softness of the cloud.
"What were you shouting about?" asked Yvaine.
"To let people know we were here," Tristran told her.
"What people?"
"You never know," he told her. "Better I should call to people who aren't there than that people who are there should miss us because I didn't say anything."
She said nothing in reply to this.
"I've been thinking," said Tristran. "And what I've been thinking is this. After we're done with what I need—got you back to Wall, given you to Victoria Forester—perhaps we could do what you need."
"What I need?"
"Well, you want to go back, don't you? Up into the sky. To shine again at night. So we can sort that out."
She looked up at him and shook her head. "That doesn't happen," she explained. "Stars fall. They don't go back up again."
"You could be the first," he told her. "You have to believe. Otherwise it will never happen."
"It will never happen," she told him. "No more than your shouting is going to attract anyone up here where there isn't anyone. It doesn't matter if I believe it or not, that's just the way things are. How's your hand?"
He shrugged. "Hurts," he said. "How's your leg?"
"Hurts," she said. "But not as badly as it did before."
"Ahoy!" came a voice from far above them. "Ahoy down there! Parties in need of assistance?"
Glinting golden in the sunlight was a small ship, its sails billowing, and a ruddy, mustachioed face looked down at them from over the side. "Was that you, young feller-me-lad, a-leaping and cavorting just now?"
"It was," said Tristran. "And I think we are in need of assistance, yes."
"Right-ho," said the man. "Get ready to grab the ladder, then."
"I'm afraid my friend has a broken leg," he called, "and I've hurt my hand. I don't think either of us can climb a ladder."
"Not a problem. We can pull you up." And with that the man tumbled a long rope ladder over the side of the ship. Tristran caught at it with his good hand, and he held it steady while Yvaine pulled herself onto it, then he climbed on below her. The face vanished from the side of the ship as Tristran and Yvaine dangled awkwardly on the end of the rope ladder.
The wind caught the sky-ship, causing the ladder to pull up from the cloud, and Tristran and Yvaine to spin, slowly, in the air.
"Now, haul!" shouted several voices in unison, and Tristran felt them being hauled up several feet. "Haul! Haul! Haul!" Each shout signaled them being pulled higher. The cloud upon which they had been sitting was now no longer below them; instead there was a drop of what Tristran supposed must be a mile or more. He held on tightly to the rope, hooking the elbow of his burned hand about the rope ladder.
Another jerk upwards and Yvaine was level with the top of the ship's railing. Someone lifted her with care and placed her upon the deck. Tristran clambered over the railing himself, and tumbled down onto the oaken deck.
The ruddy-faced man extended a hand. "Welcome aboard," he said. "This is the Free Ship Perdita, bound on a lightning-hunting expedition. Captain Johannes Alberic, at your service." He coughed, deep in his chest. And then, before Tristran could say a word in reply, the captain spied Tristran's left hand, and called "Meggot! Meggot! Blast you, where are you? Over here! Passengers in need of attention. There lad, Meggot'll see to your hand. We eat at six bells. You shall sit at my table."
Soon a nervous-looking woman with an explosive mop of carrot-red hair—Meggot—was escorting him belowdecks, and smearing a thick, green ointment onto his hand, which cooled it and eased the pain. And then he was being led into the mess, which was a small dining room next to the kitchen (which he was delighted to discover they referred to as the galley, just as in the sea stories he had read).
Tristran did indeed get to eat at the captain's table, although there was in fact no other table in the mess. In addition to the captain and Meggot there were five other members of the crew, a disparate bunch who seemed content to let Captain Alberic do all the talking, which he did, with his ale-pot in one hand, and the other hand alternately concerned with holding his stubby pipe and conveying food into his mouth.
The food was a thick soup of vegetables, beans and barley, and it filled Tristran and contented him. To drink, there was the clearest, coldest water Tristran had ever tasted.
The captain asked them no questions about how they came to find themselves high on a cloud, and they volunteered no answers. Tristran was given a berth with Oddness, the first mate, a quiet gentleman with large wings and a bad stammer, while Yvaine berthed in Meggot's cabin, and Meggot herself moved into a hammock.
Tristran often found himself looking back on his time on the Perdita, during the rest of his journey through Faerie, as one of the happiest periods of his life. The crew let him help with the sails, and even gave him a turn at the wheel from time to time. Sometimes the ship would sail above dark storm clouds, as big as mountains, and the crew would fish for lightning bolts with a small copper chest. The rain and the wind would wash the deck of the ship, and he often would find himself laughing with exhilaration, while the rain ran down his face, and gripping the rope railing with his good hand to keep from being tumbled over the side by the storm.
Meggot, who was a little taller and a little thinner than Yvaine, had lent her several gowns, which the star wore with relief, taking pleasure in wearing something new on different days. Often she would climb out to the figurehead, despite her broken leg, and sit, looking down at the ground below.
"How's your hand?" asked the captain.
"A lot better, thank you," said Tristran. The skin was shiny and scarred, and he had little feeling in the fingers, but Meggot's salve had taken most of the pain, and sped the healing process immeasurably. He had been sitting on deck, with his legs dangling over the side, looking out.
"We'll be taking anchor in a week, to take provisions, and a little cargo," said the captain. "Might be best if we were to let you off down there."
"Oh. Thank you," said Tristran.
"You'll be closer to Wall. Still a good ten-week journey, though. Maybe more. But Meggot says she's nearly got your friend's leg up to snuff. It'll be able to take her weight again soon."
They sat, side by side. The captain puffed on his pipe: his clothes were covered in a fine layer of ash, and when he was not smoking his pipe he was chewing at the stem, or excavating the bowl with a sharp metal instrument, or tamping in new tobacco.
"You know," said the captain, staring off toward the horizon, "it wasn't entirely fortune that we found you. Well, it was fortune that we found you, but it'd also be true to say that I was keeping half an eye out for you. I, and a few others about the place."
"Why?" said Tristran. "And how did you know about me?"
In reply, the captain traced a shape with his finger in the condensation on the polished wood.
"It looks like a castle," said Tristran.
The captain winked at him. "Not a word to say too loudly," he said, "even up here. Think of it as a fellowship."
Tristran stared at him. "Do you know a little hairy man, with a hat and an enormous pack of goods?"
The captain tapped his pipe against the side of the boat. A movement of his hand had already erased the picture of the castle. "Aye. And he's not the only member of the fellowship with an interest in your return to Wall. Which reminds me, you should tell the young lady that if she fancies trying to pass for other than what she is, she might try to give the impression that she eats something—anything—from time to time."
"I never mentioned Wall in your presence," said Tristran. "When you asked where I was came from, I said "Behind us" and when you asked where we were going, I said, "Ahead of us." "
"That's m'boy," said the captain. "Exactly."
Another week passed, on the fifth day of which Meggot pronounced Yvaine's splint ready to come off. She removed the makeshift bandages and the splint, and Yvaine practiced hobbling about the decks from bow to stern, holding onto the rails. Soon she was moving about the ship without difficulty, albeit with a slight limp.
On the sixth day there was a mighty storm, and they caught six fine lightning bolts in their copper box. On the seventh day they made port. Tristran and Yvaine said their good-byes to the captain and the crew of the Free Ship Perdita. Meggot gave Tristran a small pot of the green salve, for his start hand and for Yvaine to rub onto her leg. The captain gave Tristran a leather shoulder-bag filled with dried meats and fruits and fragments of tobacco, a knife and a tinderbox ("Oh, it's no bother, lad. We're taking on provisions here anyway)," while Meggot made Yvaine a gift of a blue silk gown, sewn with tiny silver stars and moons ("For it looks so much better on you than it ever has on me, my dear").
The ship moored beside a dozen other, similar sky-ships, at the top of a huge tree, large enough to support hundreds of dwellings built into the trunk. It was inhabited by people and dwarfs, by gnomes and sylvans and other, even queerer, folk. There were steps around the trunk, and Tristran and the star descended them slowly. Tristran was relieved to be back on something attached to solid ground, and yet, in some way he could never have put into words, he felt disappointed, as if, when his feet touched the earth once more, he had lost something very fine.
It was three days of walking before the harbor-tree disappeared over the horizon.
They traveled West, toward the sunset, along a wide and dusty road. They slept beside hedgerows. Tristran ate fruit and nuts from bushes and trees and he drank from clear streams. They encountered few other people on the road. When they could, they stopped at small farms, where Tristran would put in an afternoon's work in exchange for food and some straw in the barn to sleep upon. Sometimes they would stop in the towns and villages upon the way, to wash, and eat—or, in the star's case, to feign eating—and to room, whenever they could afford it, at the town's inn.
In the town of Simcock-Under-Hill, Tristran and Yvaine had an encounter with a goblin press-gang that might have ended unhappily, with Tristran spending the rest of his life fighting the goblins" endless wars beneath the earth, had it not been for Yvaine's quick thinking and her sharp tongue. In Berinhed's Forest Tristran outfaced one of the great, tawny eagles, who would have carried them both back to its nest to feed its young and was afraid of nothing at all, save fire.
In a tavern in Fulkeston, Tristran gained great renown by reciting from memory Coleridge's "Kubla Khan," the Twenty-Third Psalm, the "Quality of Mercy" speech from The Merchant of Venice, and a poem about a boy who stood on the burning deck where all but he had fled, each of which he had been obliged to commit to memory in his school days. He blessed Mrs. Cherry for her efforts in making him memorize verse, until it became apparent that the townsfolk of Fulkeston had decided that he would stay with them forever and become the next bard of the town; Tristran and Yvaine were forced to sneak out of the town at the dead of night, and they only escaped because Yvaine persuaded (by some means, on which Tristran was never entirely clear) the dogs of the town not to bark as they left.
The sun burnt Tristran's face to a nut-brown color, and faded his clothes to the hues of rust and of dust. Yvaine remained as pale as the moon, and she did not lose her limp, no matter how many leagues they covered.
One evening, camped at the edge of a deep wood, Tristran heard something he had never heard before: a beautiful melody, plangent and strange. It filled his head with visions, and filled his heart with awe and delight. The music made him think of spaces without limits, of huge crystalline spheres which revolved with unutterable slowness through the vasty halls of the air. The melody transported him, took him beyond himself.
After what might have been long hours, and might have been only minutes, it ended, and Tristran sighed. "That was wonderful," he said. The star's lips moved, involuntarily, into a smile, and her eyes brightened. "Thank you," she said. "I suppose that I have not felt like singing until now."
"I have never heard anything like it."
"Some nights," she told him, "my sisters and I would sing together. Sing songs like that one, all about the lady our mother, and the nature of time, and the joys of shining and of loneliness."
"I'm sorry," he said.
"Don't be," she told him. "At least I am still alive. I was lucky to have fallen in Faerie. And I think I was probably lucky to have met you."
"Thank you," said Tristran.
"You are welcome," said the star. She sighed, then, in her turn, and stared up at the sky through the gaps in the trees.
Tristran was looking for breakfast. He had found some young puffball mushrooms, and a plum tree covered with purple plums which had ripened and dried almost to prunes, when he spotted the bird in the undergrowth.
He made no attempt to catch it (he had had a severe shock some weeks earlier, when, having narrowly failed to capture a large grey-brown hare for his dinner, it had stopped at the edge of the forest, looked at him with disdain, and said, "Well, I hope you're proud of yourself, that's all," and had scampered off into the long grass) but he was fascinated by it. It was a remarkable bird, as large as a pheasant, but with feathers of all colors, garish reds and yellows and vivid blues. It looked like a refugee from the tropics, utterly out of place in this green and ferny wood. The bird started in fear as he approached it, hopping awkwardly as he came closer and letting out cries of sharp distress.
Tristran dropped to one knee next to it, murmuring reassurances. He reached out to the bird. The difficulty was obvious: a silver chain attached to the bird's foot had become entangled in the twisted stub of a jutting root, and the bird was caught there by it, unable to move.
Carefully, Tristran unwound the silver chain, unhooking it from the root, while stroking the bird's ruffled plumage with his left hand. "There you go," he said to the bird. "Go home."
But the bird made no move to leave him. Instead it stared into his face, its head cocked on one side. "Look," said Tristran, feeling rather odd and self-conscious, "someone will probably be worried about you." He reached down to pick up the bird.
Something hit him, then, stunning him; although he had been still, he felt as if he had just run at full tilt into an invisible wall. He staggered, and nearly fell.
"Thief!" shouted a cracked old voice. "I shall turn your bones to ice and roast you in front of a fire! I shall pluck your eyes out and tie one to a herring and t'other to a seagull, so the twin sights of sea and sky shall take you into madness! I shall make your tongue into a writhing worm and your fingers shall become razors, and fire ants shall itch your skin, so each time you scratch yourself--"
"There is no need to belabor your point," said Tristran to the old woman. "I did not steal your bird. Its chain was snagged upon a root, and I had just freed it."
She glared at him suspiciously from below her mop of iron-grey hair. Then she scurried forward, and picked up the bird. She held it up, and whispered something to it, and it replied with an odd, musical chirp. The old woman's eyes narrowed. "Well, perhaps what you say is not a complete pack of lies," she admitted, extremely grudgingly.
"It's not a pack of lies at all," said Tristran, but the old woman and her bird were already halfway across the glade, so he gathered up his puffballs and his plums, and he walked back to where he had left Yvaine.
She was sitting beside the path, rubbing her feet. Her hip pained her, and so did her leg, while her feet were becoming more and more sensitive. Sometimes at night Tristran would hear her sobbing softly to herself. He hoped the moon would send them another unicorn, and knew that she would not.
"Well," said Tristran to Yvaine, "that was odd." He told her about the events of the morning, and thought that that was the end of it.
He was, of course, wrong. Several hours later Tristran and the star were walking along the forest path when they were passed by a brightly painted caravan, pulled by two grey mules and driven by the old woman who had threatened to change his bones to ice. She reined in her mules and crooked a bony finger at Tristran, "Come here, lad," she said.
He walked over to her warily. "Yes, ma'am?"
"Seems I owe you an apology," she said. "Seems you were telling the truth. Jumped to a conclusion."
"Yes," said Tristran.
"Let me look at you," she said, climbing down into the roadway. Her cold finger touched the soft place beneath Tristran's chin, forcing his head up. His hazel eyes stared into her old green eyes. "You look honest enough," she said. "You can call me Madame Semele. I'm on my way to Wall, for the market. I was thinking that I'd welcome a boy to work my little flower-stall—I sells glass flowers, you know, the prettiest things that ever you did see. You'd be a fine market-lad, and we could put a glove over that hand of yours, so you'd not scare the customers. What d'ye say?"
Tristran pondered, and said "Excuse me," and went over and conferred with Yvaine. Together they walked back to the old woman.
"Good afternoon," said the star. "We have discussed your offer, and we thought that--"
" Well?" asked Madame Semele, her eyes fixed upon Tristran. "Don't just stand there like a dumb thing! Speak! Speak! Speak!"
"I have no desire to work for you at the market," said Tristran, "for I have business of my own that I shall need to deal with there. However, if we could ride with you, my companion and I are willing to pay you for our passage."
Madame Semele shook her head. "That's of no use to me. I can gather my own firewood, and you'd just be another weight for Faithless and Hopeless to pull. I take no passengers." She climbed back up into the driver's seat.
"But," said Tristran, "I would pay you."
The harridan cackled with scorn. "There's never a thing you could possess that I would take for your passage. Now, if you'll not work for me at the market at Wall, then be off with you."
Tristran reached up to the buttonhole of his jerkin, and felt it there, as cold and perfect as it had been through all his journeyings. He pulled it out, and held it up to the old woman between finger and thumb. "You sell glass flowers, you say," he said. "Would you be interested in this one?"
It was a snowdrop made of green glass and white glass, cunningly fashioned: it seemed as if it had been plucked from the meadow grass that very morning, and the dew was still upon it. The old woman squinted at it for a heartbeat, looking at its green leaves and its tight white petals, then she let out a screech: it might have been the anguished cry of some bereft bird of prey. "Where did you get that?" she cried. "Give it to me! Give it to me this instant!"
Tristran closed his finger about the snowdrop, concealing it from view, and he took a couple of steps backwards. "Hmm," he said aloud. "It occurs to me now that I have a deep fondness for this flower, which was a gift from my father when I commenced my travels, and which, I suspect, carries with it a tremendous personal and familial importance. Certainly it has brought me luck, of one kind or another. Perhaps I would be better off keeping the flower, and my companion and I can walk to Wall."
Madame Semele seemed torn between her desire to threaten and to cajole, and the emotions chased each other so nakedly across her face that she seemed almost to vibrate with the effort of keeping them in check. And then she took herself in hand and said, in a voice that cracked with self-control, "Now, now. No need to be hasty. I am certain that a deal can be struck between us."
"Oh," said Tristran, "I doubt it. It would need to be a very fine deal, to interest me, and it would need certain guarantees of safe-conduct and such safeguards as to assure that your behavior and actions toward me and my companion remained at all times benign."
"Let me see the snowdrop again," pleaded the old woman.
The bright-colored bird, its silver chain about one leg, fluttered out of the open door of the caravan, and gazed down at the proceedings beneath.
"The poor thing," said Yvaine, "chained up like that. Why do you not set her free?"
But the old woman did not answer her, ignoring her, or so Tristran thought, and said, "I will transport you to Wall, and I swear upon my honor and upon my true name that I will take no action to harm you upon the journey."
"Or by inaction, or indirect action, allow harm to come to me or my companion."
"As you say."
Tristran thought for a moment. He certainly did not trust the old woman. "I wish you to swear that we shall arrive in Wall in the same manner and condition and state that we are in now, and that you will give us board and lodging upon the way."
The old woman clucked, then nodded. She clambered down from the caravan once more, and hawked, then spat into the dust. She pointed to the glob of spittle. "Now you," she said. Tristran spat next to it. With her foot she rubbed both wet patches, so they conjoined. "There," she said. "A bargain's a bargain. Give me the flower."
The greed and hunger were so obvious in her face that Tristran was now certain he could have made a better deal, but he gave the old woman his father's flower. As she took it from him, her face broke into a gap-toothed grin. "Why, I do think that this is the superior of the one that damnable child gave away almost twenty years gone. Now, tell me young man," she asked, looking up at Tristran with her sharp old eyes, "do you know what manner of thing you have been wearing in your buttonhole?"
"It is a flower. A glass flower."
The old woman laughed so hard and so suddenly that Tristran thought that she was choking. "It is a frozen charm," she said. "A thing of power. Something like this can perform wonders and miracles in the right hands. Watch." She held the snowdrop above her head then brought it slowly down, so it brushed Tristran's forehead.
For but a heartbeat he felt most peculiar, as if thick, black treacle were running through his veins in place of blood; then the shape of the world changed. Everything became huge and towering. It seemed as if the old woman herself was now a giantess, and his vision was blurred and confused.
Two huge hands came down and picked him up, gently. " "Tain't the biggest of caravans," said Madame Semele, her voice a low, slow liquid boom. "And I shall keep to the letter of my oath, for you shall not be harmed, and you shall be boarded and lodged on your journey to Wall." And then she dropped the dormouse into the pocket of her apron and she clambered onto the caravan.
"And what do you propose to do to me?" asked Yvaine, but she was not entirely surprised when the woman did not reply. She followed the old woman into the dark interior of the caravan. There was but one room; along one wall was a large showcase made of leather and pine, with a hundred pigeonholes in it, and it was in one of these pigeonholes, in a bed of soft thistledown, that the old woman placed the snowdrop. Along the other wall was a small bed, with a window above it, and a large cupboard.
Madame Semele bent down and pulled a wooden cage from the cluttered space beneath her bed, and she took the blinking dormouse from her pocket and placed it into the cage. Then she took a handful of nuts and berries and seeds from a wooden bowl and placed them inside the cage, which she hung from a chain in the middle of the caravan.
"There we go," she said. "Board and lodging."
Yvaine had watched all this with curiosity from her seat on the old woman's bed. "Would I be correct," she asked politely, "in concluding from the evidence to hand (to wit, that you have not looked at me, or if you have your eyes have slipped over me, that you have not spoken a word to me, and that you have changed my companion into a small animal with no such provision for myself) that you can neither see me nor hear me?"
The witch made no reply. She walked up to the driver's seat, sat down and took up the reins. The exotic bird hopped up beside her and it chirruped, once, curiously.
"Of course I have kept my word—to the letter," said the old woman, as if in reply. "He shall be transformed back at the market meadow, so shall regain his own form before he comes to Wall. And after I have turned him back, I shall make you human again, for I still have to find a better servant than you are, silly slut. I could not have been doing with him underfoot all the livelong day, poking and prying and asking questions, and I'd've had to've fed him into the bargain, more than nuts and seeds." She hugged herself tightly, and swayed back and forth. "Oh, you'll have to get up pretty early in the morning to put one past me. And I do believe that that bumpkin's flower was even finer than the one you lost to me, all those years ago."
She clicked her tongue, and shook the reins, and the mules began to amble down the forest track.
While the witch drove, Yvaine rested upon her musty bed. The caravan clacked and lurched its way through the forest. When it stopped, she would awake, and rise. While the witch slept Yvaine would sit on the roof of the caravan and look up at the stars. Sometimes the witch's bird would sit with her and then she would pet it and make a fuss of it, for it was good to have something about that acknowledged her existence. But when the witch was about, the bird ignored her utterly.
Yvaine also cared for the dormouse, who spent most of his time fast asleep, curled up with his head between his paws. When the witch was off gathering firewood or fetching water, Yvaine would open up his cage, and stroke him, and talk to him, and, on several occasions, she sang to him, although she could not tell whether anything of Tristran remained in the dormouse, who stared up at her with placid, sleepy eyes, like droplets of black ink, and whose fur was softer than down.
Her hip did not pain her, now that she was not walking every day, and her feet did not hurt her so much. She would always limp, she knew, for Tristran was no surgeon when it came to mending a broken bone although he had done the best he could. Meggot had acknowledged as much.
When, as happened infrequently, they encountered other people, the star did her best to stay out of sight. However, she soon learned that, even should someone talk to her within the witch's hearing—should someone, as once a woodcutter did, point to her, and ask Madame Semele about her—the witch never seemed able to perceive Yvaine's presence, or even to hear anything pertaining to her existence.
And so the weeks passed, in a rattling, bone-jarring sort of a way, in the witch's caravan, for the witch, and the bird, and the dormouse, and the fallen star.
|
Diggory's Dyke was a deep cut between two chalk Downs—high, green hills, where a thin layer of green grass and reddish earth covered the chalk, and there was scarcely soil enough for trees. The Dyke looked, from a distance, like a white chalk gash on a green velvet board. Local legend had it that the cut was dug, in a day and a night, by one Diggory, using a spade that had once been a sword blade before Wayland Smith had melted it down and beaten it out, on his journey into Faerie from Wall. There were those who said the sword had once been Flamberge, and others, that it was once the sword Balmung; but there were none who claimed to know just who Diggory had been, and it might all have been stuff and nonsense. Anyway, the path to Wall went through Diggory's Dyke, and any foot-traveler or any person going by any manner of wheeled vehicle went through the Dyke, where the chalk rose on either side of you like thick white walls, and the Downs rose up above them like the green pillows of a giant's bed.
In the middle of the Dyke, beside the path, was what appeared at first glance to be little more than a heaped pile of sticks and twigs. A closer inspection would have revealed it to be something in nature partway between a small shed and a large wooden teepee, with a hole in the roof through which grey smoke occasionally could be seen to trickle out.
The man in black had been giving the pile of sticks as close an inspection as he could for two days now, from the top of the Downs far above and, when he dared chance it, from closer. The hut, he had established, was inhabited by a woman of advanced years. She had no companions, and no obvious occupation, apart from that of stopping each and every lone traveler and each conveyance that passed through the Dyke, and passing the time of day.
She seemed harmless enough, but Septimus had not become the only surviving male member of his immediate family by trusting appearances, and this old woman had, he was certain of it, slit Primus's throat.
The obligations of revenge demanded a life for a life; they did not specify any way that the life should be taken. Now, by temperament, Septimus was one of nature's poisoners. Blades and blows and booby traps were well enough in their way, but a vial of clear liquid, any trace of taste or odor gone when it was admixtured with food, that was Septimus's metier.
Unfortunately the old woman seemed to take no food she, did not gather or trap herself, and while he contemplated leaving a steaming pie at the door to her house, made of ripe apples and lethal baneberries, he dismissed it soon enough as impractical. He pondered rolling a chalk boulder down from the hills above her, dropping it onto her little house; but he could not be certain that he would hit her with it. He wished he was more of a magician—he had some of the locating ability that ran, patchily, in his family line, and a few minor magics he had learned or stolen over the years, but nothing that would be of use to him now, when he needed to invoke floods or hurricanes or lightning strikes. So Septimus observed his victim-to-be as a cat watches a mouse hole, hour after hour, by night and by day.
It was past the mid-hour of the night, and was quite moonless and dark, when Septimus finally crept to the door of the house of sticks, with a firepot in one hand and a book of romantic poetry and a blackbird's nest, into which he had placed several fircones, in the other. Hanging from his belt was a club of oak-wood, its head studded with brass nails. He listened at the door, but could hear nothing but a rhythmic breathing, and, once in a while, a sleeping grunt. His eyes were used to the darkness, and the house stood out against the white chalk of the Dyke. He crept around to the side of the building, where he could keep the door in sight.
First he tore the pages from the book of poems, and crumpled each poem into a ball or a paper twist, which he pushed into the sticks of the shack's wall, at ground level. On top of the poems he placed the fircones. Next, he opened the firepot, and with his knife he fished a handful of waxed linen scraps from the lid, dipped them into the glowing charcoal of the pot and, when they were burning well, he placed them on the paper twists and the cones, and he blew gently on the flickering yellow flames until the pile caught. He dropped dry twigs from the bird's nest onto the little fire, which crackled in the night and began to blossom and grow. The dry sticks of the wall smoked gently, forcing Septimus to suppress a cough, and then they caught fire, and Septimus smiled.
Septimus returned to the door of the hut, hefting his wooden club on high. For, he had reasoned, either the hag will burn with her house, in which case my task is done; or, she will smell the smoke and wake, affrighted and distracted, and she will run from the house, whereupon I shall beat her head with my club, staving it in before she can utter a word. And she will be dead, and I will be revenged.
"It is a fine plan," said Tertius in the crackling of the dry wood. "And once he has killed her, he can go on to obtain the Power of Stormhold."
"We shall see," said Primus, and his voice was the wail of a distant night bird.
Flames licked at the little wooden house, and grew and blossomed on its sides with a bright yellow-orange flame. No one came to the door of the hut. Soon, the place was an inferno, and Septimus was forced to take several steps backwards, from the intensity of the heat. He smiled, widely and triumphantly, and he lowered his club.
There came a sharp pain to the heel of his foot. He twisted, and saw a small bright-eyed snake, crimson in the fire's glow, with its fangs sunk deep into the back of his leather boot. He flung his club at it, but the little creature pulled back from his heel, and looped, at great speed, away behind one of the white chalk boulders.
The pain in his heel began to subside. If there was poison in its bite, thought Septimus, the leather will have taken much of it. I shall bind my leg at the calf, and then I shall remove my boot, and make a cross-shaped incision in the place where I was bitten, and I shall suck out the serpent's venom. So thinking, he sat down upon a chalk boulder in the fire's light, and he tugged at his boot. It would not come off. His foot felt numb, and he realized that the foot must be swelling fast. Then I shall cut the boot off, he thought. He raised his foot to the level of his thigh; for a moment he thought his world was going dark, and then he saw that the flames, which had illuminated the Dyke like a bonfire, were gone. He felt chilled to the bone.
"So," said a voice from behind him, soft as a silken strangling-rope, sweet as a poisoned lozenge, "you thought that you would warm yourself at the burning of my little cottage. Did you wait at the door to beat out the flames should they prove not to my liking?"
Septimus would have answered her, but his jaw muscles were clenched, his teeth gritted hard together. His heart was pounding inside his chest like a small drum, not in its usual steady march but in a wild, arrhythmic abandon. He could feel every vein and artery in his body threading fire through his frame, if it was not ice that they pumped: he could not tell.
An old woman stepped into his view. She looked like the woman who had inhabited the wooden hut, but older, so much older. Septimus tried to blink, to clear his tearing eyes, but he had forgotten how to blink, and his eyes would not close.
"You should be ashamed of yourself," said the woman. "Attempting arson and violence upon the person of a poor old lady living upon her own, who would be entirely at the mercy of every passing vagabond, were it not for the kindness of her little friends."
And she picked something up from the chalky ground and placed it about her wrist, then she walked back into the hut, which was miraculously unburned, or restored, Septimus did not know which and did not care.
His heart juddered and syncopated inside his chest, and if he could have screamed, he would. It was dawn before the pain ended and, in six voices, his older brothers welcomed Septimus to their ranks.
Septimus looked down, one last time, on the twisted, still-warm form he had once inhabited, and at the expression in its eyes. Then he turned away.
"There are no brothers left to take revenge on her," he said, in the voice of the morning curlews, "and it is none of us will ever be Lord of Stormhold. Let us move on."
And after he had said that, there were not even ghosts in that place.
The sun was high in the sky that day when Madame Semele's caravan came lumbering through the chalk cut of Diggory's Dyke.
Madame Semele noticed the soot-blackened wooden hovel beside the road and, as she approached closer, the bent old woman in her faded scarlet dress, who waved at her from beside the path. The woman's hair was white as snow, her skin was wrinkled, and one eye was blind.
"Good day, sister. What happened to your house?" asked Madame Semele.
"Young people today. One of them thought it would be good sport to fire the house of a poor old woman who has never harmed a soul. Well, he learned his lesson soon enough."
"Aye," said Madame Semele. "They always learn. And are never grateful to us for the lesson."
"There's truth for you," said the woman in the faded scarlet dress. "Now, tell me, dear. Who rides with you this day?"
"That," said Madame Semele, haughtily, "is none of your nevermind, and I shall thank you to keep yourself to yourself."
"Who rides with you? Tell me truly, or I shall set harpies to tear you limb from limb and hang your remains from a hook deep beneath the world."
"And who would you be, to threaten me so?"
The old woman stared up at Madame Semele with one good eye and one milky eye. "I know you, Ditchwater Sal. None of your damned lip. Who travels with you?
Madame Semele felt the words being torn from her mouth, whether she would say them or no. "There are the two mules who pull my caravan, myself, a maid-servant I keep in the form of a large bird, and a young man in the form of a dormouse."
"Anyone else? Anything else?"
"No one and nothing. I swear it upon the Sisterhood."
The woman at the side of the road pursed her lips. "Then get away with you, and get along with you," she said.
Madame Semele clucked and shook the reins and the mules began to amble on.
In her borrowed bed in the dark interior of the caravan the star slept on, unaware how close she had come to her doom, nor by how slim a margin she had escaped it.
When they were out of sight of the stick-house and the deathly whiteness of Diggory's Dyke, the exotic bird napped up onto its perch, threw back its head and whooped and crowed and sang, until Madame Semele told it that she would wring its foolish neck if it would not be quiet. And even then, in the quiet darkness inside the caravan, the pretty bird chuckled and twittered and trilled, and, once, it even hooted like a little owl.
The sun was already low in the western sky as they approached the town of Wall. The sun shone in their eyes, half blinding them and turning their world to liquid gold. The sky, the trees, the bushes, even the path itself was golden in the light of the setting sun.
Madame Semele reined in her mules in the meadow, where her stall would be. She unhitched the two mules, and led them to the stream, where she hitched them to a tree. They drank deeply and eagerly.
There were other market-folk and visitors setting up their stalls all over the meadow, putting up tents and hanging draperies from trees. There was an air of expectation that touched everyone and everything, like the golden light of the westering sun.
Madame Semele went into the inside of the caravan and unhooked the cage from its chain. She carried it out into the meadow and put it down on a hillock of grass. She opened the cage door, and picked out the sleeping dormouse with bony fingers. "Out you come," she said. The dormouse rubbed its liquid black eyes with its forepaws, and blinked at the fading daylight.
The witch reached into her apron and produced a glass daffodil. With it she touched Tristran's head.
Tristran blinked sleepily, and then he yawned. He ran a hand through his unruly brown hair and looked down at the witch with fierce anger in his eyes. "Why, you evil old crone--" he began.
"Hush your silly mouth," said Madame Semele, sharply. "I got you here, safely and soundly, and in the same condition I found you. I gave you board and I gave you lodging—and if neither of them were to your liking or expectation, well, what is it to me? Now, be off with you, before I change you into a wiggling worm and bite off your head, if it is not your tail. Go! Shoo! Shoo!"
Tristran counted to ten, and then, ungraciously, walked away. He stopped a dozen yards away beside a copse, and waited for the star, who limped down the side of the caravan steps, and came over to him.
"Are you all right?" he asked, genuinely concerned, as she approached.
"Yes, thank you," said the star. "She did not ill-use me. Indeed, I do not believe that she ever knew that I was there at all. Is that not peculiar?"
Madame Semele had the bird in front of her now. She touched its plumed head with her glass flower, and it flowed and shifted and became a young woman, in appearance not too much older than Tristran himself, with dark, curling hair and furred, catlike ears. She darted a glance at Tristran, and there was something about those violet eyes that Tristran found utterly familiar, although he could not recall where he had seen them before.
"So, that is the bird's true form," said Yvaine. "She was a good companion on the road." And then the star realized that the silver chain that had kept the bird a captive was still there, now that the bird had become a woman, for it glinted upon her wrist and ankle, and Yvaine pointed this out to Tristran.
"Yes," said Tristran. "I can see. It is awful. But I'm not sure there's much that we can do about it."
They walked together through the meadow, toward the gap in the wall. "We shall visit my parents first," said Tristran, "For I have no doubt that they have missed me as I have missed them"—although, truth to tell, Tristran had scarcely given his parents a second thought on his journeyings—"and then we shall pay a visit to Victoria Forester, and--" It was with this and that Tristran closed his mouth. For he could no longer reconcile his old idea of giving the star to Victoria Forester with his current notion that the star was not a thing to be passed from hand to hand, but a true person in all respects and no kind of a thing at all. And yet, Victoria Forester was the woman he loved.
Well and all, he would burn that bridge when he came to it, he decided, and for now he would take Yvaine into the village, and deal with events as they came. He felt his spirits lift, and his time as a dormouse had already become nothing more in his head than the remnants of a dream, as if he had merely taken an afternoon nap in front of the kitchen fire and was now wide awake once more. He could almost taste in his mouth the memory of Mr. Bromios's best ale, although he realized, with a guilty start, he had forgotten the color of Victoria Forester's eyes.
The sun was huge and red behind the rooftops of Wall when Tristran and Yvaine crossed the meadow and looked down on the gap in the wall. The star hesitated.
"Do you really want this?" she asked Tristran. "For I have misgivings."
"Don't be nervous," he said. "Although it's not surprising that you have nerves; my stomach feels as if I had swallowed a hundred butterflies. You shall feel so much better when you are sitting in my mother's parlor, drinking her tea—well, not drinking tea, but there will be tea for you to sip—why, I swear that for such a guest, and to welcome her boy back home, my mother would break out the best china," and his hand sought hers and gave it a reassuring squeeze.
She looked at him, and she smiled, gently and ruefully. "Whither thou goest..." she whispered.
Hand in hand the young man and the fallen star approached the gap in the wall.
|
It has occasionally been remarked upon that it is as easy to overlook something large and obvious as it is to overlook something small and niggling, and that the large things one overlooks can often cause problems.
Tristran Thorn approached the gap in the wall, from the Faerie side, for the second time since his conception eighteen years before, with the star limping beside him. His head was in a whirl from the scents and the sounds of his native village, and his heart rose within him. He nodded politely to the guards on the gap as he approached, recognizing them both. The young man shifting idly from foot to foot, sipping a pint of what Tristran supposed to be Mr. Bromios's best ale, was Wystan Pippin, who had once been Tristran's schoolfellow, although never his friend; while the older man, sucking irritably upon a pipe, which appeared to have gone out, was none other than Tristran's former employer at Monday and Brown's, Jerome Ambrose Brown, Esquire. The men had their backs to Tristran and Yvaine, and were resolutely facing the village as if they thought it sinful to observe the preparations occurring in the meadow behind them.
"Good evening," said Tristran, politely, "Wystan. Mister Brown."
The two men started. Wystan spilled his beer down the front of his jacket. Mr. Brown raised his staff and pointed the end of it at Tristran's chest, nervously. Wystan Pippin put down his ale, picked up his staff, and blocked the gap with it.
"Stay where you are!" said Mr. Brown, gesturing with the staff, as if Tristran were a wild beast that might spring at him at any moment.
Tristran laughed. "Do you not know me?" he asked. "It is me, Tristran Thorn."
But Mr. Brown, who was, Tristran knew, the senior of the guards, did not lower his staff. He looked Tristran up and down, from his worn brown boots to his mop of shaggy hair. Then he stared into Tristran's sun-browned face, and sniffed, unimpressed. "Even if you are that good-for-nothing Thorn," he said, "I see no reason to let either of you people through. We guard the wall, after all."
Tristran blinked. "I, too, have guarded the wall," he pointed out. "And there are no rules about not letting people through from this direction. Only from the village."
Mr. Brown nodded, slowly. Then he said, as one talks to an idiot, "And if you are Tristran Thorn—which I'm only conceding for the sake of argument here, for you look nothing like him, and you talk little enough like him either—in all the years you lived here, how many people came through the wall from the meadow side?"
"Why, none that ever I knew of," said Tristran.
Mr. Brown smiled the same smile he had been used to use when he docked Tristran a morning's wages for five minutes" lateness. "Exactly," he said. "There was no rule against it because it doesn't happen. No one comes through from the other side. Not while I'm on duty, any road. Now, be off with you, before I take my stick to your head."
Tristran was dumbfounded. "If you think I have gone through, well, everything I've gone through, only to be turned away at the last by a self-important, penny-pinching grocer and by someone who used to crib from me in History..." he began, but Yvaine touched his arm and said, "Tristran, let it go for now. You shall not fight with your own people."
Tristran said nothing. Then he turned, without a word, and together they walked back up the slope of the meadow. Around them a hodgepodge of creatures and people erected their stalls, hung their flags and wheeled their barrows. And it came to Tristran then, in a wave of something that resembled homesickness, but a homesickness comprised in equal parts of longing and despair, that these might as well be his own people, for he felt he had more in common with them than with the pallid folk of Wall in their worsted jackets and their hobnailed boots.
They stopped and watched a small woman, almost as broad as she was high, do her best to put up her stall. Unasked, Tristran walked over and began to help her, carrying the heavy boxes from her cart to the stall, climbing a tall stepladder to hang an assortment of streamers from a tree branch, unpacking heavy glass carafes and jugs (each one stoppered with a huge, blackened cork and sealed with silvery wax, and filled with a slowly swirling colored smoke), and placing them on the shelves. As he and the market-woman worked, Yvaine sat on a nearby tree stump and she sang to them in her soft, clean voice the songs of the high stars, and the commoner songs she had heard and learnt from the folk they had encountered on their journeyings.
By the time Tristran and the little woman were done, and the stall was set out for the morrow, they were working by lamplight. The woman insisted on feeding them; Yvaine barely managed to convince her that she was not hungry, but Tristran ate everything he was offered with enthusiasm and, unusually for him, he drank the greater part of a carafe of sweet canary wine, insisting that it tasted no stronger than freshly squeezed grape juice and that it had no effect upon him of any kind. Even so, when the stout little woman offered them the clearing behind her cart to sleep in, Tristran was sleeping drunkenly in moments.
It was a clear, cold night. The star sat beside the sleeping man, who had once been her captor and had become her companion on the road, and she wondered where her hatred had gone. She was not sleepy.
There was a rustle in the grass behind her. A dark-haired woman stood next to her, and together they stared down at Tristran.
"There is something of the dormouse in him still," said the dark-haired woman. Her ears were pointed and catlike, and she looked little older than Tristran himself. "Sometimes I wonder if she transforms people into animals, or whether she finds the beast inside us, and frees it. Perhaps there is something about me that is, by nature, a brightly colored bird. It is something to which I have given much thought, but about which I have come to no conclusions."
Tristran muttered something unintelligible, and stirred in his sleep. Then he began, gently, to snore.
The woman walked around Tristran, and sat down beside him. "He seems good-hearted," she said.
"Yes," admitted the star. "I suppose that he is."
"I should warn you," said the woman, "that if you leave these lands for... over there..." and she gestured toward the village of Wall with one slim arm, from the wrist of which a silver chain glittered, "...then you will be, as I understand it, transformed into what you would be in that world: a cold, dead thing, sky-fallen."
The star shivered, but she said nothing. Instead, she reached across Tristran's sleeping form to touch the silver chain which circled the woman's wrist and ankle and led off into the bushes and beyond.
"You become used to it, in time," said the woman.
"Do you? Really?"
Violet eyes stared into blue eyes, and then looked away. "No."
The star let go of the chain. "He once caught me with a chain much like yours. Then he freed me, and I ran from him. But he found me and bound me with an obligation, which binds my kind more securely than any chain ever could."
An April breeze ran across the meadow, stirring the bushes and the trees in one long chilly sigh. The cat-eared woman tossed her curly hair back from her face, and said, "You are under a prior obligation, are you not? You have something that does not belong to you, which you must deliver to its rightful owner."
The star's lips tightened. "Who are you?" she asked.
"I told you. I was the bird in the caravan," said the woman. "I know what you are, and I know why the witch-woman never knew that you were there. I know who seeks you and why she needs you. Also, I know the provenance of the topaz stone you wear upon a silver chain about your waist. Knowing this, and what manner of thing you are, I know the obligation you must be under." She leaned down, and, with delicate fingers, she tenderly pushed the hair from Tristran's face. The sleeping youth neither stirred nor responded.
"I do not think that I believe you, or trust you," said the star. A night bird cried in a tree above them. It sounded very lonely in the darkness.
"I saw the topaz about your waist when I was a bird," said the woman, standing up once more. "I watched, when you bathed in the river, and recognized it for what it was."
"How?" asked the star. "How did you recognize it?"
But the dark-haired woman only shook her head and walked back the way that she had come, sparing but one last glance for the sleeping youth upon the grass. And then she was taken by the night.
Tristran's hair had, obstinately, fallen across his face once more. The star leaned down and gently pushed it to one side, letting her fingers dwell upon his cheek as she did so. He slept on.
Tristran was woken a little after sunrise by a large badger walking upon its hind legs and wearing a threadbare heliotrope silk dressing-gown, who snuffled into his ear until Tristran sleepily opened his eyes, and then said, self-importantly, "Party name of Thorn? Tristran of that set?"
"Mm?" said Tristran. There was a foul taste in his mouth, which felt dry and furred. He could have slept for another several hours.
"They've been asking about you," said the badger. "Down by the gap. Seems there's a young lady wants to have a word with you."
Tristran sat up and grinned widely. He touched the sleeping star on her shoulder. She opened her sleepy blue eyes and said, "What?"
"Good news," he told her. "Do you remember Victoria Forester? I might have mentioned her name once or twice on our travels."
"Yes," she said. "You might have."
"Well," he said, "I'm off to see her. She's down by the gap." He paused. "Look. Well. Probably best if you stay here. I wouldn't want to confuse her or anything."
The star rolled over and covered her head with her arm, and said nothing else. Tristran decided that she must have gone back to sleep. He pulled on his boots, washed his face and rinsed out his mouth in the meadow stream, and then ran pell-mell through the meadow, toward the village.
The guards on the wall this morning were the Reverend Myles, the vicar of Wall, and Mr. Bromios, the innkeeper. Standing between them was a young lady with her back to the meadow. "Victoria!" called Tristran in delight; but then the young lady turned, and he saw that it was not Victoria Forester (who, he remembered suddenly, and with delight in the knowing, had grey eyes. That was what they were: grey. How could he ever have allowed himself to forget?). But who this young lady could have been in her fine bonnet and shawl, Tristran could not say; although her eyes flooded with tears at the sight of him.
"Tristran!" she said. "It is you! They said it was! Oh Tristran! How could you? Oh, how could you?" and he realized who the young lady reproaching him must be.
"Louisa?" he said to his sister. And then, "You have certainly grown while I was away, from a chit of a girl into a fine young lady."
She sniffed, and blew her nose into a lace-edged linen handkerchief, which she pulled from her sleeve. "And you," she told him, dabbing at her cheeks with the handkerchief, "have turned into a mop-haired raggle-taggle gypsy on your journeyings. But I suppose you look well, and that is a good thing. Come on, now," and she motioned, impatiently, for him to walk through the gap in the wall, and come to her.
"But the wall--" he said, eyeing the innkeeper and the vicar a little nervously.
"Oh, as to that, when Wystan and Mister Brown finished their shift last night they repaired to the saloon bar at the Seventh Pie, where Wystan happened to mention their meeting with a ragamuffin who claimed to be you, and how they blocked his way. Your way. When news of this reached Father's ears, he marched right up to the Pie and gave the both of them such a tongue-lashing and a telling-of-what-for that I could scarcely believe it was him."
"Some of us were for letting you come back this morning," said the vicar, "and some were for keeping you there until midday."
"But none of the ones who were for making you wait are on Wall duty this morning," said Mr. Bromios. "Which took a certain amount of jiggery-pokery to organize—and on a day when I should have been seeing to the refreshment stand, I could point out. Still, it's good to see you back. Come on through." And with that he stuck out his hand, and Tristran shook it with enthusiasm. Then Tristran shook the vicar's hand.
"Tristran," said the vicar, "I suppose that you must have seen many strange sights upon your travels."
Tristran reflected for a moment. "I suppose I must have," he said.
"You must come to the Vicarage, then, next week," said the vicar. "We shall have tea, and you must tell me all about it. Once you're settled back in. Eh?" And Tristran, who had always held the vicar in some awe, could do nothing but nod.
Louisa sighed, a little theatrically, and began to walk, briskly, in the direction of the Seventh Magpie. Tristran ran along the cobbles to catch her up, and then he was walking beside her.
"It does my heart good to see you again, my sister," he said.
"As if we were not all worried sick about you," she said, crossly, "what with all your gallivantings. And you did not even wake me to say good-bye. Father has been quite distracted with concern for you, and at Christmas, when you were not there, after we had eaten the goose and the pudding, Father took out the port and he toasted absent friends, and Mother sobbed like a babe, so of course I cried too, and then Father began to blow his nose into his best handkerchief and Grandmother and Grandfather Hempstock insisted upon pulling the Christmas crackers and reading the jolly mottoes and somehow that only made matters worse, and, to put it bluntly, Tristran, you quite spoiled our Christmas."
"Sorry," said Tristran. "What are we doing now? Where are we going?"
"We are going into the Seventh Pie" said Louisa. "I should have thought that was obvious. Mister Bromios said that you could use his sitting room. There's somebody there who needs to talk to you." And she said nothing more as they went into the pub. There were a number of faces Tristran recognized, and the people nodded at him, or smiled, or did not smile, as he walked through the crowds and made his way up the narrow stairs behind the bar to the landing with Louisa by his side. The wooden boards creaked beneath their feet.
Louisa glared at Tristran. And then her lip trembled, and, to Tristran's surprise, she threw her arms about him and hugged him so tightly that he could not breathe. Then, with not another word, she fled back down the wooden stairs.
He knocked at the door to the sitting room, and went in. The room was decorated with a number of unusual objects, of small items of antique statuary and clay pots. Upon the wall hung a stick, wound about with ivy leaves, or rather, with a dark metal cunningly beaten to resemble ivy. Apart from the decorations the room could have been the sitting room of any busy bachelor with little time for sitting. It was furnished with a small chaise longue, a low table upon which was a well-thumbed leather-bound copy of the sermons of Laurence Sterne, a pianoforte, and several leather armchairs, and it was in one of these armchairs that Victoria Forester was sitting.
Tristran walked over to her slowly and steadily, and then he went down upon one knee in front of her, as once he had gone down on his knees before her in the mud of a country lane.
"Oh, please don't," said Victoria Forester, uncomfortably. "Please get up. Why don't you sit down over there. In that chair? Yes. That's better." The morning light shone through the high lace curtains and caught her chestnut hair from behind, framing her face in gold. "Look at you," she said. "You became a man. And your hand. What happened to your hand?"
"I burnt it," he said. "In a fire."
She said nothing in response, at first. She just looked at him. Then she sat back in the armchair, and looked ahead of her, at the stick on the wall, or one of Mr. Bromios's quaint old statues perhaps, and she said, "There are a number of things I must tell you, Tristran, and none of them will be easy. I would appreciate it if you said nothing until I have had a chance to say my piece. So: firstly, and perhaps most importantly, I must apologize to you. It was my foolishness, my idiocy, that sent you off on your journeyings. I thought you were joking... no, not joking. I thought that you were too much the coward, too much of a boy, ever to follow up on any of your fine, silly words. It was only when you had gone, and the days passed, and you did not return, that I realized that you had been in earnest, and by then it was much too late.
"I have had to live... each day... with the possibility that I had sent you to your death."
She stared ahead of herself as she spoke, and Tristran had the feeling, which became a certainty, that she had conducted this conversation in her head a hundred times in his absence. It was why he could not be permitted to say anything; this was hard enough on Victoria Forester, and she would not be able to manage it if he caused her to depart from her script.
"And I did not play you fair, my poor shop-boy... but you are no longer a shop-boy, are you?... since I thought that your quest was just foolishness, in every way..." She paused, and her hands gripped the wooden arms of the chair, grasping them so tightly her knuckles first reddened, then went white. "Ask me why I would not kiss you that night, Tristran Thorn."
"It was your right not to kiss me," said Tristran. "I did not come here to make you sad, Vicky. I did not find you your star to make you miserable."
Her head tipped to one side. "So you did find the star we saw that night?"
"Oh yes," said Tristran. "The star is back in the meadow, though, right now. But I did what you asked me to do."
"Then do something else for me now. Ask me why I would not kiss you that night. I had kissed you before, when we were younger, after all."
"Very well, Vicky. Why would you not kiss me, that night?"
"Because," she said, and there was relief in her voice as she said it, enormous relief, as if it were escaping from her, "the day before we saw the shooting star, Robert had asked me to marry him. That evening, when I saw you, I had gone to the shop hoping to see him, and to talk to him, and to tell him that I accepted, and he should ask my father for my hand."
"Robert?" asked Tristran, his head all in a whirl.
"Robert Monday. You worked in his shop."
"Mister Monday?" echoed Tristran. "You and Mister Monday?"
"Exactly." She was looking at him now. "And then you had to take me seriously and run off to bring me back a star, and not a day would go by when I did not feel as if I had done something foolish and bad. For I promised you my hand, if you returned with the star. And there were some days, Tristran, when I honestly do not know which I thought worse, that you would be killed in the Lands Beyond, all for the love of me, or that you would succeed in your madness, and return with the star, to claim me as your bride. Now, of course, some folks hereabouts told me not to take on so, and that it was inevitable that you would have gone off to the Lands Beyond, of course, it being your nature, and you being from there in the first place, but, somehow, in my heart, I knew I was at fault, and that, one day, you would return to claim me."
"And you love Mister Monday?" said Tristran, seizing on the only thing in all this he was certain he had understood.
She nodded, and raised her head, so her pretty chin pointed toward Tristran. "But I gave you my word, Tristran. And I will keep my word, and I have told Robert this. I am responsible for all that you have gone through—even for your poor burned hand. And if you want me, then I am yours."
"To be honest," he said, "I think that I am responsible for all that I have done, not you. And it is hard to regret a moment of it, although I missed soft beds from time to time, and I shall never be able to look at another dormouse in quite the same way ever again. But you did not promise me your hand if I came back with the star, Vicky."
"I didn't?"
"No. You promised me anything I desired." Victoria Forester sat bolt upright then, and looked down at the floor. A red spot burned in each pale cheek, as if she had been slapped. "Do I understand you to be--" she began, but Tristran interrupted her.
"No," he said. "I don't think you do, actually. You said you would give me whatever I desire."
"Yes."
"Then..." He paused. "Then I desire that you should marry Mister Monday. I desire that you should be married as soon as possible—why, within this very week, if such a thing can be arranged. And I desire that you should be as happy together as ever a man and woman have ever been."
She exhaled in one low shuddering breath of release. Then she looked at him. "Do you mean it?" she asked.
"Marry him with my blessing, and we'll be quits and done," said Tristran. "And the star will probably think so, too."
There was a knock at the door. "Is all well in there?" called a man's voice.
"Everything is very well," said Victoria. "Please come in, Robert. You remember Tristran Thorn, do you not?"
"Good morning, Mister Monday," said Tristran, and he shook Mr. Monday's hand, which was sweaty and damp. "I understand that you are to be married soon. Permit me to tender my congratulations."
Mr. Monday grinned, though it made him look as if he had a toothache. Then he held out a hand for Victoria, and she rose from the chair.
"If you wish to see the star, Miss Forester..." said Tristran, but Victoria shook her head.
"I am delighted that you came home safely, Mister Thorn. I trust that I shall see you at our wedding?"
"I'm sure that nothing could give me greater pleasure than to be there," said Tristran, although he was sure of no such thing.
On a normal day it would have been unheard-of for the Seventh Magpie to have been so crowded before breakfast, but this was market day, and the Wall-folk and the strangers were crowded into the bar, eating heaped plates of lambchops and bacon and mushrooms and fried eggs and black pudding.
Dunstan Thorn was waiting for Tristran in the bar. He stood up when he saw him, walked over and clasped him on the shoulder, without speaking. "So you made it back without hurt," he said, and there was pride in his voice.
Tristran wondered if he had grown while he was away; he remembered his father as a bigger man. "Hello Father," he said. "I hurt my hand a bit."
"Your mother has breakfast waiting for you, back at the farm," said Dunstan.
"Breakfast would be wonderful," admitted Tristran. "And seeing Mother again, of course. Also we need to talk." For his mind was still on something that Victoria Forester had said.
"You look taller," said his father. "And you are badly in need of a trip to the barber's." He drained his tankard, and together they left the Seventh Magpie and walked out into the morning.
The two Thorns climbed over a stile into one of Dunstan's fields, and, as they walked through the meadow in which he had played as a boy, Tristran raised the matter that had been vexing him, which was the question of his birth. His father answered him as honestly as he was able to during the long walk back to the farmhouse, telling his tale as if he were recounting a story that had happened a very long time ago, to someone else. A love story.
And then they were at Tristran's old home, where his sister waited for him, and there was a steaming breakfast on the stove and on the table, prepared for him, lovingly, by the woman he had always believed to be his mother.
Madame Semele adjusted the last of the crystal flowers on the stall, and eyed the market with disfavor. It was a little past noon, and the customers had just started to wander through. None of them had yet stopped at her stall.
"Fewer of them and fewer of them, every nine-year," she said. "Mark my words, soon enough this market will be just a memory. There's other markets, and other marketplaces, I am thinking. This market's time is almost over. Another forty, fifty, sixty years at the most, and it will be done for good."
"Perhaps," said her violet-eyed servant, "but it does not matter to me. This is the last of these markets I shall ever attend."
Madame Semele glared at her. "I thought I had long since beaten all of your insolence out of you."
"It is not insolence," said her slave. "Look." She held up the silver chain which bound her. It glinted in the sunlight, but still, it was thinner, more translucent than ever it had been before; in places it seemed as if it were made not of silver but of smoke.
"What have you done?" Spittle flecked the old woman's lips.
"I have done nothing; nothing that I did not do eighteen years ago. I was bound to you to be your slave until the day that the moon lost her daughter, if it occurred in a week when two Mondays came together. And my time with you is almost done."
It was after three in the afternoon. The star sat upon the meadow grass beside Mr. Bromios's wine-and-ale-and-food stall, and stared across at the gap in the wall and the village beyond it. Upon occasion, the patrons of the stall would offer her wine or ale or great, greasy sausages, and always she would decline.
"Are you waiting for someone, my dear?" asked a pleasant-featured young woman, as the afternoon dragged on.
"I do not know," said the star. "Perhaps."
"A young man, if I do not mistake my guess, a lovely thing like you."
The star nodded. "In a way," she said.
"I'm Victoria," said the young woman. "Victoria Forester."
"I am called Yvaine," said the star. She looked Victoria Forester up and down and up again. "So," she said, "you are Victoria Forester. Your fame precedes you."
"The wedding, you mean?" said Victoria, and her eyes shone with pride and delight.
"A wedding, is it?" asked Yvaine. One hand crept to her waist, and felt the topaz, upon its silver chain. Then she stared at the gap in the wall, and bit her lip.
"Oh you poor thing! What a beast he must be, to keep you waiting so!" said Victoria Forester. "Why do you not go through, and look for him?"
"Because..." said the star, and then she stopped. "Aye," she said. "Perhaps I shall." The sky above them was striped with grey and white bands of cloud, through which patches of blue could be seen. "I wish my mother were out," said the star. "I would say good-bye to her, first." And, awkwardly, she got to her feet.
But Victoria was not willing to let her new friend go that easily, and she was prattling on about banns, and marriage licenses, and special licenses which could only be issued by archbishops, and how lucky she was that Robert knew the archbishop. The wedding, it seemed, was set for six days" time, at midday.
Then Victoria called over a respectable gentleman, greying at the temples, who was smoking a black cheroot and who grinned as if he had the toothache. "And this is Robert," she said. "Robert, this is Yvaine. She's waiting for her young man. Yvaine, this is Robert Monday. And on Friday next, at midday, I shall be Victoria Monday. Perhaps you could make something of that, my dear, in your speech at the wedding breakfast—that on Friday there will be two Mondays together!"
And Mr. Monday puffed on his cheroot, and told his bride-to-be that he would certainly consider it.
"Then," asked Yvaine, picking her words with care, "you are not marrying Tristran Thorn?"
"No," said Victoria.
"Oh," said the star. "Good." And she sat down again.
She was still sitting there when Tristran came back through the gap in the wall, several hours later. He looked distracted, but brightened up when he saw her. "Hello, you," he said, helping her to her feet. "Have a good time waiting for me?"
"Not particularly," she said.
"I'm sorry," said Tristran. "I suppose I should have taken you with me, into the village."
"No," said the star, "You shouldn't have. I live as long as I am in Faerie. Were I to travel to your world, I would be nothing but a cold iron stone fallen from the heavens, pitted and pocked."
"But I almost took you through with me!" said Tristan, aghast. "I tried to, last night."
"Yes," she said. "Which only goes to prove that you are indeed a ninny, a lackwit, and a... a clodpoll."
"Dunderhead," offered Tristran. "You always used to like calling me a dunderhead. And an oaf."
"Well," she said, "you are all those things, and more besides. Why did you keep me waiting like that? I thought something terrible had happened to you."
"I'm sorry," he told her. "I won't leave you again."
"No," she said, seriously and with certainty, "you will not."
His hand found hers, then. They walked, hand in hand, through the market. A wind began to come up, flapping and gusting at the canvas of the tents and the flags, and a cold rain spat down on them. They took refuge under the awning of a book stall, along with a number of other people and creatures. The stallholder hauled a boxful of books further under the canvas, to ensure that it did not get wet.
"Mackerel sky, mackerel sky, not long wet nor not long dry," said a man in a black silk top hat to Tristran and Yvaine. He was purchasing a small book bound in red leather from the bookseller.
Tristran smiled and nodded, and, as it became apparent that the rain was easing up, he and Yvaine walked on.
"Which is all the thanks I shall ever get from them, I'll wager," said the tall man in the top hat to the bookseller, who had not the slightest idea what he was speaking about, and did not care.
"I have said my good-byes to my family," said Tristran to the star, as they walked. "To my father, and my mother—my father's wife, perhaps I should say—and to my sister, Louisa. I don't think I shall be going back again. Now we just need to solve the problem of how to put you back up again in the sky. Perhaps I shall come with you."
"You would not like it, up in the sky," the star assured him. "So... I take it you will not be marrying Victoria Forester."
Tristran nodded. "No," he said.
"I met her," said the star. "Did you know that she is with child?"
"What?" asked Tristran, shocked and surprised.
"I doubt that she knows. She is one, perhaps two moons along."
"Good lord. How do you know?"
It was the star's turn to shrug. "You know," she said, "I was happy to discover that you are not marrying Victoria Forester."
"So was I," he confessed.
The rain began once more, but they made no move to get under cover. He squeezed her hand in his. "You know," she said, "a star and a mortal man..."
"Only half mortal, actually," said Tristran, helpfully. "Everything I ever thought about myself—who I was, what I am—was a lie. Or sort of. You have no idea how astonishingly liberating that feels."
"Whatever you are," she said, "I just wanted to point out that we can probably never have children. That's all."
Tristran looked at the star, then, and he began to smile, and he said nothing at all. His hands were on her upper arms. He was standing in front of her, and looking down at her.
"Just so you know, that's all," said the star, and she leaned forward.
They kissed for the first time then in the cold spring rain, though neither one of them now knew that it was raining. Tristran's heart pounded in his chest as if it were not big enough to contain all the joy that it held. He opened his eyes as he kissed the star. Her sky-blue eyes stared back into his, and in her eyes he could see no parting from her.
The silver chain was now nothing but smoke and vapor. For a heartbeat it hung on the air, then a sharp gust of wind and rain blew it out into nothing at all.
"There," said the woman with the dark, curling hair, stretching like a cat, and smiling. "The terms of my servitude are fulfilled, and now you and I are done with each other."
The old woman looked at her helplessly. "But what shall I do? I am old. I cannot manage this stall by myself. You are an evil, foolish slattern, so to desert me like this."
"Your problems are of no concern to me," said her former slave, "but I shall never again be called a slattern, or a slave, or anything else that is not my own name. I am Lady Una, firstborn and only daughter of the eighty-first Lord of Stormhold, and the spells and terms you bound me with are over and done. Now, you will apologize to me, and you will call me by my right name, or I will—with enormous pleasure—devote the rest of my life to hunting you down and destroying every thing that you care for and every thing that you are."
They looked at each other, then, and it was the old woman who looked away first.
"Then I must apologize for having called you a slattern, Lady Una," she said, as if each word of it were bitter sawdust that she spat from her mouth.
Lady Una nodded. "Good. And I believe that you owe me payment for my services, now my time with you is done," she said. For these things have their rules. All things have rules.
The rain was still falling in gusts, then not falling for just long enough to lure people out from underneath their makeshift shelters, then raining on them once more. Tristran and Yvaine sat, damp and happy, beside a campfire, in the company of a motley assortment of creatures and people.
Tristran had asked if any of them knew the little hairy man he had met upon his travels, and had described him as well as he could. Several people acknowledged that they had met him in the past, although none had seen him at this market.
He found his hands twining, almost of their own volition, into the star's wet hair. He wondered how it could have taken him so long to realize how much he cared for her, and he told her so, and she called him an idiot, and he declared that it was the finest thing that ever a man had been called.
"So, where are we going once the market is done?" Tristran asked the star.
"I do not know," she said. "But I have one obligation still to discharge."
"You do?"
"Yes," she said. "The topaz thing I showed you. I have to give it to the right person. The last time the right person came along, that innkeeper woman cut his throat, so I have it still. But I wish it were gone."
A woman's voice at his shoulder said, "Ask her for what she carries, Tristran Thorn."
He turned, and stared into eyes the color of meadow-violets. "You were the bird in the witch's caravan," he told the woman.
"When you were the dormouse, my son," said the woman. "I was the bird. But now I have my own form again, and my time of servitude is over. Ask Yvaine for what she carries. You have the right."
He turned back to the star. "Yvaine?"
She nodded, waiting.
"Yvaine, will you give me what you are carrying?"
She looked puzzled; then she reached inside her robe, fumbled discreetly, and produced a large topaz stone on a broken silver chain.
"It was your grandfather's," said the woman to Tristran. "You are the last male of the line of Stormhold. Put it about your neck."
Tristran did so; as he touched the ends of the silver chain together they knit and mended as if they had never been broken. "It's very nice," said Tristran, dubiously.
"It is the Power of Stormhold," said his mother. "There's no one can argue with that. You are of the blood, and all of your uncles are dead and gone. You will make a fine Lord of Stormhold."
Tristran stared at her in honest puzzlement. "But I have no wish to be a lord of anywhere," he told her, "or of anything, except perhaps my lady's heart." And he took the star's hand in his, and he pressed it to his breast, and smiled.
The woman flicked her ears impatiently. "In almost eighteen years, Tristran Thorn, I have not demanded one single thing of you. And now, the first simple little request that I make—the tiniest favor that I ask of you—you say me no. Now, I ask of you, Tristran, is that any way to treat your mother?"
"No, Mother," said Tristran.
"Well," she continued, slightly mollified, "and I think it will do you young people good to have a home of your own, and for you to have an occupation. And if it does not suit you, you may leave, you know. There is no silver chain that will be holding you to the throne of Stormhold."
And Tristran found this quite reassuring. Yvaine was less impressed, for she knew that silver chains come in all shapes and sizes; but she knew also that it would not be wise to begin her life with Tristran by arguing with his mother.
"Might I have the honor of knowing what you are called?" asked Yvaine, wondering if she was laying it on a bit thickly. Tristran's mother preened, and Yvaine knew that she was not. "I am the Lady Una of Stormhold," she said. Then she reached into a small bag, which hung from her side, and produced a rose made of glass, of a red so dark that it was almost black in the flickering firelight. "It was my payment," she said. "For more than sixty years of servitude. It galled her to give it to me, but rules are rules, and she would have lost her magic and more if she had not settled up. Now, I plan to barter it for a palanquin to take us back to the Stormhold, for we must arrive in style. Oh, I have missed the Stormhold so badly. We must have bearers, and outriders, and perhaps an elephant—they are so imposing, nothing says "Get out of the way" quite like an elephant in the front..."
"No," said Tristran.
"No?" said his mother.
"No," repeated Tristran. "You may travel by palanquin, and elephant, and camel and all that, if you wish to, Mother. But Yvaine and I will make our own way there, and travel at our own speed."
The Lady Una took a deep breath, and Yvaine decided that this argument was one that she would rather be somewhere else for, so she stood up, and told them that she would be back soon, that she needed a walk, and that she would not go wandering too far. Tristran looked at her with pleading eyes, but Yvaine shook her head: this was his fight to win, and he would fight it better if she were not there.
She limped through the darkening market, pausing beside a tent from which music and applause could be heard, and from which light spilled like warm, golden honey. She listened to the music, and she thought her own thoughts. It was there that a bent, white-haired old woman, glaucous-blind in one eye, hobbled over to the star, and bade her to stop a while and talk.
"About what?" asked the star.
The old woman, shrunk by age and time to little bigger than a child, held onto a stick as tall and bent as herself with palsied and swollen-knuckled hands. She stared up at the star with her good eye and her blue-milk eye, and she said, "I came to fetch your heart back with me."
"Is that so?" asked the star.
"Aye," said the old woman. "I nearly had it, at that, up in the mountain pass." She cackled at the back of her throat at the memory. "D'ye remember?" She had a large pack that sat like a hump on her back. A spiral ivory horn protruded from the pack, and Yvaine knew where she had seen that horn before.
"That was you?" asked the star of the tiny woman. "You, with the knives?"
"Mm. That was me. But I squandered away all the youth I took for the journey. Every act of magic lost me a little of the youth I wore, and now I am older than I have ever been."
"If you touch me," said the star, "lay but a finger on me, you will regret it forevermore."
"If ever you get to be my age," said the old woman, "you will know all there is to know about regrets, and you will know that one more, here or there, will make no difference in the long run." She snuffled the air. Her dress had once been red, but it seemed to have been much patched and taken up and faded over the years. It hung down from one shoulder, exposing a puckered scar that might have been many hundreds of years old. "So what I want to know is why it is that I can no longer find you, in my mind. You are still there, just, but you are there like a ghost, a will o" the wisp. Not long ago you burned—your heart burned—in my mind like silver fire. But after that night in the inn it became patchy and dim, and now it is not there at all."
Yvaine realized that she felt nothing but pity for the creature who had wanted her dead, so she said, "Could it be that the heart that you seek is no longer my own?"
The old woman coughed. Her whole frame shook and spasmed with the retching effort of it.
The star waited for her to be done, and then she said, "I have given my heart to another."
"The boy? The one in the inn? With the unicorn?"
"Yes."
"You should have let me take it back then, for my sisters and me. We could have been young again, well into the next age of the world. Your boy will break it, or waste it, or lose it. They all do."
"Nonetheless," said the star, "he has my heart. I hope that your sisters will not be too hard on you, when you return to them without it."
It was then that Tristran walked across to Yvaine, and took her hand, and nodded to the old woman. "All sorted out," he said. "Nothing to worry about."
"And the palanquin?"
"Oh, Mother will be traveling by palanquin. I had to promise that we'd get to the Stormhold sooner or later, but we can take our time on the way. I think we should buy a couple of horses, and see the sights."
"And your mother acceded to this?"
"In the end," he said blithely. "Anyway, sorry to interrupt."
"We are almost done," said Yvaine, and she turned back to the little old woman.
"My sisters will be harsh, but cruel," said the old witch-queen. "However, I appreciate the sentiment. You have a good heart, child. A pity it will not be mine."
The star leaned down, then, and kissed the old woman on her wizened cheek, feeling the rough hairs on it scrape her soft lips.
Then the star and her true love walked away, toward the wall. "Who was the old biddy?" asked Tristran. "She seemed a bit familiar. Was anything wrong?"
"Nothing was wrong," she told him. "She was just someone I knew from the road."
Behind them were the lights of the market, the lanterns and candles and witch-lights and fairy glitter, like a dream of the night sky brought down to earth. In front of them, across the meadow, on the other side of the gap in the wall, now guardless, was the town of Wall. Oil lamps and gas lamps and candles glowed in the windows of the houses of the village. To Tristran, then, they seemed as distant and unknowable as the world of the Arabian Nights.
He looked upon the lights of Wall for what he knew (it came to him then with certainty) was the last time. He stared at them for some time and said nothing, the fallen star by his side. And then he turned away, and together they began to walk toward the East.
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It was considered by many to be one of the greatest days in the history of the Stormhold, the day that Lady Una, long lost and believed to be dead (having been stolen, as an infant, by a witch), returned to the mountain land. There were celebrations and fireworks and rejoicings (official and otherwise) for weeks after her palanquin arrived in a procession led by three elephants.
The joy of the inhabitants of Stormhold and all its dominions was raised to levels hitherto unparalleled when the Lady Una announced that, in her time away, she had given birth to a son, who, in the absence and presumed death of the last two of her brothers, was the next heir to the throne. Indeed, she told them, he already wore the Power of Stormhold about his neck.
He and his new bride would come to them soon, though the Lady Una could be no more specific about the date of their arrival than this, and it appeared to irk her. In the meantime, and in their absence, the Lady Una announced that she would rule the Stormhold as regent. Which she did, and did well, and the dominions on and about Mount Huon prospered and flourished under her command.
It was three more years before two travel-stained wanderers arrived, dusty and footsore, in the town of Cloudsrange, in the lower reaches of the Stormhold proper, and they took a room in an inn, and sent for hot water and a tin bath. They stayed at the inn for several days, conversing with the other customers and guests. On the last night of their stay, the woman, whose hair was so fair it was almost white, and who walked with a limp, looked at the man, and said, "Well?"
"Well," he said. "Mother certainly seems to be doing an excellent job of reigning."
"Just as you," she told him, tartly, "would do every bit as well, if you took the throne."
"Perhaps," he admitted. "And it certainly seems like it would be a nice place to end up, eventually. But there are so many places we have not yet seen. So many people still to meet. Not to mention all the wrongs to right, villains to vanquish, sights to see, all that. You know."
She smiled, wryly. "Well," she said, "At least we shall not be bored. But we had better leave your mother a note."
And so it was that the Lady Una of Stormhold was brought a sheet of paper by an innkeeper's lad. The sheet was sealed with sealing wax, and the Lady Una questioned the boy closely about the travelers—a man and his wife—before she broke the seal and read the letter. It was addressed to her, and after the salutations, it read:
Have been unavoidably detained by the world.
Expect us when you see us.
It was signed by Tristran, and beside his signature was a fingerprint, which glittered and glimmered and shone when the shadows touched it as if it had been dusted with tiny stars.
With which, there being nothing else that she could do about it, Una had to content herself.
It was another five years after that before the two travelers finally returned for good to the mountain fastness. They were dusty and tired and dressed in rags and tatters, and were at first, and to the shame of the entire land, treated as vagabonds and rogues; it was not until the man displayed the topaz stone that hung about his neck that he was recognized as the Lady Una's only son.
The investiture and subsequent celebrations went on for almost a month, after which the young eighty-second Lord of Stormhold got on with the business of ruling. He made as few decisions as possible, but those he made were wise ones, even if the wisdom was not always apparent at the time. He was valiant in battle, though his left hand was scarred and of little use, and a cunning strategist; he led his people to victory against the Northern Goblins when they closed the passes to travelers; he forged a lasting peace with the Eagles of the High Crags, a peace that remains in place until this day.
His wife, the Lady Yvaine, was a fair woman from distant parts (although no one was ever entirely certain quite which ones). When she and her husband first arrived at Stormhold, she took herself a suite of rooms in one of the highest peaks of the citadel, a suite that had long been abandoned as unusable by the palace and its staff; its roof had collapsed in a rock fall a thousand years earlier. No one else had wished to use the rooms, for they were open to the sky, and the stars and the moon shone down upon them so brightly through the thin mountain air that it seemed one could simply reach out and hold them in one's hand.
Tristran and Yvaine were happy together. Not forever—after, for Time, the thief, eventually takes all things into his dusty storehouse, but they were happy, as these things go, for a long while. And then Death came in the night, and whispered her secret into the ear of the eighty-second Lord of Stormhold, and he nodded his grey head and he said nothing more, and his people took his remains to the Hall of Ancestors where they lie to this day.
After Tristran's death, there were those who claimed that he was a member of the Fellowship of the Castle, and was instrumental in breaking the power of the Unseelie Court. But the truth of that, as so much else, died with him, and has never been established, neither one way nor another.
Yvaine became the Lady of Stormhold, and proved a better monarch, in peace and in war, than any would have dared to hope. She did not age as her husband had aged, and her eyes remained as blue, her hair as golden-white, and—as the free citizens of the Stormhold would have occasional cause to discover—her temper as quick to flare as on the day that Tristran first encountered her in the glade beside the pool.
She walks with a limp to this day, although no one in the Stormhold would ever remark upon it, any more than they dare remark upon the way she glitters and shines, upon occasion, in the darkness.
They say that each night, when the duties of state permit, she climbs, on foot, and limps, alone, to the highest peak of the palace, where she stands for hour after hour, seeming not to notice the cold peak winds. She says nothing at all, but simply stares upward into the dark sky and watches, with sad eyes, the slow dance of the infinite stars.
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[ Secrets ]
The swordmaiden will discover the secrets of men. She will discover that men at war are not as men at peace. She will discover an unforeseen comradeship. Take care: this comradeship is a Dueman shield. It does not extend all the way to the ground.
The swordmaiden will discover her secret forebears. Maris the Crooked fought for Keliathu in the War of the Tongues. Wounded and left with the high-piled dead, she was rescued before the pyre was lit by the man who most despised her: her second lieutenant, Farod. "Farod," she said to him, "what have you done?" And he answered: "Do not thank me, General. I am like a man who has preserved his enemy's coin; and I am like a man who, having seen his enemy safely submerged among crocodiles, has drawn him out again."
The swordmaiden will discover that her forebears are few. There was Maris, and there was Galaron of Nain, and there was the False Countess of Kestenya.
The swordmaiden will hear rumors of others, but she will not find them.
Her greatest battle will be waged against oblivion.
— Ferelanyi of Bream, The Swordmaiden's Codex
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I became a swordmaiden in the Brogyar war, among the mountains.
I was fifteen when I went there to school. Fifteen, and a runaway. The old coach swayed, the pink light of the lantern bounced against the mountainside, and I sat with my hands clenched in embroidered gloves. My furs were cold. I made Fulmia stop the carriage at the officers' hall so that I could give them my letter. This hall had once been a temple of Ayalei; now fires burned among its smoke-stained pillars, and battered shields lay stacked up in the porch. Nirai stood in the doorway and cried in the wind: "What news from the Valley?" Then he peered closer and started. "It's all right," I said. "I have a letter from the duke." Inside they were all there, Uncle Gishas, Prince Ruaf, and others. They passed my letter around the great stone table.
Sparks flew in the wind; an orderly tossed a branch of pine on one of the fires. High above, shadow-faces grimaced from a frieze.
"The other rooms have crumbled," Uncle Gishas said. "Inside the hill." He pinched my chin with bare cold fingers protruding from his glove.
"Forgive an old man," he said, and they brought hot wine stewed with raspberries and I sipped it slowly and watched the candle flames torn by the wind.
"Well, Lady Tavis," Prince Ruaf said. "Are you pleased? You are the first woman to have tasted camp wine since the days of Ferelanyi."
Such cold wind, such heat from the thick sweet wine and from the fires, such elation and bitterness, such a vastness of stone. They believed my letter, every word. I took it as a sign. At last I lay down on a pile of skins and blankets in front of the altar.
"Sleep, my lady," Fulmia said. He lay down near my feet and began to snore. The others were talking, fires danced, orderlies walked by. I thought of the school and what it might be like and how soon I would die and how it would feel, but these thoughts made me more excited and more awake. So I began to think of horses. It had become a habit of mine after leaving home and had never failed to soothe me to sleep. I began with the first one, Nusha the black pony, feeding her in the dark and the blue doorway and holding the lantern up and afraid of her teeth. That would be in the early morning, the season of sour apples. After Nusha I thought of Meis although she was only a carriage horse. I realized that I had forgotten Felios and went back for him, my uncle's dusty farm, the smoking stove, the tents by the road. In the midst of apparent disorder, the horse: slant-eyed like a fox, disdainful, his mane full of ribbons. I went on counting horses but did not want to think about Tuik, and while trying not to think about him I thought of the Angel Horse, and how Nenya said she had seen it coming down to drink from the fountain at dawn. We made her call us early and crept out to the cold terrace in our furs and peered between the branches of the rose tree. Siski bit a rosebud off and chewed it to prove she could—she had once eaten candied rose petals at Grandmother's house in the north. But we never saw the Angel Horse, nor did we see the Snow Horses that came down every winter to graze on the plain. Where they passed they left the snow. Sometimes there were stampedes, the whole world blanketed in the morning with their whiteness. At other times they passed lazily and gracefully and nuzzled the trees. Nenya threatened sometimes to send us away with the Bad-Luck Horses. Look Taviye, the Snow Horses have come. Frost on the window, the sound of servants stoking the chilly fires, and next door Malino in his cloth cap.
The school perched on the mountain above the officers' hall, a great honeycomb of stone that had once held the nessenhu, the domain of Ayalei's women. From the ledge you could look down on the ancient temple and the statue of Ayalei that had fallen and lay awkwardly on the roof. One arm was broken, the other raised and holding a shattered vulture. The goddess looked embarrassed, as if hiding behind her arm. On a clear day you could see the smoke from the villages far below and we would sit chewing on our knuckles and dreaming of pears. That was after we had passed to the second grade, after we had slaughtered the herd of screaming pigs in the inner courtyard. In the first grade we never sat outside, we ran in the outer court and washed the clothes and cooked and scrubbed the floors. And Nirai pulled me aside one day and said: "Your aunt is here." I stood up, holding a dripping rag. My breath roared in my ears. "Go to your room and make yourself presentable," he said, irritable. "She's waiting in the officers' hall."
Of course she had come herself. I had not expected it—I had thought she would send Uncle Fenya—but once I realized she was there I saw that it was right. It was perfectly right that Aunt Mardith should come herself. She had set out from Faluidhen before dawn; they must have changed horses at Noi. Now, just at dusk, she sat before the fire in the officers' hall. The whole room looked guilty: someone had cleared the omi cards from the table. As I came in, a noisy clinking erupted in the far corner of the room, where Uncle Gishas was shoving some bottles out of sight.
"Well, Cousin Tavis," he cried, giving the pile a last hurried kick, "you have a most illustrious visitor. Some wine, Aunt?" he asked Aunt Mardith. "We've nothing too fine to offer—not what you're used to—but a warm glass, at the end of a journey—"
"No," Aunt Mardith said.
Uncle Fenya sat beside her, gloomily twisting his gloves in his hands. He half stood, as if intending to embrace me, and then sat down.
"Well," said Uncle Gishas.
"Gishas," Aunt Mardith said, in the special tone she reserved for inferior branches of the family, "you may go."
She waited for him to go out. Her eyes glittered. She wore a gray cloak trimmed with white squirrel fur. Her hood thrown back, her hair in place, she was like a pillar of snow. "May Leilin curse and cripple you," she said.
"Oh, Aunt," said Uncle Fenya.
I tensed my legs to stop their shaking and gripped Ferelanyi's book close to my chest. The Swordmaiden's Codex. I had brought it with me as an anchor, and it anchored me: I stood motionless. Aunt Mardith, too, was perfectly still.
"If I understand matters correctly, you spent less than a fortnight in the capital, where you had been sent, at no little expense, to stay with your uncle the duke. The idea was to introduce you to the best society—though I hardly consider Bainish society to be of the best. In Bain—and please correct me if I am mistaken in the details—you forged a letter of application to this school, signed your Uncle Veda's name, and stole his seal to complete the trick. You then lied to your manservant and induced him to drive you here. You have practiced a deception not only upon your family and your servant, but upon the staff of this school and indeed the entire Olondrian military. You have now spent three weeks in the company of soldiers, chaperoned by none but an aging manservant. Am I correct?"
"Yes."
"Again?"
"Yes," I said, louder.
"Fenya. Strike her."
"Oh, Aunt, really," Uncle Fenya cried, staring.
"Do as I say."
"I'll defend myself," I said.
"For the love of peace!" exclaimed Uncle Fenya. "We're not going to start sparring with one another, surely?"
He stood and shuffled toward me. When he reached for my shoulder, I flinched, but he was only patting me. "There, there," he said. He reeked of ous. His eyes watered; the bags under them were swollen. "There, there, now," he said, "it's all right, we're just going to take you home."
He turned to Aunt Mardith. "Isn't that right, eh, Aunt? We'll take her home and forget all about it. Why, it's no worse than the escapades Firvaud used to get up to! Stealing all the pencils—you remember that, Aunt, don't you?" He turned to me. "She stole all the pencils once. Our governess was in tears!"
"Fenya, if you are going to be useless, sit down."
"I only meant to say, now that we're taking her home—why, everything will be forgotten. I'll buy her a gown myself. You'd like that, wouldn't you, Tavis? A gown in the latest shade—butterfly's heart, I believe they're calling it. We might even have them put a pattern of shields on it—eh?" He chuckled, beads of excess spittle at the corners of his mouth. "That's often how fashions get started. You'll be our little swordmaiden, with shields all over your gown. A red gown! Pretty as a sunrise!"
"I won't go," I said.
"Oh, come—" he began.
"No?" said Aunt Mardith. Her eyes two flawless mirrors of black ice. "Look at your niece, Fenya," she said. "Defiant still. She does not appreciate our kindness, our willingness to take her back."
"You call it kindness?"
"Quiet," she said. She never raised her voice. "If you come with me, Tavis, you must not expect new gowns. You must expect a year of seclusion—enough, perhaps, for the world to forget that you have lived with soldiers. That you are irrevocably damaged."
"Oh," Uncle Fenya said, "not—"
"I'm not at all damaged," I said. "I'm like Ferelanyi."
I held the book toward her, hating myself for trembling. She rose and took it. She was so upright, despite her age—taller than me. She glanced at the stamp in the book. "Ah. Stolen from your uncle's library."
"Yes, but—"
"The swordmaiden," she read, "will discover the secrets of men."
She looked up. For one breathless moment she met my eyes. A moment that seemed to hold everything: war and passion and Faluidhen and snow. Then she flung the book into the hottest part of the fire.
"No!"
I bruised my knees on the stone floor, scorched my hands in the flames. Uncle Fenya pulled me back. Aunt Mardith stood above us, brushing her fingers on her cloak. I shouted that I would not come home, and she told me her offer would not come again: she had only come to see me for my mother's sake. If I refused her, I would take the path I had chosen: I would finish my studies and join the army like the other students. "That's what I want!" I screamed. I was on my back, Uncle Fenya trying to cradle my head, hopelessly in the way. Aunt Mardith loomed above us, the long sweep of her traveling cloak hiding her feet like a bank of fog. She advances by weight, I thought, like a glacier. She said I would have what I wanted. She said it would make my mother suffer. She hoped I would die in the mountains. To her, I was already dead.
"If I'm already dead then why did you burn my book?" I was on my knees now, sobbing. The book a black architecture in the fire.
I did not realize then what I learned soon afterward: that I could recall the entire Codex, word for word. What Siski called my "prodigious memory for stupid things." Now I think I could tear one leaf from Ferelanyi's book and place it at the head of each chapter of my life. For the mountains, secrets. For Siski, loyalty like a necklace of dead stars. For the desert, blood. For Seren, song.
Aunt Mardith put up her hood. She pulled on her gloves, adjusting each finger. "Come, Fenya. If we leave now, we can break our fast at Faluidhen."
The next day, Master Gobries struck me because I had fallen asleep in my boots. I stood and turned my back to him and lowered my head toward the others. In the frozen air the stroke on the back of my neck was almost loving, opening out like a brush of fire and warming me to the roots of my hair. This is pain, I thought. It was warm and reminded me of the feeling in my tongue and lips after I had eaten Evmeni peppers. Where is the rest of the pain? I thought. I went and joined my line and felt that I was warm and more comfortable than the others.
"You looked like a demon," Vars said to me later, admiringly. "You looked as if you could strangle him with a curtain." And I was astonished because I had not felt the desire to kill him but only wonder, and disappointment because I could not find the pain.
That night there was a celebration for those who were going to Braith and we were invited into the masters' drawing room. A fire blazed on the hearth and we were given teiva and honitha and permitted to argue and organize games in the courtyard. I ate my honith too quickly, the cheese scalded the roof of my mouth. I stood by the wall and watched the clusters of those leaving for Braith. They wore clean scarlet sashes and stood carelessly, a foot propped on the fender or a loose hand waving a pipe. One of them looked at me strangely, suspiciously, and then he realized who I was and smoothed the lines out of his face. I smiled at him. Of course, if Aunt Mardith had come, it meant everything was in the papers, they would have heard of me everywhere. The man looked away from me, stretching his legs. Because of my high rank, he would not shout. He would not stand up and say: "A woman? Here?" He would not even stare at the young soldier he had just recognized as Tavis of Ashenlo, the Telkan's niece.
Outside the night was cold and there were screams where boys were running in the torchlight, a ball skidding across the stones. I went upstairs and down the gloomy hallway, counting the doors to reach my own. Inside it was dark with a smell of boots, there was no one there. I knelt on my bed and opened the shutters. The window was so small that I could barely rest both elbows on the sill. The cold wind blew, the night was immense and silent, and the peaks of snow shone rich as curdled milk under the moon.
Dear Siski, I wrote, I wish I were going to die at Braith. I wrote this inside my swordbox as there was no paper in the room. I thought I would use it later, but when we had passed to the second grade, and they let us write letters for the first time, I no longer wished to die. And by that time it seemed impossible to write to Siski, to come up with answers to her letters crammed with parties and flirtations, and if I wrote to Mother, I knew she would cry. So I wrote to Dasya instead. You should join the army. There's good fun up here.
In the mountains in winter the peaks disappeared in the air, so vast and white that they became part of the sky. We craved warmth like bread, we fought the frozen trees for kindling and at night the hills were dotted with small red lights. It was a foolish way to camp and when the Brogyars came they slid down on us screaming and hurling their heavy axes toward our fires, and we ran and slipped and ran again and turning to fight I saw like a burst of shooting stars a sudden fountain of teeth. They scattered beside me, and there was an axe in the snow and a faceless man. The trees shrank, a blue light shuddered over the snow. The Brogyar was huge, an inarticulate figure of hair and shadow, and it was only his own weight that pushed my sword through his leather armor. He fell heavily and twisted my wrist and the sound of his harsh breathing became mine as I struggled to turn him and free the sword. There were black shapes and red shapes, sudden screaming and wet snow soaking through at my knees, and we were all running toward the gorge. Sparks flew over the snow, we ran like beasts for the thin forest. Kestau turned back for his sword and an axe removed one of his arms. It happened as if on a stage, there was a white expanse and a glow from one of the fires and black blood spouting, and he fell. Someone was screaming in the gorge. A Brogyar rushed to Kestau and knelt to cut his throat, bent over and wrapped in scarves like an old washerwoman. I thought I saw the flash of the knife. And only when they were gone did we find Vars lying in the gorge with a broken leg.
Then I realized that I was warm at last, as we were dragging the bodies into a heap, making long dark tracks, and afterward as we were burying them while the sun came up and the scene of the ambush appeared, ashes and blood in the snow. Vars fainted when they set his leg and Nirai stood above him making a list of the dead and wounded in the White Book. Most of us were smoking. Odra squeezed my shoulder, squinting in the light, and said: "Now you've tasted iron."
That was the world of the mountains where we stumbled endlessly in the snow, dragging the wounded on sleds of wood and hide, always trying to meet another line of the army that never arrived or waiting for them in the ice-blue winter forests. We were always late or early. If we met them at all, the captains would scream at each other and throw their caps down in the snow. The rest of us sat in silence, watching. At night I wriggled down in my sleeping sack and thought of horses. The horses were marching across the sky and I saw that this was the swordmaiden's life, filth and starvation and cold and the hills to come. When I couldn't sleep I would get up and offer to take sentry duty for someone or smoke with Odra who also slept poorly and often sat up counting the stars.
"I've lost the talent for sleep," he would say, and despite the cold he would pull down his scarf and show me the lines on his neck, running his finger along the grooves. I could see the scars clearly in the starlight reflected from the snow and he would tell me how he had awakened to find a Brogyar at his throat.
"Sarma preserved my life, but at a price," he would say, resettling the scarf. "A priestess told me that the goddess had taken my sleep. What she wants with it I don't know, but it's true enough that it's gone. I don't mind, my life will be twice as long as the lives of men who sleep."
When the snow fell we were forced to march so as not to be buried by morning and we tramped in the whirling darkness side by side, Odra and I with the straps over our shoulders pulling Vars on the sled and whenever we stopped to smoke Odra would talk. He told me about his daughters in the Balinfeil who were both unmarried weavers. The elder one rolled her stockings down because they pinched her knees, and Odra was sorry for her because she was moik—a Nainish word meaning silly or strange. "My life, my poor moikyalen," he said. I laughed, and his gaze deepened in the faint glow of our pipes. He asked me if I felt well and I nodded and made myself stop laughing. Beyond the rock where we sheltered there was a blackness filled with screams where all the gods unknown to us had been released. And we would plunge into it and be pursued by those black winds and find ourselves up to our thighs or armpits in snow, and struggle out of it again and shout to the others and turn and get entangled with those who had failed to receive the order. "The dance of the mountains," Dasya called it later, with a sneer. And truly it was like being part of a dance. It was like a dance in a dream in which one had a part but did not know what it was, a dance of strange and dreadful figures. When I was convalescent I had a dream of a splendid ball in an unfamiliar house: my partner was a woman with a tall headdress, with much black paint around her eyes and in one figure she gave a graceful bow and clasped the top of her hair and removed her head from her neck. That was a dream about the mountains, it showed the life of the mountains, that new life. At times we were seized by a sudden and absolute happiness. It happened most often when we were beating back an attack and then we howled and dismembered the bodies, choking with joy.
There was joy, too, when we sighted villages in the gorges: a glimpse of cottages huddled among the pines and snow, and sometimes even a light or two through the cracks in the ancient shutters or a lantern wavering toward a dark mud barn. Then we would come down shouting. They were lost villages abandoned by priests with names like Waldivo and Unisk and Bar-Hathien, separated by blizzards so that they thought they belonged to something larger, forgetting that each had only ten or twelve families. So there was High Unisk and many leagues away, Low Unisk. Dark villages where they melted the snow because the wells were frozen. The peasants were pale and heavy in their movements and wore amulets of straw and some could hardly converse in the common tongue. The women sat in the corners and wept or hovered around their few possessions, muttering, guarding the old tin pitchers and apples of colored wax, while the men sat on the floor morosely wrapping and unwrapping the linen strips they wore in layers around their legs. Sometimes there were immobile children lying in osier cradles. We sat by the fires and smoked the peasants' winter stores of tobacco, we drank their gaisk until the firelight swam with secret signs, we made them slaughter their beasts and give up their flour and potatoes.
In one village there was only a donkey and everyone gathered to weep for it. Vars said: "If they take any longer I'll murder the beast myself." His leg was still bad then and he was lying against the wall and sweating; his face was pinched and exhausted and I could see that he needed the meat. The room was full of people, it was warm although the door was open and more were crowded around the donkey outside. A stinking old man, perhaps a village elder, in a sheep's-bladder cap, offered up uncouth prayers to the gods of the hills. I pushed my way to Odra and asked him what they were praying about and he turned on me, tears glinting in the lines on his face, and swore at me, what did I think, the last animal in the village and we were killing it. The women had covered their heads with coarse wool shawls. And firelight shone on the wooden shutters with rags stuffed in the chinks and on the broken lantern hanging on the wall, and beneath the smells of dirty skin and hair and ill-cured leather and burnt potatoes there was the delicious odor of carrots. These were the villages of our desires where we would sleep at last and feel a pleasure even in vomiting gaisk and donkey meat: how clear the air was when I retched outside the door on the crust of snow and saw a few bird prints there, like writing.
When I was made captain they gave me a horse, a brown mare called Loma. She was quiet and strong and reminded me of Meis, and how Siski had said that Meis's neck always smelled of strawberries so that one could pick her out in a dark stable. Sometimes at night I stood and put my face against Loma's neck, closing my eyes to shut out the strange glow of the hills. Perhaps another soldier, also sitting awake, would begin in a mournful voice to recite a sein of the Vallafarsi such as "The Kingdoms." Balinu, whence cometh fruit. As always this phrase reminded me of the ring my mother wore on a chain at her throat. Something had happened to me, perhaps I had fallen or been scolded by Malino and she was comforting me by showing me her ring. She unfastened the chain and showed me how the opening phrase of the sein was engraved inside the ring, in both Olondrian and Nainish. Her soft hands, the side of her dress, on the table an ancient knife with a chipped handle. Outside the fruit fell from the trees.
I clung to Loma's neck in the storm that almost buried us in the Month of Lamps. I screamed at my men, for there was a village below us, all dark, and we left the sick and wounded on the rise and rushed down on the houses and broke the doors open and shattered the rotting shutters with our sword hilts. Rotting, the shutters were rotting and the beds inside were strewn with rotten sheets. We stumbled into the empty silence of the rooms. Even the cellars were empty and at last we gathered and stared at one another, trailing our clean swords in the snow.
"It's deserted," Vars said hoarsely. Suddenly I could hear him and I realized we were sheltered from the wind, in the lovely sleeping village with the blueness of the snow at night. The stars were breaking the darkness one by one. The others were looking at me and I spoke gently, hearing my own voice without screaming for the first time in seven days. "Bring the others down," I said. My voice came out so beautifully, simple and full of reason in the silence. Later the same voice said softly and clearly: "Kill the horse." She was the last one, I did not need to say her name. She was the one who ended the habit of thinking about horses, Tuik had not been able to end it but it ended that night with Loma. After we had eaten I thought, I will have to choose something else to think of at night. It did not worry me, I felt sure I would think of something. We were all together in one house and warm at last with a fire of broken furniture crackling on the hearth.
Softly the snow fell, and the men died softly. We dragged them out and buried them in the snow, for the earth was frozen. They died against the walls of the cottage in attitudes of sleep, their cheeks faded and their hair brittle with frost. Those of us who were well enough would totter into the brightness, seeking firewood, tugging feebly at doors and shutters. Once Vars and I came back together, and Odra, lying against the wall with his eyes very bright, said something about the sea and its thousands of angels.
"Don't talk, Uncle," Vars told him. "Save your strength."
And Odra breathing quietly gave a bright and secretive smile. It hung motionless on his bloodless face so long that I thought he had died with it, and I bent and shook him roughly by the shoulder. But no, he was not dead. He died much later and before he died he made us listen to him and obey his orders, swearing at us, cursing us because his blanket was caught beneath his arm and because he could not bear the diet of snow and horseflesh.
"Take me out," he snapped. "This air, a man can't breathe in here. Look." He slapped his neck and rolled a louse between forefinger and thumb. "Look at this filth. These aren't soldiers, they're animals." And we carried him out and built a fire for him under the pines.
The low red flames, the blackness of the earth under melted snow, Vars hunched miserably in his dirty jacket, and Odra in his blankets propped against a tree, thin-lipped with scorn, staring out at the hills, at the snow that trapped us. His voice was harsh, he spoke of his seventeen years in the mountains and pulled down his scarf to show us his scarred neck. "A man is not expected to live for more than three years up here," he said. "But I've lived nearly twenty and killed more men than the fever. They took me into Amafein six years ago and gave me the Order of the Bear, my daughter has it in her basket at home. The duke himself presented it and we were sixty-eight at table that night and everything paid for by the Olondrian Empire."
He drew his breath in sharply, sucked his teeth and darted a glance at me. "Yes, I remember, you're the Telkan's niece. You're his niece through both Houses and nobody ever mentions it and most of the men are afraid to speak to you as to an equal. Even you"—he jerked his grizzled chin at Vars—"you're some sort of nobleman but you're afraid to approach her ladyship, really approach her. Only I am not afraid and that's because I know my worth and I'd proven my worth ten times before you were weaned."
He stopped abruptly and leaned against the tree. Something went flying overhead, perhaps an eagle, its blue shadow streaking the snow. And then he began to speak again in bitterness, cursing the Telkan and this war that was not even a war. For many days he cursed us and then suddenly he stopped, he grew listless and no longer demanded to be taken outside, but we still took him out for Vars insisted the air would do him good. And we built a fire and sat with him in silence.
Sitting there, I breathed on my cold gloves and tried to find a train of thought I could use to sleep at night. I tried so many, and finally I found that simply letting my mind drift was often the quickest way to the dark. I remembered Siski singing "The Swallow in Winter." She was standing with her hands clasped and her thin feet on the rug. There was the knocking sound of Uncle Veda emptying his pipe and I was watching her mouth as it opened and closed. Poor lost bird, you flit from place to place but cannot find your home. The green curtains in the parlor smelled of tents. Yes, and under the chair we found a dagger and an ivory comb. On the sheath of the dagger, a drawing of Tevlas in spring.
All at once I realized that Odra was saying something, he was saying "No, let's stay here a little longer." And it was night, and the stars had come out thickly within the circle of the peaks: they pulsed in the dark, as if trying to break through.
"That's a beautiful sky," said Odra dreamily, "it reminds me of the song, Let's stay a little longer, the evening is so fair."
"Then you're feeling better, Uncle," Vars said eagerly. His teeth were chattering and the firelight flashed up strangely on his face.
When he said these words, Odra began to weep. He was lying on his side and the tears coursed down his gaunt creased face. "My poor moikyalen," he sobbed.
He wept for a long time. Vars was biting his lips and tears were on his cheeks. Then Odra grew calmer and smiled. He reached out feebly and Vars seized his gloved hand and pulled the glove off, pressing the rough hand to his lips.
"You're a good child," said Odra. Then he raised his head with difficulty and looked at me, stretching out his other hand. "You're a good child too," he smiled, "but why are you so shy?" I had taken his hand, I was kneeling by him in the snow. Vars was weeping openly and I looked at Odra's face in the light of the fire, searching his eyes which were like two coins.
"He's dead," I said.
Vars was sobbing, bending over the corpse to kiss the sunken cheeks, pressing his living brow to the brow of the dead, and then he rose and rushed into the drifts, thrashing his arms, snatching snow in his hands and hurling it into the dark. While he leaped and screamed I closed the dead man's eyes and stripped the body, piling the boots and clothes to be sent to the daughters in the south. And very poor and small he looked when he was laid out naked on the snow. And we left him there in a tomb of ice.
"You could, if you wanted to," Vars whispered to me later. "You could get us all released with honor. You could send to someone, maybe not the Telkan himself, but someone."
"No," I told him, "it's not true, there's no one."
"Yes, there must be," he insisted in a breaking voice.
I found that I was smiling at the ceiling. "That's the strange thing," I said. "Sometimes I can hardly believe it myself. But in fact, there is no one."
He turned his face to the wall and began to moan. And I lay ordering my thoughts while someone stirred and shuffled his feet and someone else kicked Vars and whined for silence, and I put my thoughts in categories such as Games and History and tried to choose something to think about. The memory of Dasya among the pillars beckoned, black eyes, bright face. But no, that thought was too strong and would keep me awake. Instead I thought of the Ethenmanyi and going to visit our grandmother's house in a country not very far from the Lelevai. It was not far, but how different it was! I remembered going with Mother and Siski in spring with all of our finest clothes in trunks, and wearing my new green traveling cloak as we jolted along the mountain road with the sunlight flickering through the carriage windows. Always there were things to see in the hills, the narrow gorges and then apricot trees in flower among the rocks, and the funny herders' cottages whose thatched roofs came down almost to the ground, and the children selling milk from pails. We stopped at Mirov and then at Noi. After that the road began to slope downward and the enormous valley opened below the mists, and Mother grew suddenly pensive, letting her jeweled prayer book fall into her lap and watching the land drift by. I believe there is no country more beautiful than the Balinfeil in spring. Great meadows slumbered beneath the soft pink haze of the fruit trees. We would see again the straight white houses standing up with their conical roofs and the fat tame musk deer tied to fence posts. There were the graceful and ordered fields separated by bands of sunflowers, and the peasants' houses almost smothered in bushes of dark pink aimila. Also the smell, peculiar and fresh, drawn from the mountain winds, and also the strange and inescapable silence.
It was the silence more than anything else that showed me we had arrived. Waking at night in an unfamiliar bed in a roadside inn, I would become aware that although the window was open, the world was sleeping so soundly that there was no noise at all. No dogs barked, no midnight horseman jingled by on an errand. Even the mattress, firmly stuffed with goose feathers, did not crackle beneath me like the leaf and straw-stuffed mattresses of Kestenya. And there were no night guards playing kib on the doorstep. I am in the Balinfeil, I thought. And for a long time it was a pleasant thought, like the thought of an adventure: it meant that I would play with my cousins and eat honitha and watch the puppet shows and laugh as my uncles danced the klugh. And ride the fat and stupid pony Mertha, whom I liked to treat with scorn, assuring the stable hands that she was nothing to Nusha. And allow Hauth the assistant cook to terrify me with tales of the Bilbil crawling out of the hearth to make mischief at night. But after several summers had passed I no longer woke to the silence with that feeling of excitement: rather my heart sank. Ah, I'm in the Balinfeil, I thought, and the stillness of the inn and the roads and countryside in the dark oppressed me.
Even the inns, where we were awakened early by the severe bright ringing of a bell and the sheets and tablecloths shone with a daunting whiteness, even these seemed to possess the watchful and disapproving air of our grandmother's house, of our own house, Faluidhen. That mansion of eighty-two rooms in which the important halls were known by color, Nainish-fashion. The silver room and the lilac room and the gray. The blue room where my Uncle Brola had died and still communicated by slamming the shutters viciously when it rained. The rooms opened southward whenever possible and the north side was shut against the summer dust and the ruthless winter winds: a dreary arbor of birch and cypress and winter plum survived there, along with the old iron chair where my grandfather used to sit. This chair was wrought with curious forms of dragons, dogs and rabbits and stranger creatures, goat-headed lions and winged dolphins. It stood alone beneath the trees, a little away from the house, covered with dust and dried leaves. Siski cleaned it off with the hem of her skirt. Beside it stood the timeworn brazier with which our grandfather had warmed himself in the winter months, where we once made a fire with the idea of roasting nuts and Dasya burned his arm and Siski blew on the injured spot to cool it. Dasya did not tell anyone but sat very stiff and pale through dinner, saying nothing and eating with his left hand. The next day the old brazier was blacker than ever as if it had never been used. "There must be a curse on it," Siski said. And Dasya said that if it was cursed, so much the better, for we had gone to that strange place on the north side to play Drevedi, knowing that no one would look for us in our dead grandfather's lonely patch of trees on the unlucky side of the house. Siski sat on the chair: she was Oline, the Dreved of Dolomesse. Dasya was always the Dreved of Amafein. Usually they made me a soldier or peasant or ill-destined king to be put to death repeatedly under the trees.
Afterward we went back to the house and into the silver room where the adults sat talking quietly in groups. Their chairs and couches seemed so far away, under the lamps. "How restless you children are," Grandmother called. And sometimes everyone was restless or the weather was hot and we would go for an evening walk around the grounds, walking up and down the rows of flowers and along the pitch-dark banks of ivy, which gave off a bitter scent. Down the avenue of limes, everyone keeping to Grandmother's pace. Voices floating in the evening hush. "Why don't you keep dogs?" said a visiting neighbor, and Grandmother said, "My dear boy, because we are not under siege." And when we turned we saw the lights of Faluidhen in the darkness of the grounds, and working by smell I found my way to Mother's dress. I touched the folds of cotton and took her hand. "Is that you, my love?" she whispered, squeezing my fingers. "Come and walk with Mother."
Later I thought of Dasya, when it seemed that I would never have the chance to think of anything again. At first I thought: How tired my arms are!—and I was glad my sword had spun away and lay distant in the snow. Yes, and it was pleasant simply to lie there with my arms at rest in the dazzling whiteness, flung back on the slope. The others seemed suddenly quiet, they had lowered their voices as if they were talking privately and did not wish to disturb me. The swords struck one another with a tinny sound, like that of children playing at dakavei in a neighboring courtyard. The air was fresh and sparkled in my lungs and then the Brogyar rose up suddenly and blocked the brilliant sun, and a moment later when his face grew clearer I recognized his sagging eyelid and his mouthful of rotting teeth. So then I had not killed him. He was breathing raggedly and the sound thrilled me, for he was close now, very close. His hair stuck out from underneath his cap, it had no color except at the edges where the sunlight made it glow. I noticed the iron studs along his leather jerkin where his coat fell open and I could see his gilded belt when he raised his arms. Then the arms descended, and there was pain. There it was, it was the pain of which I had heard, it had arrived. It was the rest of the pain which I had waited for when I had fallen from my horse or been struck by the masters at the school, it had simply been waiting for me too and now it stepped from behind a screen, clad in majesty like the body of a god. When I could breathe again I opened my eyes and saw the Brogyar through a veil of light and he was smiling at me, and I knew his smile for it was the smile of the mountains. There, his eyes were alight, he was biting his lip, unable to speak for joy.
Soon he would laugh as we had laughed as children in the inner courtyard of the school when the door was raised and the pigs came clattering in, their smooth backs and bobbing ears passing us in the torchlight as we stood trembling and holding our bare swords. "A pig screams like a man," we had been told by Master Gobries that afternoon, "and also he has flesh similar to man's." We struck them clumsily across the eyes and along their bony heads and they cried out as the blood began to flow. And after a moment we began to laugh. A tall boy slipped in the blood and fell and Vars had a stripe of black gore on his cheek. When we caught one another's eyes we crouched with impossible laughter while an unearthly clamor of woe rose to the sky. Stumbling over bodies, sliding, chasing the last survivors. At that moment I thought, Joy is one of the secrets of war. And now I saw that exultation on the Brogyar's face and thought, He is going to kill me. This is death.
And if it was death, then why not think of dancing in the avla, of my mother's ring, of milk, of Uncle Veda? But only one thing came to me and it did not come with pleasure but with regret, such sharp regret that my eyes flooded with sudden tears. I remembered our camp along the Firda, near the end of autumn, when the sable geese were flying in long arcs. The wind came from the north bringing the gusts of early snow and there were dark leaves massed on the surface of the river. I went up to the hills alone. Riding along the stony paths I heard the wind as it sang in the dry grasses, battering the little oaks so that they threw their acorns to the ground. A few hawk-apples withered on the crags. And I was lonely and happy going up to where the snow lay in the grass, urging my horse through the rocky passes, camping by myself under the trees, making my fire and cooking beans and drinking bitter gaisk from a flask. Sitting by my campfire I would take the letter out of my coat and read it again while the pines creaked in the wind. If it is possible make haste for I have much to tell you that I cannot write and will not be able to say in front of others... Deep blue skies with the mountains sharp against them and a sad twilight that promised an icy storm out of the north, and I was riding upward with my mantle wrapped about me when I saw the first broken pillars, gray in the dusk.
A smell came toward me, stone walls under the rain. There was a hissing sound and rain streaked down my hood and over my face. I had not seen Dasya in four years. There were no lights in the school and I supposed they had camped beyond it in the gorge. But a red glow touched the old pillars of the temple. I rode in through the archway, throwing back my hood in the sharp thunder of hooves on the stone, the sounds of the snorting horse and the jingling reins enormous under the lofty roof, and then I had slipped from her back, and he was there.
We greeted one another in whispers, standing back from our embrace to stare, and then he laughed and shook my shoulders. And I was laughing too. "Tav," he said. There was a fire on the floor and a bottle of Nainish wine on the stone table.
"Vai, my life," he said. He looked older and he had put on flesh and he moved with energy like an athlete, a soldier. He sat on the table and rested his feet on the bench and put the bottle between his knees to open it and passed it to me, and I drank.
"So you're alive," he said. He was still laughing and I thought how proud and joyful he seemed in his scarlet tunic trimmed with gold, and how as always he wore such finery easily, careless of how the wine dripped on his rich Feirini velvet. He passed the bottle to me again. My cloak steamed in the warmth. And we spoke of the war and our regiments and our losses, and that was when he sneered and spoke to me of the dance of the mountains and his laugh turned hard and rattled in the dark hall. For he had been at Gena when a regiment of new recruits had died in a snowstorm under the Miveri Pass. "They swallowed the snow," he said. He waved his hand. "They just lay down and it closed over them. They were lying in rows like corn..."
We passed our bitterness back and forth, our years in the Lelevai, Dasya listing the errors of Uncle Gishas and Prince Ruaf: "Stupid old men," he said, "who only wish to prolong the war because they're tired of life at home and burdened with debts." And we did not speak of the past, which seemed so distant now, but only of the future. His strange pallor in the firelight, his brooding eyes. "All this death," he whispered. "It's as if we're eating—eating them. These men. As if Olondria can't stop eating."
We were sitting against the wall. The bottle rolled on the flags. I searched inside my jacket for my leather flask. I opened it and drank. The gaisk was strong and had a flavor of bruised grass and cleared the air of uncertainty. I looked at the smooth flames of the fire piercing the air in long clean waves and the shining bottle empty on the floor, and I thought of the dance of the mountains and how it had gone on since the days of worshiping milk, the same steps over and over. Generations now in rows like corn. And with a twinge, a shift in my heart, I thought of Olondria for the first time. I thought of it as a living thing, not a place to go or settle but a vast entity that grew and breathed and ate. Faluidhen in summer, all those rooms of empty luxury, and then, in Kestenya, the feredha tents pitched on Uncle Veda's land. Uncle Veda sweating with fury, shouting: "Call me a traitor to Olondria if you like, these people have nowhere else to go. Nowhere, nowhere, we've hounded them into the waste and waterless places, it is a crime and Olondria must answer."
"Olondria must answer," I said.
And Dasya turned to me in eagerness and whispered: "Yes, you see it, you're not afraid."
But I was afraid, and I laughed and my hands were shaking for I knew his mind and that once lit it burned like a dragon's entrails. I heard myself speaking, half frightened at my own words: "Why should we die for these hills, when we might die for an independent Kestenya?" I said the words in Kestenyi: Kestenya Rukebnar. Forbidden words. And Dasya went pale and then red, and his grip on my arm was fire. And lying in the snow with the axe flashing again in the sun I wept because I had lost the chance to die that way, because I was dying in the mountains after all, dismembered in the snow, because I was dying the death of a pig. And in the spring, I realized, I had planned to leave the army, but I did not know it until I lay under the axe. The plan had created itself in the dark of my mind and only now had it come to light, and I recognized it, and I wept. For I had thought to go down to Ashenlo and to the plains. And now, I saw, I would bleed to death in the snow. And all Kestenya blazed before me, flashing across the blue-gray sky, the desert like a ray among the clouds. The axe bit my thigh as the Brogyar fell, pierced by arrows, but the pain could not erase that gleaming sight. And still it glows before me and I see those shining mountains in another landscape, and in another war.
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[ Loyalty Like a Necklace of Dead Stars ]
The swordmaiden will rise each day with the knowledge of her death. This death is a fair coin, which must be spent for a worthy purpose.
It is said that the sword is nobler than the arrow, because the sword extends the body, and to fight with it is to dance. It is said that the sword becomes its bearer's soul. Thul the Heretic only believed in his body because he saw it reflected in his sword. In the Temple of Tol, it is common to say: "O Scarred God forever gone a-hunting, Thou has left me the pin from Thy hair."
This pin, claim the priests, is the sword.
Such ideas are poetry and not history. The sword maims and kills. Evil is its essence.
The swordmaiden will hold evil in one hand, or, if she fights with a Nainish blade, in both. Consider then the purpose of each stroke. Maris the Crooked was asked on her deathbed: "What led you to turn against your king?" She answered: "Ask the women of Oululen." This was a people who had been destroyed by the armies of King Thul: it is written that "their very names became dust." When the men of Oululen had perished, the women took up arms. The last of them died defending herself with a harrow.
The swordmaiden wears her loyalty like a necklace of dead stars. Their worth is eternal, although they no longer shine.
Maris was a renegade general, Galaron a rebel, the False Countess a bandit. Which of these now reclines on a couch of light?
When I came down from the hills that rainy spring with a shattered thigh they had already sent most of the servants away, and the east and north wings of the house had been shut off and locked and the unused keys hung in a row in Mother's cabinet. Even from the window of the carriage the house and grounds looked lonelier, as if an expected visitor had failed to arrive. At the time I thought the gloom was caused by the unseasonable rain that dripped from the eaves and darkened the sand in the court.
Mother came out to greet me with a shawl over her head, tripping lightly across the mud in her felt slippers. "Oh Fulmia," she cried, "have you brought her?"
"Yes, sudaidi," Fulmia called, "and the two of us can take her, she weighs no more than a chicken."
"Don't be a fool," I said. "Get Fodok and Gastin."
Mother had climbed into the carriage and she knelt beside me and kissed my cheeks and brow. Her hair was loose and her face was wet with rain or tears and she wanted to embrace me but since I was lying down she could only squeeze my shoulders.
"Drive on," Fulmia shouted.
Mother's shawl had slipped and fallen onto my chest. The carriage shifted, getting closer to the door.
"Don't try to lift me yourselves," I said. Her hair blocked the light and the pallor that was her face moved slightly as she raised her hand to her eyes.
"Do you hear her, Fulmia?" she sobbed. "She says we're not to do it alone, we must bring Gastin. Call him, Fulmia. Call Gastin."
The carriage stopped, the doors opened, and as they eased me out the rain dropped on my face and I blinked in the cold rain-light.
The servants gathered by the door, the children staring at me and sucking their fingers as I was carried across the court. "Don't let me fall in this mud," I said, and everyone laughed. They carried me under the lintel into the warm air of the amadesh. There was the same soft yellow glow and the odor of roasting apples and I closed my eyes and let my head roll against Gastin's shirt; I could hear him breathing and feel him gripping me carefully as they took me down the hall where there was less light. I opened my eyes.
"Not so quickly," Mother was saying.
"And look at your slippers!" Nenya cried. "All over the carpets too."
At the end of the hall stood Father. He stood very straight at the foot of the stairs where the glassed-in porch opened into the hall and looked down on me sternly and held his pipe. As we lurched past he turned his head aside and muttered something. I craned my neck as we started up the stairs, catching a glimpse of his slightly rounded back and the shawl about his shoulders as he went back to the gray light of the porch.
I lay in that room all through the spring and they brought up my meals on a tray. Outside a milky froth of blossoms came out on the trees, pink and then white, and I rested propped on pillows and watched the changes in the section of orchard visible from my window. When it rained Mother came and read to me, her voice keeping back the thunder. We read Hodis the Solitary and Tales from the White Branch, and the whole Romance of the Valley and a number of similar stories, all the tales I had loved and listened to as a child. Mother searched in Malino's old library for the books and she would burst into my room with a happy cry, with dust and cobwebs in her hair, brandishing a book whose leather binding had split and was hanging down in strips.
"Look at this, you loved this one!"
At such times she reminded me so much of Siski that I was almost startled. She leaned in the doorway, laughing, wiping the book on her skirt. Once my father shouted from the foot of the steps, "Firheia!" And as she called back a promise of silence, her eyes twinkled just like Siski's.
She crossed the carpet noiselessly in her slippers and sat in the chair beside my bed. "Look, you remember this one, don't you?"
The book had fallen open at a picture of the boy Istiwin watching the Queen of the Bears emerge from the hill. His round eyes, his hands thrown up in horror. At his feet crouched the ragged, long-eared hare we had named Atsi as children.
"You don't feel well," Mother said. Her hand was cool against my cheek, her face reflected in the bowl of the lamp.
"No, I'm fine," I said. She smoothed her skirt out on the chair, the same brown velvet skirt she had worn seven years before. Now the golden pattern in it was faded and the swirling leaves could only be seen in the lamplight on her knee.
"What's happened to the forests?" I said.
She frowned and turned the pages, biting her lip. Then she said: "Let's not talk about that now."
"I know he's sold them," I said. "To Uncle Fenya."
She turned another page. "Please not now, the doctor says you must rest."
I turned my head on the pillow and looked at her, her wide sad eyes and the delicate skin around them where blue shadows lay. She tried to smile. She did not look like Siski anymore but only like herself. She turned back to the book and tried to find her place. And I thought of her through all those years at the table in her sitting room, her neat accounts, everything slipping away from her like sand. I thought that she must have put her head down sometimes in despair and rested her forehead on the glass of her writing table, and as she had done so I had moved through snow on horseback, killing, killing, watching men die for the glory of Olondria. It seemed right to me that the house was in decay, the avla shut up. I remembered earlier times, and what we had called "the unrest": how we rode across the bridge on the Oun and heard an insolent song in the meadow: "Down goes the house! Fire, fire, fire!" I don't think we knew they meant our house. The song was in Kestenyi and we were Kestenyi, Dasya and Siski and I. But to be Kestenyi, I thought, no longer hearing my mother's voice, it can't mean the blood you're given, it must mean how you give your blood away.
Give it away. But not to Uncle Fenya, who acted for Aunt Mardith, obeying her orders, pouring our precious forests into her coffers. I wanted to shout: Don't you see how we're changing masters? The Laths have ruled Kestenya with swords and the Nains will rule it with gold. But I couldn't say it. Not when Ashenlo had been my mother's life. Not when this was her work: finding a way to pay the herdboys, to have the carriage repaired, to scrounge up decent clothes for Siski and me as our father sold everything to pay for the bolma he ordered from the south. As he sat like a king in his glassed-in porch. He was the true son of a traitor, the heir of my grandfather who had signed the Treaty of Tevlas. Thinking of it, rage filled me and I ached to crawl out of bed, to hurl myself down the stairs and accuse him to his face. You. You. You have supported my grandfather's act of treason, that disgusting treaty that crushed Kestenya's chance at independence. And now you're selling Ashenlo to the Nains so that you can stuff yourself with bolma. I twisted in the bed and my mother touched my brow.
"You're warm," she said. Her hand was as soft as gauze. I closed my eyes and remembered the forest, driving out there in the winter long ago. I remembered Mother exclaiming how hard the servants must have worked to clear the road. "Oh, you shouldn't have," she said.
"First you complain that I do nothing for the children," Father said, "and then you complain about what I do."
"No, I don't mean to complain." She put her hand on his arm and he shrugged it off and turned and shouted, "Who can see the Snow Horses, eh? Who's seen them?"
We crowded to the sides of the wagon and gazed at the snowy stillness of the wood, and the shadows of trees moved over us like the shadows of bars, and the trees themselves stood arched above the road or glided by like sentries deep in the long blue corridors of night. The horses kicked up mist and the wagon jolted. In the carriage behind us men were singing, the little red lantern swinging in the dark. "Go on," Father shouted. Some of the children were playing in the straw and Mun Karalei was afraid they would burn themselves on the bricks. "She hisses like a gander," Siski said. We stood close in the smell of our coats and looked for alien hoofprints where the moonlight fell. The wagon stuck when the horses turned and everyone had to get out. Uncle Veda carried Siski on his back.
"Come on, Meisye, pull," she screamed, kicking her feet in excitement, her thin legs flashing in a shaft of moonlight.
"Please don't let her down," said Mother, "she'll soak her stockings and catch a chill."
"My dear," Uncle Veda said, "she's stuck to me like a crab."
While they struggled with the wagon I wrestled Dasya in the snow and struck my face on a hidden root and began to bleed, and I fell asleep on the drive back to the house and the snow they had pressed against my eye slid down my face and soaked my collar. I woke groggily under the lights of the house. They seemed so high, as if the windows opened onto the stars.
"Look up there," I said.
"Yes my darling," Mother said, but it was Father who held me and carried me up the steps.
"Take care how you play," he told Dasya. "She's only a girl." In the hall everyone was laughing and giving their coats and furs to the footmen.
"Acres of trees," said Uncle Fenya. "It's a silent fortune. I congratulate you." Firelight filled the mirrors.
Late that summer, I woke in the night to a pounding on the stairs, an urgent clatter that could only mean Siski had come.
"I'm awake," I called.
"You see," she cried. She dashed into the room and threw her traveling case down in the corner. And then she was kneeling beside my bed and had flung her head down on my chest and her arms in the tight black coat were about my shoulders.
"Oh, it's me, it's me," she said. "You didn't think I was coming but I came. I'm sure I got here faster than a letter. I came all the way from Nauve without stopping once, we slept in the carriage."
Nenya came in with a candle and lit the lamp, grumbling. "It's not the way to treat an invalid, disturbing her rest." Light flared up, revealing Siski's sharp, pale face.
"Don't look at me, I'm the image of death," Siski said, tucking her hair behind her ear. Her coat was dusty, one button hanging. "I came so fast I'm wearing all the wrong clothes. It's warm here, isn't it? Oh Taviye, we're home again and it's going to be delightful!"
Looking at her I could see that she believed it. "No, don't look at me," she said. "Do I look older? Yes, I must, I'm five years older. And you, you're lovely but so thin."
I did not know if she looked older, but certainly she looked different in some indefinable way. Her hair had fallen down on one side, but her embroidered collar gave her an air of refinement and hidden wealth. It was a Nainish look, and her face despite the narrowness and the tiredness had a new and elegant cast.
"We'll do anything you like," she said. "Riding, bathing, anything. Can you get up?"
When I told her I could not, she put her hand over my eyes.
"What am I seeing?" I asked her, smiling. An old game. Her voice came clearly and with a fierce undertone: "It's our rowboat on the Oun."
"We couldn't row on the Oun right now," I said. "It'll be dry."
"You're not playing right. You're supposed to see it."
"All right," I said. "I see it."
And I did. Sun on the chipped white paint, sunlight on the water under leaves.
The next morning I realized Kethina had come as well. As soon as I saw her, I knew what had made the difference in Siski's face. The two of them came in together, Siski in yellow, Kethina in rose. They had washed their hair and tied up the long damp plaits. "For the heat," Kethina explained. "It's not hot now but later we'll be so glad we put our hair up early, believe me." She bent and pricked my cheek with her arrow-shaped mouth. Her fingers strayed in my hair. "So pretty! Siski, you never told me about her hair. Almost blue—a real mulberry black."
She turned, sighing, swinging her arms. "So what are we going to do?"
"What about breakfast?" Siski said.
"Splendid!" Kethina cried, snatching Siski's shoulders. She pressed her brow to Siski's, her eyes laughing. For a moment they whirled with their foreheads together, giggling, their fresh gowns lifting and swaying around them. "What would I do without you? I'd never eat!" Kethina cried. "But now I'm terribly hungry. What shall we have? Please not fish or cucumbers."
"Let's go down to the amadesh and see," said Siski.
"We'll be back to report," Kethina cried out over her shoulder. And they were gone in a patter of pale house slippers and bubbling laughter and floating gowns and scent, and that was the way they were all summer. Laughing in corners, embracing one another and making journeys which, from what they said, were always perfection itself. On the journeys they wore wide hats and carried baskets. They would come home dusted with chalk from the hills and burned by the sun on their slim arms, Siski's hair grown wiry and Kethina's lank with the heat and their dresses creased from sitting on banks or old stone fences. And always they would explain about the wonderful day they had had, and indeed the excitement on their faces suggested extraordinary delights, as did their dusty boots and drooping ribbons and the odor of sweat, like that of pea flowers, which rose from their damp clothes. Siski had moved the two red chairs from Malino's old study into my room and she and Kethina would collapse on these, their legs stretched out, the toes of their boots turned up, fanning themselves with their bleached silk hats while the scent of burnt grass drifted in at the window. Then they would tell me what had happened. Sometimes they had been charged by bulls, sometimes received from a peasant a gift of butter tied up in a cloth. Later still I would smell their tobacco and hear them whispering out on Siski's balcony as the moon rose over the orchard. And while I could hear their sudden giggling and even the jingle of Kethina's charm bracelets and sometimes, I thought, a bare toe rubbing the iron grating, I never heard what they talked about. And the sound of their chatter exhausted me, they talked without ceasing all through the day and night.
My sister despised silence. She had a willful and hectic happiness with which she was determined to conquer the world. Sometimes I would hear them screeching, her and Kethina, swinging on the boughs of the Lathni chestnut tree by the well. The house grew quiet only when my father shouted for peace and then I would hear again how it was when we were absent, the growing hush of solitude in the halls where no one walked and the lifeless parlors and the rows of abandoned bedrooms. Then it seemed like our house again with the alien element banished. And for a few days the girls would slip out early, whispering in the hall and returning only when the sun was setting to lock themselves together in Siski's room. But irrepressibly the laughter would burst from her balcony and soon it would spread through the house again, into all the corners. Once she dashed upstairs and shouted as she passed my room, "We're eating out on the terrace, I must put on my shawl."
Whirling past my door again with the shawl about her shoulders she paused, the black and scarlet fringes settling slowly against her dress. "Don't you want to come outside?" she said. "They could bring you in a chair."
"No," I said.
She did not move, she stood by the door.
"What's the matter?"
"Nothing," I said.
She stood there for a moment. Then she said: "Then why won't you look at me?"
I told her that I was tired and when I glanced at the door again she was not there, she had slipped away without making a sound. And I felt my bandages under the blanket and struggled to sit up. I'd work, then pause, holding my position, propped on trembling arms. Work, then pause. Work, then pause. Thinking of the last time I'd seen her, five years before, when our happiness had shattered. Her horse, the beautiful Tuik, had died. Siski mourned through the corridors, knot-haired like a bereaved woman in a song. We all supposed she'd get over it, it was terrible, of course, but after all not the end of the world, everybody said. I remember the intense darkness of the house that autumn, the way the halls seemed to lengthen when you stepped in with a candle. I didn't like to go up the stairs alone. Dasya was silent and morose—he too seemed wounded by the death of Tuik. And I was outside, subtly abandoned, too young for them, for the first time. On the day of the first snow they went out alone. No one knew they were gone until Siski returned without our cousin, chilled and filthy and with blood upon her cheek.
Work, then pause. Work. When I swung my legs out of the bed the pain slammed into my gut and nearly made me retch. I sat there sweating and shaking like an overworked mule but I would stand up, I was going to stand. I clasped the bedpost. I had never asked my sister what had happened that dreadful day. It seemed impossible. They bathed her and put her to bed in Mother's room. The doctor was called and prescribed a draft of oinov. Nenya stopped me when I tried to go in: "My heart, get back, don't you know your sister is ill?" Her eyebrows, flecked with gray, stood up like the quills of an angry goose. But what was wrong with Siski? No one would say. And when Dasya returned, very late I learned from Gastin, they dressed him in traveling clothes and sent him down to Klah-ne-Wiy in the coach.
Work. Work. I stood up, gasping, my weight on my good leg. It is possible for the world to change in an instant. Siski needed to be alone, she needed peace and quiet, Mother said. My sister who thrived on noise. I was to go to Bain, to spend the season with Uncle Veda, who had recently been called upon to take up his role as duke, to leave his dogs and horses, his dusty carpets, the stedleihe brewery in his cellar, and go into the west. Before I left, I visited Valedhara. Uncle Veda's former steward—now the owner of the house—met me at the door. He clung to the doorjamb with small, alert fingers; his eyes had grown very bad. "It's cold in here," he said, "since the old man left."
Late in the summer Siski and Kethina's friends came from Nauve. I was walking then, I had even ridden Na Faso in the meadow, and we had heard of a slaughter in the Valley, unarmed peasants massacred on the orders of the Priest of the Stone. I had had no letter from Dasya, but I knew what he must be thinking: that this was our chance, that for the first time the Valley was divided against itself. That if the anger simmering in Kestenya could be released now, swiftly, we might see freedom in the east at last. At Ashenlo no one spoke of such things: Siski's guests arrived laughing, their scabbards ringing as they hung them on the wall. They poured in led by Siski who was radiant and triumphant in a pink silk bodice cut low and tight in the arms.
"This is the informal parlor, the oldest room in the house," she explained, her face aglow above the rosy silk. She put her hand on a young man's arm. "Don't smoke those things, we'll never get the smell out of the carpets. Let me fill you a nice pipe." I thought of her as a child, collecting apricots and standing on a stool to watch the jam boil on the big stove, and I thought of her riding Tuik into the desert outside Sarenha and coming back with her hair in tails and her skirt shredded by thorns. She used to be so happy there, especially in the mornings, giggling over her breakfast, making herself choke, then laughing harder. No one could understand her. And Nenya, spooning out the porridge, would say: "Some people eat crow berries during the night."
And now, in the evening: her smooth face like a china dish, black brows and lashes starkly painted, a crisp light laugh. "I never did that, did I?" she said, looking around her wide-eyed. "I don't remember, it sounds terrible, not like me."
"Do you mean to say you're not terrible?" said Kai of Amafein, leaning over her chair.
It was just what she had wanted him to say. Her tinkling laugh, the others closing in on her, the pipe smoke and her bright expectant face looking up at them.
And I was far away. Sometimes a guest spoke to me—it was clear Siski had told them not to shun me—but mostly I sat by the wall and drank. First we drank Eilami brandy and then we drank mountain wine and gaisk from my father's cellar. "I knew how it would be," Siski said bitterly, on one of the evenings—rare after her guests arrived—when she came into my room. "First he says he won't have anyone and won't pay for anything. But then he can't bear to have others pay for it. I told him," she said, lifting her chin and glaring at the closed door. "I told him, they've brought everything from Nauve. If you don't want us we'll sleep in the hills." She was wearing a thin gray shawl and she drew it about her shoulders as though she were cold. Then she gave a hard laugh. "He's with us now. He can't help it." She turned toward me and her face grew soft in genuine amusement. "He's going to give a party for you. To celebrate your recovery. A garden party with lamps and singers, everything."
I said I did not want a party.
She grimaced fondly and tweaked my hair. "Don't be silly. Why shouldn't he give parties for us, if he wants to? I don't care if he gives us some of his money."
"He doesn't have any money," I said.
"Nonsense, where does he get that bolma from, and the wine? No no, don't be stubborn." She drew her legs up onto the bed where we were sitting and covered my eyes with her cool hand. "See your party."
I took her wrist and pulled her hand away. "He has nothing," I said. "Do you understand me? Nothing."
And on the evening of the party, when the lamps were lit in the garden, she passed with her skirts whispering against the leaves, and with light falling over her shoulders and hair she knelt to give me a glass and grinned and said, "Have a sip of our father's nothing." I took the glass and smelled the gaisk; it reminded me of the mountains. In the garden all the voices and laughter were soft. It was not like being inside where the noise became unbearable; the loudness was drawn away and absorbed by the night. The feathery trees swayed above us, hung with round-bellied paper lanterns, and a wooden arch decorated with roses bristled above the musicians. We sat on wicker chairs and smoked. "Look, everything is the color of smoke," said Siski. Talk and laughter rose in the thin trees. Gastin came out with a tray of difleta, and Armali took two glasses at once and winked at me. He braced one foot on the rung of the table. "Thank you, I'd rather not sit. Sitting too much is no longer restful. If only the heat would break we'd amuse ourselves with a hunt."
Kethina shook her head in passing, wrinkled her nose and prodded his thick arm, crying, "Always in such a hurry!"
"Like yourself," he boomed out after her. His smell was fresh and strong as if he had bathed himself in lemon verbena.
"Look, fireflies!" cried Siski.
He looked vaguely toward the garden and made a humming sound in his chest. "Yes, delightful!" Then he turned back to me. "What are you planning now? Going back into the army, I hear." He gulped his second glass.
"No," I said. "Into the desert."
"Tav is going to visit a cousin of ours, Prince Fadhian," Siski said quickly. She took a brief sip and added: "A very good friend of our uncle the duke's."
"Not so good," I said, and at once felt foolish.
"Well, you told me they were friends." She frowned, tapped her foot on the gravel and looked away toward the musicians under the arch, and everything gathered in me, the misery of being with her and being estranged from her, and I said: "He is a prince of the feredhai."
Later, up in my room, I thought that I could easily have escaped, I could have avoided everything that came afterward, I might have said "He is my uncle's friend," I might have danced, I might have bowed to Siski's request that I take off my sword. Instead I stood harsh and awkward in an old-fashioned frock, too tight across the shoulders now, with my old scabbard half smothered in its folds, and leaning on my cane I looked like a clown, Siski told me afterward. A prince of the feredhai.
"Do they have princes?" Kethina asked brightly, looking around at the others.
Armali swallowed hastily in order to answer: "Not as we do. Not at all. There's no—" He put down his empty glass and snapped his fingers, looking for the word. "No sense of continuity, of blood."
"But they have such dreadful feuds!"
"Well, but in that case the bloodline is just an excuse. All of their squabbles really take place over cattle. Cattle and horses—it's what they have instead of politics!"
Laughter.
"And what's your politics?" crowed Kethina.
"My dear, gaisk and good weather!"
He motioned to Gastin for another drink. His foot restless on the rung of the chair. His calf pulsing and swelling. And Morhon was still talking about blood. The lamplight on his spectacles hid his eyes. "In order to have proper royalty, that is, princes of the blood, or as it is more genteel to say, princes of the Branch, one requires history, and in order to have history, one requires a means of recording history, and the feredhai, possessing no writing—" Kethina was helpless with laughter. Kai of Amafein nuzzling her ear. Something had fallen into her dress—a spider. And Siski sat under the spreading mimosa tree, a pattern of leaves falling over her face and dress, gazing up at Armali, nodding and smiling. Her plaits in a knot on top of her head, small curls escaping and glinting like black fleece. The greenish radiance of her gown. And on the side of her brow a small contraction, the hint of a frown, a pulse beating angrily, signs only I could read.
"Feredha politics are clean, at least," I said.
Armali looked at me, surprised. "My dear girl."
"Cleaner than ours. Look at the Lelevai. A feud over horses, a feredha feud—that's a feud over something. The Brogyar war is a feud over nothing."
"But think of—"
"Nothing."
He laughed. A sound like a cough. "Hrrm, hrrm," deep in his chest. His eyes glittered, chips of broken enamel. "I should think someone like yourself—you are, after all, of a Nainish House—would see the sense in protecting our northern border."
"You are, after all, of a Kestenyi House. I should think you'd respect the feredhai, your own—"
"Don't start that!" he barked, putting his glass down hard.
"Come," laughed Siski.
"Lady Siski," he said, breathing hard through his nostrils, "my respect for you is absolute, but I will not stand to be called a feredha by anyone."
"But you are one," I said, "if we trace your lineage back far enough! So am I. So are we all."
It was like running downhill. I waited for him to say it, and he did. "If you weren't a lady, I'd—"
"Stop!" cried Siski, leaping up.
She seized my hand as I started to draw my sword, and I let it slide back into the scabbard, afraid of cutting her. "Stupid!" she hissed. "You're making fools of us all!" She was so close I could smell her skin: liquor and summer rain. There was a brief silence, and then the music again, the singers' repetitive song. The hum of voices resumed, but excited now, subtly energized, Kethina's eyes sparkling under her pointed brows. "Drink!" Ermali shouted. "Where's your idiot footman?" And Gastin hurried toward him over the gravel.
Siski caught her breath and gave my wrist a pinch—a single, childish gesture, a brief word in the language of boredom and the schoolroom. It startled me so thoroughly that I laughed. At once I wished I could take my laughter back, for her eyes widened and I knew she would not forgive me. Then she laughed, too. She leaned forward, embracing me gently, her breath warm at my ear, and for an instant I was transported back in time, and the cheap Tevlasi music wrenched my heart, for it was home.
She pulled me close. "You look like a clown," she whispered.
Very well. I looked like a clown in my old frock. She was right. But I would not be a clown. I would not dance to a Valley tune like our hapless Uncle Veda. When I thought of him in Bain, in the stuffy rooms of the ducal residence, I knew that I had been right to run away. Siski had depressed me with her mysterious illness, Dasya had cut me with his desertion, but it was Uncle Veda who truly broke my heart. He met me at the door smelling of hair oil and fresh steam, squeezed into a figured coat, and I wished that I was dead. I wished I had died before I saw his anxious, sweating face, his lopsided mustache decorated with a pair of beads. He only owned carriage horses—"It wouldn't be right to keep a proper horse in the city"—and dosed his "cold stomach" with Eilami brandy. Because he was a bachelor, and considered too stupid to deal with young ladies, my Aunt Firvaud had come from the Isle to help me settle in. The two of them led me upstairs to a bedroom crowded with lamps and couches. The window, my uncle informed me, overlooked the gardens.
I put down my things, and he noticed the swordbox. "Oh! Ha, ha! Did you bring that thing? Ha, ha!" he wheezed, leaning on a couch. "A joke," he explained to my Aunt Firvaud, who regarded me with a searing stare. "Our Tavis used to be so fond of swordplay."
"I still am," I said, though I did not feel fond of anything. I thought I would never be fond of anything again.
"So I understand," said Aunt Firvaud. Small, with painted lips, she flashed like a jewel in the setting of her elaborate beaded cape. "Veda," she said then, in a deliberately careless tone, "please leave us. We have things to discuss. As ladies."
"Naturally!" Uncle Veda said. And he went out, receiving a tiny shock when he touched the doorknob, because of the way his buffed slippers rubbed against the carpet.
Aunt Firvaud, my sharpest and most scornful relative, who hardly allowed us any intimacy with her although she was my mother's sister, who always insisted on being called "Teldaire Aunt" because she was Queen of Olondria, advanced on me with a blazing face. "What has happened?" she demanded. "What is the matter with him?" And I knew that she meant Dasya, and it was as if my heart had dropped into my boots.
"Why?" I asked. "Is he ill?"
"Ill!" she cried, flushing darker still. "He's weaker than a gnat; his heart is broken!"
I stared.
"Don't stand there like a stump! Your sister has crushed his hopes, that's clear enough; does she think herself too good for the future Telkan?"
"I don't know," I faltered. My head was spinning, and the edges of the room seemed to fade. I thought of Dasya and Siski going away together into the woods without me, and Siski coming home alone. The blood on her cheek, so dark in the instant I was allowed to see her, the instant before they whisked her away upstairs. I felt like a fool for not having seen the signs of romance between them, for thinking them depressed by the loss of Tuik. As if horses were everything. Kad shedyamud, I thought in Kestenyi. What barbarism. I felt, in that moment, like a barbarian, someone who was only good for riding and hunting and fighting, and then I almost wept for desire of such a life. My aunt was screaming in my face, her elegant little hands tearing the air—"I want to know what happened! Nobody tells me anything! What did they quarrel about? Whatever it is, she must forgive him!"—and I gave up the effort of standing and sat down on a plump silk couch.
The cushion was harder than I had expected; my teeth clacked together. Outside the window, just past my aunt, spread the windswept sky of Bain. Gulls swung between the towers. The sun struck a distant window that glittered so brightly I thought, for a moment, it was a tear in the corner of my eye. How quickly the world comes down, as if it were only made of paper. I thought of Uncle Veda pacing downstairs, his thumb and forefinger stained with ink, his ankles throbbing from dancing the arilantha and other intricate Valley dances. And everything was gone, the house, Valedhara of the high cupboards which even my uncle's valet stood on a table to reach. The pearl-knobbed doors, the antelope horns that were taken down and polished with wax, and the great collection of weapons in the study. This room that was called a study was really a storage room for no one studied there and the old wall lamps were empty of oil, so that one always carried a candle inside even during the day because the windows were blocked by enormous old armor cases. I remembered the odor of dust and leather and the glow of the candle revealing the buried wonders of that chamber. "Somewhere here," said Uncle Veda. Suddenly he had decided to look for a hawking glove that predated the War of the East. Metal clanged, shields slid to the floor. "Help me look, my dear," my uncle said. His robe trailed in the dust and caught on boxes, his hanging sleeves became tangled in a collection of Panji hunting bows. At last he said: "Ah, look. There it is." He held the glove up in the light of the candle. It seemed huge, misshapen, a monstrous gauntlet trailing moth-eaten ribbons. "I knew you would enjoy that thing," he chuckled. "How we loved our hawking parties then, when Ranlu was alive!" And downstairs in the parlor I sat with the great glove on my knee and gingerly touched the ribbons and strands of beads, while Uncle Veda lit his pipe and told me of the hawking they had done in the golden days before the war. First they would choose their birds, walking quietly in the early morning among the hooded cages of the lokhu. Then they would go out among the hills, riding on the shaggy, stalwart ponies of the plain, and at last release their falcons to the sky. "We would catch foxes, yellow hares, even ermine," he said. His eyes grew moist as he began to laugh, remembering how Ranlu's hawk had perched on the roof of an aklidoh and the hermits had refused to let them retrieve it. "They were so kind to us, that was the worst of it!" he sputtered, wiping his eyes. "Yes, suddi! Welcome, suddi! Giving us curds and butter! We squatted in the yard and ate while Ranlu eyed the roof and they gave lectures on the sanctity of their walls..." He laughed, his face as red as mahogany in the dusky parlor. How wonderful it seemed to me as I sat on that hard silk couch, how wonderful, the soaring birds and galloping hooves, the wheeling space of the plain beneath the blueness of the hills. And rage welled up in me like icy water in a thaw: rage at Dasya and Siski for allowing some stupid lovers' spat to spoil our autumns; rage at Uncle Veda for accepting the title of Duke of Bain and submitting to a society he loathed; and rage at my Teldaire Aunt who, tired of shouting, realizing I knew nothing, picked at the shoulder of my gown on her way out of the room. "Cheap," she pronounced, standing over me, smelling of some expensive scent that reminded me of nothing but her own apartments in the Tower of Pomegranates.
"You'll have to dress better in Bain," she added. "This isn't some highland barn."
I raised my eyes, and she took a step backward, her fingers against her throat. For a moment I exulted at having frightened her, but then her expression cleared. She even smiled. "That's it," she murmured. "You'll do very well."
I often wondered what she meant. Did she recognize something in my murderous look? Did she, too, dream of murder every day? Did Siski? Do they still? Is that how they survive, these bright society women—by chewing on visions of violence as if on milim leaves? But I would not, could not; I would follow Ferelanyi; I would run away to military school. In the stolen carriage—borrowed, as I put it to myself—I flew eastward along the Ethendria Road. A kind of terror oppressed me, the sense of having done something irrevocable, of having set myself apart from my world forever. Autumn had come to the Valley: the vines lay rumpled and brown and fallen leaves blew over the road in the cold wind. And then there was that blue and misty morning when the horses seemed so fresh and stamped so prettily on the bricks of the old inn yard. The air was crisp and smelled of smoke and coffee and roasted chestnuts and the laughter of the girls in the kitchen rang from the lighted window. The porter ran out with my great trunk: he was a crooked old man and grinned with strong white teeth as he heaved his burden up into the carriage. And I stood smiling back at him and he smacked his palms together and exclaimed something about the chill in the air. Why did he suddenly strike me as such a handsome and wonderful old man? All that day we flew past empty fields; there were a few horses and children squabbling over the last of the apples, and when the sun came out the frost glittered. We crossed the Ilbalin on the ferry and I stood by the rails and smelled the air and listened to the shouts in the blunt accent of Nain. My happiness and impatience grew as we climbed into the mountains and I had to wear my wool vest and heavy mantle. "Raise the window, my lady," Fulmia said. But I closed my eyes and let the wind scour my face, burning with joy and cold. I would not be a clown, I would not dance. Good-bye, Uncle Veda! It was the end of ribbons, the end of bouquets.
Years later, when my sister told me I looked like a clown, that moment sustained me. The carriage climbing higher, into rare air. My swordbox at my feet. In my excitement, I drummed it with my heels. It was the beginning of the dance of the mountains.
I still carry the letter my sister sent me from Ashenlo three months ago. It found me just before I left the great plateau. I was with the feredhai then, and the young boys crowded around me with huge eyes to watch me read the piece of paper. "What does it say?" they asked. "No news," I told them. I folded the letter and tucked it into my shirt. There it stayed as I traveled westward with a small company of men, into the clement autumn of the Valley. It crossed the country with me and now it has taken up residence in the forest. I carry it still, in this chilly camp where we wait to make our move. Surely it no longer possesses any virtue. Its letters smudged, its creases near-transparent. Still I carry it and sometimes I unfold it by the lamp.
My own dear Taviye,
If you knew how dull we are without you, you would come back at once. Even the horses are pining for you! Poor Ustia will hardly eat his mash, and when I took him across the Oun this morning he wouldn't gallop, but ambled like an old workhorse. All of the dogs are terribly jealous of Farus. Noni told me that she will not speak to you when you come unless you bring her an emerald collar. You know how she is, so you had better comply. As for Fotla, when I mention your name he acts as if he's never heard of you!
To speak from my heart dear Taviye, come back for the feast if you can. It will be so wonderful for Mother. I've told her to try not to think of it but she says she dreams of you in those wild mountains surrounded by criminals disfigured by the black needle! So you see how it is. Father is the same as ever, exactly the same, only more so if possible, taking most of his meals alone in the porch. One never knows what mood will take possession of him from one moment to the next. I hate to leave them alone together.
As for me, I'm bored almost into the grave. Kethina has gone back to Nauve and never writes, as she says she is "caught up with life." I suppose she means new gowns. I have given up on all that myself and go about in a blue dress like a peasant. What is the point? Mother and Nenya force me to dress in the afternoons, as we have not, apparently, sunk so low as to appear at the table in slippers. How stupid everything seems! Even my shell combs have grown heavy; when I put up my hair, I swear to you, my arms ache.
Taviye, how has it happened that we are scattered all over the country?
Well, they are calling me to dress. It's already cold in the mountains and all my gowns are Valley ones, thin silks with open backs. I freeze nightly. Taviye, dear Taviye, do you remember when we were children, how we used to slide across the floor of the avla? Suddenly I remembered that. I think of those days so often and have so much pleasure from it that sometimes I actually burst out laughing. I remember even the terrible things with nothing but fondness now, like Grandmother's burial day and how we fell into the gorge. Do you remember that? Nenya tells me I'm too old now to be giggling or sighing to myself over my embroidery. "Alas my heart, sudaidi," she says (for she is a true Kestenyi though she will never lose her pride in calling herself a "daughter of Nain," and if a new tradesman comes to the door she still looks at the ceiling and snaps her fingers as if she can't recall Kestenyi words—what nonsense!)—"Alas my heart, sudaidi," she says, "be sensible and break this habit of laughing and crying all the time, it's not right for a lady!" As if one's rank should prevent one from feeling anything in life! But it's only the memory of those days that makes me feel anything. So come back soon, and let's go riding over the Oun like we used to, and have wine and raush under the trees by the bridge. You know it was funny when Kethina was here, she said you'd always seemed so stiff and proud to her and without any lightheartedness at all. She said she used to be afraid of you, you were so serious, and I said you were the merriest person I knew. Vai, here I am with nothing but memories, like an old woman. Come soon and make us all cheerful.
Love, Siski
On her last night, the night they all left for Nauve, she came upstairs and stood by my bed in her dark gray traveling clothes and a cherry-colored scarf. Her face severe above the brilliant silk bunched at her throat. She held a little round case in front of her with both hands. When she shrugged, it tapped against her knees and stirred her long dark skirt. She looked at me and smiled and then looked at the window.
"After all, it's been a wonderful summer," she said.
Dogs barked; the light of carriage lamps gleamed behind the curtains.
"Siski, don't," I said.
"No, I have to go," she said. She bent down and kissed me, smiling. "I don't know what's the matter with me." Her breath struggled for a moment in the tightness of her coat and then she was calm, at the door, touching her hair, and gone.
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[ Blood ]
The swordmaiden will bleed.
All bleed who fight with the sword. All confront, with greater or lesser difficulty, the worship of their own flesh. The swordmaiden faces particular obstacles in this matter: she will have seen, in the temples and elsewhere, many images of unscarred women.
The swordmaiden, like all warriors, must transform aversion into pride. She will be aided in this by the knowledge that her path to this achievement, being rougher and less moonlit than the paths of her companions, endows her triumph with a superior glory.
Consider: the unscarred women depicted in the temples are gods.
Consider: very few overcome the worship of the flesh. Bardo of Weis, an exceedingly arrogant brawler, whose skin was so tortured it resembled a carpet, wept in his dreams once a year for the loss of his former body.
There is also the small matter of the swordmaiden's monthly blood. It is advisable to stanch the flow with rags, and to wash these rags in privacy, if at all possible, as one's companions may find the subject cause for jest. It is also acceptable to follow the example of Maris, who slew two men in duels prompted by such insults, or of the False Countess, who used to discuss her flow openly in her camp, as she and her men together discoursed on the issue of their bowels.
The question is unlikely to arise except in times of peace; the swordmaiden at war will often find that her flow has stopped. Consider Galaron of Nain, who bled for the first time in her life at the age of thirty, and mistook the pangs and blood for signs that her food had been poisoned.
When my wound had fully healed and I no longer needed the cane, I went into the desert. I dressed in the highland way, in wide trousers and a sheepskin jacket; with my hair loose on my shoulders and the sword worn openly at my side, I was taken everywhere for a young man. Even Fadhian, who met me, as my letter requested, a few miles south of Tevlas, thought I was a boy. He was seated on the fence outside the inn, his horse cropping the weeds nearby, and he nodded to me without expression.
Then I smiled, and his hard face rippled into understanding. He jumped down, I dismounted, and we clasped hands.
"Tavis," he said.
"Tav."
He bowed. We rode together in silence until firelight appeared against the dusky sky.
"There's the camp," he said. We quickened our pace. Several boys came out to meet us, bearing torches and one broken lantern that gave off an evil smell. They swung the lantern in my face, exclaiming in a dialect I found difficult to understand. I was struck by the rowdy noise they made and the way they did not try to hide the fact that they were talking about me, and also by their jostling closeness, the way they all rode in a knot, which I recognized as a skill but did not like.
Tumbling and clattering, we rode into the camp. Fadhian smiled as girls ran up to greet him and tug his stirrups. He dismounted and embraced everyone and kissed each boy and girl on the top of the head and the women kissed him on the shoulder. Everyone laughed when he kissed Lunsila, who was so tall she had to bend her knees in order for him to kiss the crown of her dark head, and she laughed more than anyone and everyone made jokes that it was clear they had made many times before. The children crowded at Fadhian's knees and then he was carrying two of them and continued to hold them as he introduced me. I clasped hands with everyone and was overcome by loneliness. Later the boys told me they had feared my angry face. And Fadhian ducked into a tent to greet his wife while I sat by the nearest fire and someone brought me coffee in a tin cup. The coffee, boiled with goat's milk, had a strong, musky taste, but I drank it all while the boys crouched around me and stared. The men sat with us too and gave me tobacco and asked questions in gruff voices. There were long pauses between the questions, and sometimes the boys broke in with piercing voices, all in the dialect that refused to arrange itself in my mind.
I can speak Kestenyi, I said to myself. I have spoken it all my life. And it was true—in a few days everything would be clear: I would hear the familiar words under tricks of pronunciation, but on that first night the language seemed encased in a thicket of thorns. I heard my own voice, strained and weak like the voice of a Valley official who believes that learning the language will endear him to the highlanders. Some of the words even came out with a strong Olondrian accent, such as I had never affected at home.
That night I slept poorly in the tent they gave me, thinking of how Fadhian's son Redos had pulled me aside. Thinking of his arrogant face and figure in the black jacket and his question asked with such deliberate slowness.
"Why have you come here?" he said.
I could not pretend not to understand. "To forget," I answered him, "and to begin."
His black hair, the blackened silver at his throat, and there, at the door of the tent, a string of prayer bells ringing in the wind.
At the end of the Month of Plenty we struck camp and began to move. The sunlight was brilliant, falling in sheets of whiteness. It glittered on the roofs and fences covered with new snow and the leagues of hard flat country under the bird-speckled sky. In the morning we rose and grimaced and worked the stiffness out of our limbs and beat the blankets, throwing off flakes of frost. The boys ran out calling the herds with the curious hollow cries I could not imitate. And the girls crouched under mantles squinting in the smoke of the fires or clicked to call their milch goats, strange thick-haired creatures with cross-eyed stares, who gave off a fierce odor and whose heavy yellowish milk made the crumbly cheese the feredhai carried on journeys. Sometimes the girls called to their ponies too: for this they had a high and trilling cry like the sound of the black eagles of the Tavroun. I watched the girls run, crying, catching up the folds of their mantles with one hand and mounting the ponies with a sudden sideways leap. I was always amazed at how fast they rode, sitting cross-legged and seemingly off-balance but never falling. They would ride to the neighboring farms with hides to trade for coffee and tobacco and, if the trading went well, perhaps a handful of grain.
"So now you have seen the barbarity of the plains," Fadhian smiled.
He sat back under the femka, his features indistinct in the gloom.
I watched the glint of his teeth and said: "It is not barbarity. True barbarity exists only in cities."
"Really," he said, still smiling, and I knew I had spoken clumsily. He bent to refill my cup from the silver pot. "I realize," he said, "that you are spending only a season with us. Please refrain from any custom that does not suit your tastes."
And I wanted to tell him that everything suited my tastes, everything, riding and living in tents and always seeing new parts of the country, eating cheese and hoda in the saddle and the way the boys, with their rough, easy ways, had made me one of them. I wanted to tell him that I could live for days on nothing but raush, that I grew sick unto death on teiva, rich food and wine. I wanted to tell him that my desire was only to sleep in a tent or beneath the stars and never again to have silk or muslin against my skin. But I was silent. After a moment I asked if he regretted accepting me. Then he laughed and reached out to clap me on the arm.
"Sensitivity!" he cried. "It's the curse of settled folk. By the end of winter you'll lose your fear of words."
But he was wrong. I have never lost my fear of words, nor have I learned to master them and bend them to my will, to meet them with confidence and strip and twist them as I saw him do on his stool of judgment under the red femka. His decisions grew from hours of talk and the quiet pronouncements of his wife, Amlasith, who sat beside him in a leather chair, while two girls tossed sweet sandalwood into the brazier at her side. These decisions were final and I never saw them questioned. An unhappy man could ride away if he liked. The feredhai were never anxious unless women were involved in the disputes, for an unhappy woman would take with her the male relatives of her ausk and all their flocks, a blow to the larger clan. This never happened while I was there, but I heard of Nith Rudasa who in the year of the yellow rams had cut herself off from Fadhian's people. They still remembered her and spoke of her sadly, while the men who had abandoned them were referred to as used shoes.
Winter came after us and we rode faster. We hurried eastward, the wagons clacking over the frozen ground, fleeing into the Duoronwei where the winter camp awaited us and the secret pastures among the folds of the mountains. There was no time to pause on that long run and the women cooked on the moving wagons and cured raush in the flying smoke. The farms we passed were white and still, the doors closed. Bildiri horsemen watched us over the fences, holding their coiled whips. I rode with the feredhai through the stinging sleet and later over the whitened plains, peering through the slit in my wool headscarf, the scar on my thigh aching and my limbs burning with the desire for speed, cold, hunger, and oblivion. After three days the men were silent and no longer stared at me with secretly mocking looks as they had done at first. But the boys who had always loved me for my spurs and my sword in its embossed scabbard remained my closest friends after Fadhian himself.
"Well," said Redos, when I had brought down the great white ram among the Lihoun, "so the lady can shoot."
The snow was falling thickly. The women, with yells of exultation, descended on the silver beast and in moments had skinned and gutted and quartered it. The children were given handfuls of fleece dipped in the blood to suck, and tottered about in their heavy clothes, sometimes falling and dotting the snow with pink. Around me the men sat on their horses and watched. Weafan rode up on her pony and presented me with the liver.
They watched me cut off a piece and nodded gravely when I had swallowed it.
I had been afraid but did not feel ill.
"You've eaten it before," cried Finor, smiling in amazement, and I laughed when I remembered Loma struck down in the north.
I dug my heels into my horse and dashed away over the snow. I knew that I had a reputation for eccentricity, strange for me who, as a child, had been considered so ordinary that my parents had once forgotten me on a journey to the Valley. Yes, they forgot me, they left me behind with the servants. I laughed as I galloped over the snow, remembering Nenya's sandals scraping over the flags. She opened the lid of the chest and cried out, "Oh, what are you doing there?" I heard her breath and her soft moan of distress. She reached into the chest and pulled me out, the keys clinking at her belt. My traveling clothes were covered with sawdust, and she dusted me off in haste, sometimes slapping me so that it hurt. I could hear that the house was entirely empty.
"They're gone," I said.
She snatched me up into the floury smell of her dress. I clutched her collar as she ran out to the lane, bouncing in her arms, her breath about me and the patches of sun in the lane and the trunks of the trees all leaping madly.
"Here she is," she cried.
Mother was standing outside the carriage and she clasped me tight and I breathed her different smell of violet perfume. "Why can you not control her?" said Father. I looked up and Siski was at the window, making an evil face against the glass.
I rode until it seemed my horse's hooves had trampled that face into the snow. Two days later we were at the winter camp, Fadhian filled with satisfaction because we had reached it on the second Tolie of the month of Mur in the season of Earth Ringing. In the cave we slaughtered a bull and drank its blood by torchlight, and that night the boys were restless and could not sleep, knowing that all the married men were lying with their wives. In the morning we ate fresh meat and a pudding of blood and went back to bed. That deep sleep of satiety and weariness under furs and blankets in the tent that was full of the breath of youth. A child woke me in the afternoon and summoned me to Fadhian's tent where I sat among cushions and drank hot milk with sama.
I told him that I wanted to go with the boys, eastward into the winter pasture, and not remain with the women in the camp. "It will be very hard," he said. He waited for me to answer, and when I did not he clapped my shoulder in his companionable way. "Forgive me," he laughed, and when the boys departed into the Duoronwei I went with them, treading on the edge of the world. The rigid frost, the blue air, and the animals linked with rope on the treacherous ice took me back to my days in the northern war.
"Are the Lelevai colder than these mountains?" Mantia shouted.
"No," I shouted back, and we were overwhelmed with echoes. Finor stalked back down the line and hissed for us to be quiet: he was afraid of the avalanche, the shifting dragon. In silence we plodded along the ridge and after three days we saw the valley, a gash in the mountains filled with a whirling mist. It took us seven days to get the animals to the bottom and my hands bled and I ached and was very happy. There was the day when without the slightest warning the sun struck down on us and illuminated a valley of black flowers, of black fir trees and cold streams and enormous birds that rose up honking, blocking the light with the spread of their huge wings.
"Iloki!" I cried.
I had heard that they came from the mountains but had never seen them in the wild, where they feed on sleeping fish. The famished cattle cropped the tall black lilies and Amantir smiled and said: "Here is the Paradise of Oud."
I thought of Dasya then, how he used to speak of the outlawed Kestneyi goddess Roun: he believed she was only another name for Ayalei, and that her paradise, called Oud, was a paradise of song. "Song," he said, "not sign. Speech, not writing." I wondered where Dasya was, if he was still at his secret work in the Lelevai, carefully testing captain after captain, pulling together the structure of a war. Or perhaps he was in the Valley now, where peasant unrest was growing. Already it was spreading into the highlands: rumors reached us of a carriage waylaid on the road to Bron, two Olondrians slain, tiny bells found in their mouths. Bells, for prayer. I wondered how Fadhian had received the news—if he, so cautious, was ready to hear the words Kestenya Rukebnar. Delicious motto of the traitorous dead. Sometimes I could not sleep, thinking of how I would say those words to him. Kestenya Rukebnar. In their silver resonance I would be revealed: not merely an eccentric noblewoman amusing herself with highland games, but a link between rebellious Kestenya, the rebellious Valley, and the rebellious north—a key, a chance, a bell, a sword.
Kestenya Rukebnar. I whispered the words with joy in that cold valley, where I left my sadness among the frosted leaves. All of it, abandoned. It slipped from me in the ache of the rushing streams, in the harsh cries of the iloki. "Do you like hesensai?" Mantia asked me, grinning, and I said yes, only realizing a moment later why he laughed. Hesensai: to drive the cattle to their winter pasture. Literally, "to travel without women."
In the spring we climbed out of that valley, forcing the animals up the rocky slopes, shouting and clacking sticks behind them, driving them over the sun-touched snow that broke under their hooves into the camp where blankets were hung to dry on lines. Girls ran out, holding up their mantles, embracing their brothers and cows and horses without any kind of order, and crying with happiness. Their faces glittered dark against a landscape covered with mud and dirty snow and they were bright and warm and alive. I was dazzled by them, by their light voices and quick hands, their odor of wood-smoke and roasting coffee and wool blankets, the flash of their heavy silver anklets and the beads in their tangled hair and their bold movements as they shoved one another and hurried to build up the fires. I felt that I had never seen women before. Amlasith approached me, her arms spread out, and I leaned to kiss her shoulder. The fleece of her jacket made me sneeze and she laughed and pulled my head down and kissed my brow and patted my cheek with her warm hand.
"Did you bring back my Tras and Su?" she asked.
"Yes," I said.
She narrowed her eyes and looked across the snow. "Ah yes, there they are," she said, and I watched her brightening face as she caught sight of her two favorite russet cows.
That night a sheep was slaughtered in our honor and we drank stedleihe from a gourd smeared with pitch that usually hung in Amlasith's tent, passing it ceremonially around the fire, the boys composing their faces into sternness before they drank. The wind came up and the night grew very cold and the sparks flew and all the children were put to bed in the big tent, except for those who insisted on sleeping in the artusa among the cows and went off dragging their blankets over the snow. Rumios sang a part of the Song of Lo and then a girl in a white cloak recited half of the poem, "When Tir Rode Out from Eilam's Halls." When she had finished, Amlasith said to me: "Come, Tavis. It is time you sat with the women for an hour."
"Tav," I said, my throat dry.
She bowed her head slightly, but did not repeat my name. My name is Tav, I thought as I rose to follow her and the girl in white, feeling suddenly heavy and awkward, not wanting to answer or even look at Mantia and the others who called to me across the camp. I stalked silent in my boots, the light of the lantern brushing my dirty herdsman's trousers. Amlasith's tent was the largest in the camp. There were several lamps inside it, and girls and women and children lounged about on low beds covered with stretched hide. Some of them sat up when they saw me, curious, ready to laugh. The girl in white set the lantern on the floor, and Amlasith sank down in a clinking of gold, crossing her legs under billows of red cotton that filled the air with a smoky scent. Her wealth of gold flashed in the light of the lantern. She lit an ivory pipe patterned with dragons, a relic from the south. Her hand curved about the bowl, the fingers delicate and smooth, with sharpened nails and many golden rings.
"Welcome, Tav," she said.
"Thank you, sudaidi."
Titters pricked the air, and Amlasith threw an amused, warning glance at a clump of girls. She looked at me again and smiled, a coil of smoke at the corner of her lip. "Do you smoke?"
"Yes, thank you, sudaidi."
Another burst of giggles, rough as a fall of gravel.
The girl in white, the reciter of poetry, passed me a small enameled pipe. She did not raise her eyes; she looked angry and ashamed, like me. She threw off her white cloak to disclose a leather vest, shiny and supple with grease.
Another girl passed me a tinderbox. I lit the pipe and smoked the heavy Evmeni tobacco, bartered for at the back door of a barn, and Amlasith said, "Seren, give us a tale," and the reciter of poetry spoke the invocation: "People of the House..." Then she told the story of Bel Marfunya, whose blood had dried up. Children gathered as she related the tale, kneeling on the ground, their legs ashen with a mixture of dust and the sparkling goblin silver of the hills. The smaller ones crept close and nestled against the breasts of the women, who stroked their soft hair absently and watched the teller, and Nask fell asleep in the crook of Amlasith's arm, gripping her finger tightly and trailing saliva on her fiery sleeve. When the story was over Amlasith smiled and snapped her fingers to show her appreciation and her bracelets jingled down the length of her arm. The thinner chains moved slowly, caught on the hairs. "Now," she said, "does anyone have a question for our visitor?"
"How can you tell if the white snake has struck?" someone cried, and laughter, quelled by the story, burst out everywhere. The feredhai called love "the white snake" and a lover was one who had been struck or one, it was said, who had swallowed dragon's milk.
"I don't know," I said. Hot light beat up from the lantern into my face.
"Are you engaged?"
"Have you ever been struck?"
"Will you have a green or gold wedding?"
Suddenly the storyteller, the girl in the leather vest, interrupted, claiming that people in love were unable to eat hoda. She spoke over the protests of the others, telling of somebody she knew, a distant cousin of hers beyond the Uloidas, a man with a beard down to his chest who had gone for a year without eating hoda until he gained the woman he loved as his bride. This cousin had survived only on milk and fish and sama. In the end he grew so thin that his own horse failed to recognize him; it bit him on the shoulder, and the wound went black and he lay in his tent on the brink of death beneath a carpet of flies. Then his uncle, who had refused to support his suit, rode out on his stallion, weeping enormous tears that streamed in the wind, and brought back the girl with her tent on the back of the horse. "That is how it happens," she said, drawing their laughter toward her, leaving me safe.
To swallow dragon's milk. The next day she came to me where I sat with Fadhian, once again clad in her pale cloak. She must be in mourning, I thought. My throat thickened strangely when she stopped and looked at me, dark eyes under curving brows. She said Amlasith wanted me: the women were going to bathe. Fadhian watched the cows, half smiling into his coffee. I followed the girl, feeling like a broken, sideways creature, the owner of a body that would not serve.
I told myself that this was a lie. I thought: My body has fought and lived. I thought: I could seize this poet's arm and break it behind her back. I thought: The unscarred women depicted in the temples are gods. Yet misery covered me like a rash.
At the stream, I removed my clothes as if before an executioner. First the sword. Then the jacket, and then the boots. Some of the girls already splashed in the water, shrieking in the cold, but most stood gazing at me unabashed. Vest, shirt, undershirt. Here then is my map. On my shoulder, a slash received at Orveth. Bar-Hathien across my ribs. One arm is also Bar-Hathien, the other Godol. Now the trousers. This leg: the foothills of the Lelevai.
I stood shivering under their stares. An exquisite self-loathing frothed in me like wine. And then something brown and galloping seized my hand. The poet, whooping in the raw air, pulled me down the bank till we crashed in the stream, like running into a sheet of lightning.
Her name was Seren. She had memorized countless lines of poetry. She spoke the che—the secret language of feredha women. It was the language they used to call the goats, a barrage of clicks and humming, but there were words in it too: klasn was water, niernetsa was thread. She told me, laughing, that she had met me before. She would not tell me where. I thought she must have been one of the girls who came riding to Ashenlo, whirling up to the fence like crows, and my mother would tell Nenya to take them a handful of onions and a sack of rice. Seren wore the white cloak, not to mourn the dead, but to mourn the living: her elder brother had fled and was hiding in the mountains. "Yes, we lost him," Fadhian told me one night. His jaw tightened in the smoke of his pipe.
"Lost him how?" I said.
We could hear the jingling of anklets and the laughter where the boys and girls were dancing. Seren passed in the firelight, stamping, thin-shanked like a bird. "Lost him to a feud," Fadhian said.
He glanced at me and gave his hard smile and told the story of how Seren's father had died in Tevlas, fighting over a horse. And how Seren's brother stood among the women of his ausk while they wept and each gave him a gold bangle or a ring.
"It was a great misfortune," Fadhian said. "He had no choice." Later they had heard of his bloody revenge, how he had crept into the tent, the struggle, his wounds, and his triumph. And he was alive and had fled to the western hills.
"But he can never come back," Fadhian said. "We lose so many that way. Or worse, they are caught and we lose them to the prisons. My clipped hawk, our song says." He raised the pipe to his lips again and we watched the dancers through the swirling dust.
Dust, darkness, and fire. But soon a subdued air came over the camp, for we had begun to travel among farms. Fadhian forbade dancing and singing, and sometimes we all grew silent as a carriage rumbled past in the dark. It was strange to hear those wheels, or footsteps along the roads. One night the sound of hooves approached, and the boys all mounted quickly and rode out to the edge of our firelight and we heard them talking and soon they returned with a group of black-coated horsemen. Later I learned that there had been eight soldiers from a nearby town as well, but they had remained out there in the dark, beyond our circle. This was according to Fadhian's law, Fadhian who now slowly put his bowl aside and wiped his hands on his trousers and stood.
He greeted the strangers, courteous and tall in the firelight. The sovos was pale and wore a round straw cap. He did not dismount, nor did his seven horsemen who were armed with whips and long bildiri knives.
The horses shifted nervously as the sovos cleared his throat and explained that we could not camp here, it was forbidden. Where could we camp then, Fadhian asked, and the sovos said he did not know, this was a settled area and a private road.
He waved his hand southward. "Perhaps there," he said. He did not know, he knew of nothing beyond his master's lands.
"That is a shame," Fadhian said, smiling.
The sovos looked at him but could not decide if he had been insulted.
"I must ask you to move at once," he repeated.
Listening to him I realized that I had not heard Olondrian spoken since the autumn, and also that I had never heard Fadhian speak it before. He spoke very well, with a soft accent, and his smallest children looked at him in dismay. And I, too, looked at him with a pang. He was so polite and deferential. Yet no one moved until the sovos had gone. Then we began to take down the tents and kick dirt over the fires and I heard women explaining to the children that they could sleep on the wagons.
We rode all night, there was nowhere for us to camp. Lights appeared in the houses as we passed, lanterns in the dark fields. Through everything the scent of a spring night and the beauty of the stars and the sad clang of a pitcher against the side of a wagon. Mantia rode up beside me in the dark and told me about the soldiers and then I thought of them, of their well-fed horses, of how they had probably left a game of londo or even an entertainment in the town: Evmeni singers or dancing girls from the Valley. There would have been an argument and at last those who had been chosen to go had stood up grumbling, securing their belts and buttoning their jackets. I wondered where they were from and if any of them had served in the Lelevai and lost a thumb to frostbite or languished in the hospital at Giva. Outside our circle they had stood, talking softly about the women in town, pausing to spit on the side of the road. At last they had ridden back complaining, bursting into the tavern again. "These idiot farmers don't know what they want. He called us for nothing..."
Sunrise broke out tenderly in the east, through a gap in the mountains. Birds awakened in the trees by the road. We breakfasted on cheese and hoda without dismounting and after an hour we finally stopped and crawled into the wagons to rest. The women who had been resting rose and drove the animals on and I lay under the shelter of the moving wagon, rocking from side to side in the noise of hooves and wheels and cries, watching the points of light through the gaps in the hide roof. Lulled to sleep at last I dreamed of orchards. When I woke it was almost dusk and we were still moving among the farms. I crawled out of the shelter, and Seren, sitting on the back of the wagon, smiled and passed me a pitcher of water.
I splashed my hands and face and drank. "Will we stop soon?" I asked.
She shrugged and gave me a piece of raush from her pocket. We were passing a villa where, by the light of the lamp on the terrace, two girls clad in muslin worked on their embroidery. I watched them until they were small white shadows in the darker blur of the house. And perhaps it was the sight of them, or perhaps the sound of Olondrian still ringing in my ears, that made me suddenly say to Seren: "Niernetsa." I mimed the act of embroidering, the pull of the thread. She laughed and shook her head.
She crawled into the shelter and beckoned me after. It was dim and noisy inside, the wagon jolting with us toward the noon country. When she whispered to me, the motion made her nose bump gently against my ear. "Never give away the che," she said.
"I didn't mean to," I told her.
"I know."
She kissed my cheek. "Elu," she whispered. "Do you know that word?"
I said no, and she told me it meant love. Up close, she smelled dry and fragrant, like wheat. Her eyes were frightened, my legs like water. "Love," she whispered. "Loving. In the che."
For many days it was dry, our lips grew white and we moved among the wells and traveled by night and there was no sound of singing; then suddenly we would come upon a sacred grove with a woman's name where we swallowed the soft and fragrant air like milk. Coolness breathed from the wild mimosa trees and the pink acacias and the white and waxy bark of the karhula. We slit the nalua bulbs and drank the juice and dug up asphodels and ate them and peeled the spines from the aiyas leaves. Only we did not cut the trees for fuel, this was forbidden. The cattle wandered and chewed the flowering broom, looking comical with their broad muzzles smeared with yellow when they had browsed among the heavy golden tras. And then one night there was rain, a hard cold rain, and we stood under it and gasped for a moment of agonizing sweetness. The children screamed for joy and in the morning we all looked brighter with the dust beaten out of our clothes and our crisping hair.
How empty it was, how silent in the desert. There was a happy delirium in being with others, in laughter, in song. The notes of a diali under the stars with a scent of clouds on the wind brought me an unfamiliar joy that clenched my throat. Seren and I set snares for rabbits far away from the camp, and we walked out together to check them twice a day. We lay on her white cloak. She rested her head on my arm as I unfastened the long strings of her leather vest. Each string slipped through its hole with a soft shirring sound, then the knot at the end caught for a moment, it wouldn't pull through, I had to pull it harder, her fingers in my hair and at last it gave. They gave one after the other, all released, and I breathed and breathed her skin.
Once I asked: "What if someone discovers us?"
She shrugged, stretched, laughed. A bitter note, for the first time. She said they'd scold and laugh at us. They'd tell us to find men, to get married. "Chff!" she said, wrinkling her nose, slapping me on the arm. The gesture of someone reprimanding a child who has soiled itself. "Chff! At your age! Shame on you! Susa!"
"They'd call you a susa?"
"A susa's not just a bird. It's a wrong girl, one who won't grow up. But the bildiri use it to mean all feredha girls..."
Susa. The bird of the desert, with its brief serrated voice.
"But it's all right," I said awkwardly, "if you're young?"
"You'd have to be younger than we are. We're too old now. It's for children."
"Well," I said, "at least they won't shut us up in a temple."
I told her of Bain, an excursion to Ayalei's temple, and how I glimpsed, in the upper story, a jeweled hand tugging a curtain. That hand seemed, for an instant, the sign of paradise. In Ayalei's holy house, any person may love any other: love overflows all forms. But a moment later I knew it was not for me, that luxurious hidden life: Ayalei's servants never leave the temple except on feast days. They adorn her crown like insects in a lump of amber. "It's a kind of half life," I explained.
She touched my cheek. "Not the life for a soldier."
"Stop, you're getting sand in my eye."
She slapped my face gently, twinkling. "Chff!"
"Chff yourself." I grabbed her wrist.
"Chff! Chff!"
"For shame!" I rolled onto her.
"Susa!" she wheezed. A storm of giggles.
It was there in the desert that my blood returned, there that Seren taught me to seize black ants and snap them between my teeth, there that my heart came open in two halves and words poured out of it: my heart had not been empty after all. I talked night after night until I was hoarse. There was a curl of whiteness in the dark sky, what the feredhai call the track of the goddess Roun, the wake of her boat in the sea of the heavens and this is what was coming out of my heart, memories pouring out in waves. All of my life. I told Seren about the dance of the mountains, about Ashenlo, about my sister and how she had called me a clown, about Dasya, about my father, how he was forever a traitor and the son of a traitor and so he hated himself and everyone else, about my uncle the Telkan, so weak he allowed himself to be stretched out and then collapsed again like the sail of a boat controlled by the Priest of the Stone, about my Uncle Veda, the Duke of Bain, who also hated his life but with more resignation than my father. I told her about Aunt Mardith in the north, about Uncle Fenya and his money, how I was certain they were buying up land in Kestenya, how the desert was changing hands without anyone knowing, becoming the property of the Nains, as if you could buy this wind and light. I worried that it was too much, this blizzard of words. She said: "No." She said she would give me a field. "This field is wide enough to contain everything you say." She told me the field would never be filled. Her hair above me, swinging. She said it was mine. She said she'd never take it back.
There was one thing I could not tell her. I had to tell Fadhian first.
I told him to come with me, alone, through the Land of Flints. We traveled at dawn and dusk through the blackened plain and in the afternoon we slept beneath the white summer femka stretched on wooden poles. The country was very bad and often we walked to spare the horses. I picked up a few stones and rolled them in my hand. Very black and rough they were and stark in the sunlight, painting their outlines on my eyes, their inescapable presence. The feredhai said that a dragon had scourged this country, and I believed them. At the site of the aklidoh there were a few bowed wild mimosas, all dead. Dead palms, dead acacias black and hard as iron, pieces of dead wood scattered on the ground. But the aklidoh was standing, square and silent with its gray domed roof. Inside we found a few bits of ancient straw. We entered the cool of the inner chamber and sat on the mud benches carved into the wall, facing each other in the light from a hole in the roof.
"Now," said Fadhian.
I took a deep breath, and then I spoke. I told him that I was a Kestenyi. I told him that there was nothing more precious to me, or more fragile, than Kestenya Rukebnar, and that this was the reason I had asked him to follow me to this abandoned place. I told him that the war in the north, the Brogyar war, was a ruse, a trick to keep Olondria docile, and he smiled. I told him that the Telkan had made mistakes, that he was weak, the pawn of a priest. I told him that this priest, too, had made mistakes. I spoke of the riot at the Night Market: Valley peasants crushed on the orders of the Priest of the Stone. Fadhian's face grew quiet; I could see him thinking. I told him that my cousin, Prince Andasya, was gathering disaffected generals in the far north. I told him I wanted men from him, a force that would sail westward; I would claim I was taking them to trade horses in Nissia. That winter, on the Feast of Lamps, Dasya and I would converge and take the Isle. And Fadhian would free Kestenya.
"I know you can do it," I said.
I knew he could do it: he would know just whom to ask. He listened in silence, sometimes glancing up at the sky through the hole in the roof. Sky of the desert, Kestenyi sky. He listened until I was empty, spent. Rubbing his jaw, his face as still as noon.
Then he told me a story. I had heard it before but not that way, not from the lips of a man like Fadhian. I had not heard the story told so plainly and with quiet energy and pauses in which the afternoon slowly turned. Sometimes he raised his hand. His eyes were fixed on a spot in the darkness of the crumbling wall but I knew that he did not see it. It was as if we had been abandoned at the bottom of a well, a well that slowly filled with the blueness of night.
"It won't be like that," I whispered, my voice huge in the broken room.
"Won't it?" Fadhian said. I could feel him smiling. Then he sighed and said that my grandfather Uskar had not been a monster or a fool but simply a man of incomplete passions.
"My grandfather knew him well," he said. "He used to speak of what an excellent dancer Uskar had been before he joined the rebels. You know he was terrified of wasps. You see, these are the things we remember. These, and the little children burned alive on the Karafia. Uskar was running up and down the streets of Tevlas shouting and weeping, everyone has heard that part of the story. But who knows what he thought afterward, after he betrayed the rebellion, after he gave his brothers to the noose?"
Fadhian shrugged and crossed his legs, his heel scraping on the sandy floor. He leaned on the wall and looked up at the damaged roof. A single star hung there in a dark blue circle, shifting slightly as if breathing, bright and unguarded and alone.
"Why did they fail?" Fadhian murmured. He said that it was not because they were cowards nor because of feuds among the feredhai. He said that in the end men like my grandfather had not been able to murder their own and so they had been defeated.
"I'm not afraid."
I could feel him smiling again. "This is what worries me. Do you know what it will take to remove Kestenya from the empire? They have grown together, a tree inside a wall. Separate them and the wall is likely to crumble, the tree to die."
"Do you think so? Will it be hard to remove the feredhai from laws and fences, from those who are buying and selling the desert?"
"You have misunderstood me," he said, but when I asked him how he would not answer and for a long time we were silent.
Later, out on the plain, he touched his heels to his horse's ribs and shot off swiftly with his mantle flying behind him, dark blue in the starlight, and I followed at a gallop in the cold air drifting from the edge of the world.
"Spare the horses!" I shouted. My face was hot with anger but the thin sound of my voice shocked me and I did not shout again. Fadhian had heard me and he slowed his horse and proceeded at a walk. And I was listening to the night.
I listened but could not hear anything for its sound was an absence of sound, a deep absence in which the crunching of hooves over stones was lost, and the stars stood very solemn and bright in a circle and seemed so alive that their silence was uncanny, as if they were holding their breath for their own strange purpose. Their whiteness struck me in the face and I bowed my head. That night I spoke without stopping, although Fadhian did not answer. I told him again and again that this time was different, that I was not my grandfather Uskar, that I was loyal to Kestenya, whatever he thought. I spoke again of the fires in the Valley, the anger of people there, and how that anger was singing the song of Kestenya in a different key. And there was a third note: the anger of soldiers in the north. "Only imagine," I said, "if we should sing together."
We slept in the lee of a ridge of hills and I had a dream in which Seren asked me to go with her into a cave: I followed her, and not until she released it did I see that she was bearing with her an enormous dark-furred bat. We stood on the edge of a pit inside the cave and watched the bat fly down in slow circles to join the others. There were cats there too, at the bottom, gliding among the stones. "You'll never get it back now," I told her.
In the morning we made a fire of dried dung and boiled coffee in the shade of the hills while the sun came flooding in silver over the plain. I remember Fadhian's crouch, his fingers lightly touching the handle of the pot, his eyes fixed on the level of the coffee. A little wind came up and raised the dust about our camp. The horses stood with their legs in the whirling cloud, their bellies gray. Fadhian poured the coffee and we shielded the cups with our mantles and drank, chewing the grounds and spitting onto the rocks. He glanced up at me, and his face looked young, young and thin and tired. His smile was a crooked knife hung on a wall. How it cut my heart.
"Well, Tav," he said. "Let's try it. Let's have Kestenya Rukebnar. Let's have war."
"Don't go," she said, when I told her.
"I must."
"Going to Bain," she sneered.
"I'm not going to Bain."
She shrugged. "To the Valley, then."
"I'll come back."
I leaned close and told her all our plans. I told her to be ready for independence. She shook her head, her earring trembling against her neck. A silver ring adorned with a red glass bead. Cheap glass from Tevlas. She said that this war would not be mine, I would never triumph. She, who knew nothing of war, told me that I, a woman, would never be remembered, that any victory would be Dasya's and not mine. They would call it Prince Andasya's War. I told her it didn't matter. "We'll be free," I whispered. "Free. Even if I'm killed, you'll live on in a free Kestenya."
She bowed her head. When she raised it again, her eyes had turned silver. "You still don't remember where we met," she said.
She stalked to the fire where the boys sat playing the diali and took up the instrument. The look she gave me turned the air to ice. She sat cross-legged and played. She played and sang in an exaggerated manner, tossing her stiff plaits, rolling her eyes where a few tears still clung. And I knew. She had been among the hired singers at my going-away party in the garden at Ashenlo. She had been there, beneath the wooden arch, while I imagined life in the desert and engaged in a stupid argument with Armali.
"Stop it," I said.
She didn't stop. The flesh crept on my neck. She sang of the dead who wander among the caves, the dead who haunt the ruins of the aklidai and the girls who meet them there and are transformed into birds and slaughtered and eaten. She strayed among the stones, she sang, and he was waiting there. Such a terrible song for her pure voice. I listened, enraged. I wanted to smash the diali, to strike her face. I would have swallowed her whole if it meant I could take her with me.
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[ Song ]
The swordmaiden will sing as she rides and the song will cool her spirit. She is happiest when singing the songs of the road. Songs of the hearth may make her body heavy and uncertain: it is difficult to manage a sword at a feast.
All songs that tell of brave deeds are useful, especially those in which the hero is slain. The False Countess was accustomed to prescribe melodies like physic. A man overtaken by trembling would be ordered to sing the ninth verse of the Vanathul. For self-hatred, the Countess recommended "The Pass of the Doves."
Songs sung in childhood may also be used, but with care.
Melancholy music is appropriate only in peacetime, never in war.
At night, wrapped in her cloak, the swordmaiden murmurs the song of her unknown comrades, swordmaidens past and future: a song without words.
If I live, I will find Seren again.
The camp is silent. In three days, on the Feast of Lamps, we depart for the Blessed Isle. Dasya will meet me there, and together we will take Velvalinhu. We'll have surprise on our side: everyone will think we have come for the feast. My Telkan Uncle and his priest will fall, while in the north whole battalions forsake the army, charging down from the hills to take the Valley, and in the east, Fadhian rides at the head of the feredhai. This is what I think of now at night.
If I live. If I live.
I lay on the sand with Seren and named the stars, the way Malino had taught me in the observatory. Firelight touched my wrist as I pointed: the right wrist, overdeveloped like the whole arm. I told her she ought to call me Tavis the Warped.
She clicked her tongue at me in disgust.
"Is that che?"
"Yes. It means who asked about your arm? What's that one—the bright one to the right?"
The feredhai have their own names for the stars, their own constellations. What we call the Bee they call the Clasp.
If I live.
She told me she had dreamt of me on the night I first arrived. She dreamt I was holding water in my cupped hands. "Look inside," I told her, "it's a taubel." She bent and peered into the circle of water. It was completely black.
"This field is for you," she told me once, "I'll never take back." But she did take it back. The day I left she stood apart, near the artusa, while the others kissed me and patted my shoulders and wished me luck on the road. Her sunburned arms crossed and her gaze trained on the mountains. No white cloak today, no sign of grief. She was taking it back. Her hair and her voice and her breath and the scar where she had been bitten by a wild dog. "I yelled like fever," she'd told me. She was taking it all back. I wanted to be the first to turn away. I lost.
So many memories. But one is missing, because it never arrived: Seren performing at the garden party at Ashenlo. It lies like a needle in the back of my mind. I grope for it, desperate to draw it out. I see again the lamps among the sparse-limbed trees. Gowns brushing over the gravel and the musicians under the wooden arch. Were there three or four? Four, say four, Seren and three others. Guitar, diali, and drum. They glance at one another and nod, the drummer taps his calloused fingers, and it begins. Seren in the center, her strong face and supple, easy bearing, her hands in her lap. The light glints on the parting in her hair. Her plaits are tawny where the sun has burned them. She tosses her head and sways from the waist, using all the coarse, familiar movements. It's not the feredhai style, but a parody of it, something sold all over the empire. She sings the old songs: "The Swallow in Winter," "The Rose of the East." Curling one hand in the air, opening and closing her great black eyes. People are listening, drawing chairs closer, mouthing the words. When she finishes a phrase a clatter erupts among the crowd, a burst of snapping, rings clicking on glasses, cries of "Bamanan ai." The words begin as something maudlin and meaningless but repetition gives them power, and she repeats each line in fifty ways. Sobbing and swaying as if overcome by the music. And under the sound of the words comes the true meaning, the one they possessed long ago. How sad they were when they were first composed.
Where are you? I am waiting.
And once again: I am waiting. Where are you?
When we were small at the Feast of Lamps the lanterns were lit in the avla and our mother sat at the table smiling and handing out the glasses. Each glass had a flower tied to it, a jasmine bloom or a sprig of mint, and the women fastened them in their hair and the men put them in their boot tops. Our mother sat in her chair all evening and never danced though she loved the music. In those days, I remember, we found it simple to be extraordinary. Everyone watched when I danced a sadh for Father or offered him his pipe on the beaded cushion when he was tired of dancing and sat by the window. And Dasya and Siski clasping hands in the corner would swing in circles until they fell and Siski's boots left marks like tea stains across the floor. And when they carried me upstairs at every window I saw the lights of the hunters down in the forest where they lived on raush and snow. And she was my dear, my dear. And she sang underneath the wooden arch at a party to celebrate my recovery from my wound. Who can understand the sadness of this? She was singing and I was whole and her song was a wound and the money we paid her was a wound. And all the lamps were wounds, and the beaded cushion, and the avla, and the music. When I was eight years old, still inside the enchanted circle, a strange little boy who had come to play with the servants' children tripped me in the courtyard and I fell and cut my chin. "Down goes the house!" he sneered. I remember his hard, shiny lips, and how cold he looked. He did not have a proper coat, and his earlobes were red as coals. Fulmia came running around the side of the house, waving a rake and roaring terrible curses in Kestenyi. The boy ran off, and Fulmia helped me up, but not before I saw, in the eyes of this man who had served my House since my father was a child, the eyes of this man looking after the fleeing boy, an expression, not of anger, but of some secret satisfaction. It was gone by the time I was on my feet, and I never saw it again. But I know what I saw: hope, like a desert aloe. Hope, stubborn and bitter to the taste. That hides water. That bears the drought. An ugly plant with the power to heal.
Now often at night it seems as if there is something abroad in the wood with wings or something that breathes as it sits upon my chest. I get up in the night and go to the flap of the tent and open it. Farus is instantly awake and rubs against my knee. "It's only the rain," I tell him, patting his head. The wind blows in my face and shakes the trees and powders me with rain. The cold rain and the warm dog by my leg. And far away in the dark the lights of the bridge. Everywhere the sound of wings.
From Our Common History
Olondria, land of almonds. Land of myrrh.
In the words of wine-tongued Ravhathos, our greatest poet: "the gods' garden."
In a cave on the northern tip of the Blessed Isle, they say, lies Olondria's navel: the exact starting point of history. Naturally, also, a door to the Land of the Dead. There the poor shepherd Hernas slew a white deer, which revealed itself as the goddess Ayalei. Bleeding, weeping, and happy—for she was now free from the spell of the Dead King her brother—the goddess crowned her deliverer with a garland of straw. A symbol of marriage ever after. She kissed him on the mouth: "a breath of incense," says the Book. From their union came a line of kings.
Yet this was not the only line to descend from Ayalei, Ripener of the Grain. For in the form of a deer, running wild through the Iavain, she had been stung by Karos, the God of Plague, in the form of a fly (hence one of her names: Velkosri, the "Plague Lily"). The site of the sting swelled for eight months, and when it burst, a pair of twins leapt out, creaking to the sky with slobbering blue lips. They were winged and horned, and spoke no human tongue. They were the first Drevedi, blood drinkers and flesh eaters of the woods.
And so, as the shepherds of the Valley, a rough people who had all but forgotten the gods, were united under a divine line of kings, a menace brooded and multiplied in the forest. This mystery, writes Fanlewas, expresses the essential duality of Ayalei, the goddess of love and death. "In her white form," he explains, "she is snow and mourning: she gives birth to monsters, children of Karos whose color is white. In her red form—the red of her blood, when she is slain by Hernas—she gives birth to kings and roses." Imrodias prefers to view the Drevedi as a type of warning, even a prophecy of the war that would be waged by the offspring of Hernas. "For that war is known as the War of the Tongues; and the primary characteristic of the Drevedi is that they cannot speak."
Whatever our interpretation, certain facts remain: that the people of Hernas, who called themselves Laths (from the ancient lak-thet, "vine grower"), sought forcibly to unite themselves with the Kestenyi and Nains, their neighbors to the east and northeast, who spoke languages related to their own; that their justification was their common ancestry, and the favor shown the Laths, through Hernas, by the goddess; that the ensuing War of the Tongues was the longest and bloodiest in our history; and that it was effectively ended by the Drevedi.
"They appeared in the western sky like a storm of claws," writes Von.
"The first to die in their clutches," Besra adds, "was Natho of Ildei. Seated on a saddlebird, his bow drawn to shoot down at the ground—where he thought his most dangerous enemy to be—he was torn from the saddle and devoured face first, as if in a diabolical mockery of the act of love, by an ogress of piercing beauty."
"Like blue leaves of a murderous autumn," writes Hailoth.
"The earth is poisoned now," writes an early, anonymous contributor to the Dreved Histories. "We all go about in white cloaks. My heart is sore: a bruised and seedless fruit. And a salt wind blows endlessly in the empty streets."
The Dreved Histories, perhaps the most painful chronicle ever written, gathers accounts of the reign of these monsters, who, not satisfied with anthropophagy, put on clothes, established themselves in palaces, and married the sons and daughters of noble houses. The Histories also tell of the eventual human rebellion, the fall of the vampires (who were variously burned, drowned, and battered to death with bricks), and their reemergence here and there in the coming centuries, in the form of horned or curiously insect-like children. As recently as the reign of Varon the Petulant, a boy with horns was executed at Ambrelhu. But the era of Dreved domination is, happily, long over. Iloki, or "saddlebirds"—once the war steeds of noble Laths—are kept in the palace, but never ridden. We will have no winged lords.
"The project undertaken in the War of the Tongues," writes Imrodias, "a project of unity (and there is, surely, no greater or wiser aspiration), was interrupted by the accursed Drevedi, but not abandoned. In the course of time, it would be completed, and called Olondria."
This expresses a popular perspective among the Laths, who eventually conquered Kestenya and Nain under Braud the Oppressor. What we now call "the common tongue," or simply "Olondrian," is in fact the language of the Laths. In Nain and Kestenya, due to a centuries-long series of political marriages, those who hold titles often carry, as well, a strong strain of Lathni ancestry: "the higher the branch, the closer to the trunk," being a common saying. Genealogy is a national obsession. The Hath Harevu, a book containing the names of all those who can trace their ancestry, however distantly, to Hernas the Shepherd, is updated every year, and consistently outsells the Vallafarsi, causing Odrid of Eal to quip: "Our true Holy Book is the Hath." The most exalted bloodline, of course, is that of the Telkan—a title meaning "King Over All." Olondrian inheritance passes from a man to his sister's son; if he has no sister, and names no heir before his death, it passes to his own son—that is, to a different family or House. As the proverb goes: "A house without sons, a house without windows; a house without daughters, a house without doors." The betrothals of kings, particularly those with no sisters, are watched with great anxiety: the House of a queen may, in such cases, seize the kingship through an accident of fortune or judicious poisoning.
The noble Houses of Nain and Kestenya are generally considered "too far from the trunk" for marriage with the Telkans. They are not quite Olondrian enough; yet for all that they speak the common tongue, dance the arilantha, and play the limike. It is thus possible to speak of "our common history": a history briefly blocked by the Drevedi and then permitted to run its course. This is not the only way of seeing matters, however. Faska, the Kestenyi rebel, is said to have spat, while bound to a post: "For this the gods cursed you with monsters."
"And the years pass like clouds."—Karanis of Loi
Olondria swells and shrinks. It gains Nain and Kestenya, then it loses them both. It wins Kestenya back, then loses it after the Olondrian army is weakened by a protracted war with the Sea Kings of Evmeni. Olondria gains Evmeni and the hitherto independent kingdom of Panj. The justification of a common ancestry is no longer thought necessary. The only justification now is power. Goods flow north from Evmeni: ivory, oranges, bolma, musicians, and salt.
Nain, threatened by the Brogyars to the north, enters into a treaty of fellowship with Olondria. Olondria gains Nain. "Not by force of arms," laments the historian and Nainish patriot, Ailmali of Faluidhen, "nor even by some treachery did we fall, but through our desire for wines, silks, dyes, and other seductions of the insidious Laths." The greatest seduction, it must be admitted, is that of the vast and well-trained Olondrian army, which enters into a war with the Brogyars north of Nain. "War," writes General Aren of Deinivel, "breeds war." His mood is cheerful, his sword hungry for conquest. Olondria gains Kestenya.
Rebellions wrack that mountainous waste, which is called the Intractable Province. "Then they must be made tractable," insists Aren. "We must accustom them to the bit." The aklidai—houses of lonely ascetics which serve the highland people as temples—are emptied, and the mystics put to the sword. Roun, the Moon Goddess, patroness of Kestenya, is declared a blasphemous figment. "Woe, woe," runs a popular song of the times. "Woe for my little bone thimble. It lies broken in the gorge. And woe for my little bone finger, pricked to death."
An uneasy peace. An outbreak of war. An uneasy peace. An outbreak of war. An uneasy peace. And then an organized rebellion in Kestenya, a revolt that unites the cities and the desert. Kestenya Rukebnar, they shout—"Independent Kestenya"—nomads, farmers, aristocrats, they all cry out together. This revolt almost succeeds, but is broken by that cruel attack, the Karafia—in Kestenyi, "The Night of Tears"—on which the city of Tevlas is burnt to the ground. During the reprisals, the desert is so thickly strewn with corpses, the crows grow listless.
Uskar of Kestenya, heir to the destroyed city of Tevlas, cannot bear it. When he joined his cousins in rebellion, he was drunk on stedleihe, singing in a café. Now, smearing his tears on his sleeve, he gives in. He betrays the rebels to the king.
The young Telkan, Eirlo the Generous, is generous indeed. Once the last rebels have been captured and strung up by their heels to die ("like songbirds on a wire" as the Kestenyi lament has it), the Telkan gives his sister in marriage to the loyal Uskar. That marriage shocks the empire: the next Telkan will be half Kestenyi. Princess Beilan, the Telkan's sister, thinks it a fine joke. A tall, broad woman, her hair dyed yellow as Nainish apples, her face weather-beaten from a life lived primarily on horseback, she throws herself into what she considers the customs of her new home. Having been a passionate hunter of deer, she switches to hunting shambus, the wild sheep of the highlands. It pleases her, once a year, on Tanbrivaud Night, to throw a ball to which she invites the most notorious bandits in Kestenya: "I won't cut your throats," reads the invitation, "if you don't cut mine."
Wine flows, and the princess lights the outlaws' cigars with a candle.
She bears three sons. Teskon, heir to the throne. Veda, heir to the valuable duchy of Bain. And Irilas, who will inherit the Kestenyi estate of Ashenlo and the duchy of Tevlas.
Three sons. No daughters.
A House without doors.
The princess develops a passion for raising doves. Her skirts crusted with guano, her eyes encircled by rings of dark green paint, she reclines in her aviary, blowing pipe smoke toward the rafters.
Princess Beilan and Lord Uskar were sadly unsuited to one another. Where the princess was bold, the duke was timid. Where she was hale and ringing as a bronze bell, he was pallid—for a Kestenyi, unusually so—and short of breath. He loved wildflowers, but because of his asthma could only enjoy them in pictures. He began to suffer from night terrors after the Kestenyi War—he kept hearing the glass in the windows of Tevlas shatter in the heat, the children scream, and his betrayed, dead cousins curse him before the gods. For a time he attempted to live in Tevlas, but his health was so affected by the ash in the air, the dust of renovation, and the gloom of the gutted buildings, that he retired to Ashenlo. There, one winter, his health and spirits were restored by a visit from a saint.
"The old man came out of a snowstorm," said one of Uskar's footmen, speaking on condition of anonymity. "Half naked and with that great stone on his back. We never thought he'd last the night. He'd no more flesh than a stick of raush."
The old man, however, did live. He was Hudra, First Priest of the Stone. Led by a dream, he had ventured into the deadly region beyond the Duoronwei, where even the feredhai dare not go, and returned with a huge black rock, magnetic and apparently covered with writing. Uskar engaged a doctor for him (saving his life, but not his frostbitten toes) and soon the old visionary was settled in a small room at the back of the house, where, aided by Uskar, he devoted himself to copying down the lines in multiple languages and scripts inscribed on the Stone. The two men became convinced that what they possessed was a message from the Nameless Gods, those who were before Ayalei or any of the others, the architects of Time and Space, distant, inexplicable, and inexorable, who are referred to collectively as Nieb. The earliest lines deciphered by the two enthusiasts instructed them to burn their garments and put on robes of raw wool. Never had Nieb shown an interest in such trivial human matters. The two men wept. Thus began the Cult of the Stone.
Hudra changed his name to Elarom: "Bearer of the Stone." Uskar became Ahadrom: "Face of the Stone."
His eldest son, Teskon, who was extraordinarily like his father, tall, black-haired, and inclined to melancholy and coughs, joined Ahadrom in his work and was soon indoctrinated into the new faith. Neither of the younger boys, however, could be prevailed upon to spend his time squinting at a stone and being lectured by an old windbag mottled with frostbite. Veda, who had inherited his mother's passion for sport, spent his days outdoors, while Irilas plagued his tutors and pillaged the liquor cabinet.
Princess Beilan, absorbed in the lives of her birds, was nearly oblivious to the changes taking place under her roof. When her husband spoke of his work, she was overheard to say: "Pssht!" To her brother she wrote: "We are all as healthy as cockroaches and as merry as thieves."
Years later, when her son Teskon took the throne, he changed his name to Ahadrom II. The princess was then in mourning for her brother, Eirlo the Generous, who had died at table, collapsing into a bowl of mutton soup. The news of her son's decision startled her from her thoughts for a moment; she is reported to have asked: "Is it so serious with him, then?" At once she lapsed back into her reverie, playing absently with a feather and murmuring: "I had no idea. I had no idea."
Her ignorance might be excused, as she had not seen her son for some years: he had moved to Velvalinhu after his marriage. That marriage, to Firvaud of Faluidhen, a Nainish noblewoman, had been celebrated all across the empire. Eirlo, the Old Telkan, overjoyed at his nephew's choice, had ordered sweetmeats and festive ribbons distributed in the streets. The ribbons read: "Olondria's Love Match," "The Greatest Green Marriage in History," "A Braid of Three Peoples," "Unity at Last." Now, however, Eirlo was dead, and the new Telkan seemed more preoccupied with the Cult of the Stone than with promoting the unity symbolized by his marriage. He had the Stone transported to Velvalinhu, along with its priest and Ahadrom I, who could not bear to be parted from his master. The first Ahadrom, who had been Uskar of Tevlas, was aging fast: he found it hard to speak, and even writing had become an arduous task. From the ship, he wrote to Princess Beilan, left behind in the highlands: "Lord. Burnt. Thunder. Where. Lament."
The Cult of the Stone grew. We hardly noticed it at first: the fading of the old priest, Elarom, and the rise of Ivrom, his successor, a man who used his tongue like a riding crop and gained several thousand converts with the fire of his eye. We failed to take note of the priest's growing power, the success of his books and pamphlets; we were too much occupied with the question of the throne. Who would take it after Ahadrom II—who was, as certain voices never tired of repeating, only half a Lath himself? Could Olondria bear to see, on the Horsehair Seat of her ancestral kings, that dream of Eirlo's: a living "Braid of Three Peoples"? For not long after his coronation, Ahadrom introduced the empire to his son and—as he had no sisters—his heir.
There were other living members of the House of the Old Telkan, of course. It was expected that one of them would lay claim to the throne. Hinro, Duke of Ethendria, was the most likely candidate: not a young man, but strong, and of impeccable lineage. No one expected that Prince Andasya, the son of Ahadrom II and his Nainish bride, would so thoroughly bewitch the public. "My pet, my pig," goes a bul composed in his honor, when he was but an infant: "my bully, my bee, my bud, my cherry-sweet."
"Impossibly handsome," wrote a journalist for the Bainish newspaper the Starling, when the prince was nine years old. A lady who was fortunate enough to glimpse him astride a white pony on the Isle of Ban declared that she could have eaten his velvet breeches.
At the age of twelve, the prince posed for Ferulei, then First Court Painter. Engravings of his portrait sold by the thousands. The boy, black-haired, with pouting lips, holds a kite in one hand and leans on a leafy oak. The title: Death, with Kite.
By the time he was sixteen, it was clear that no one in Olondria would refuse to have Prince Andasya for their king. He was not only the most beautiful youth in the country, but a superb dancer and rider, a budding scholar, and a wit. "His charm perfumes the air for a hundred miles," gushes a writer for The Watcher. Hearts flutter when he enters the army: if he should be injured or killed! But then—how heroic of him to enlist! When he puts on his scarlet guardsman's jacket, his lips look redder than ever.
He is charmingly old-fashioned—a proper Prince of the Branch, despite his questionable lineage. In opposition to his father, Ahadrom II, he declares himself a devotee of the goddess Ayalei, now the primary enemy of the Cult of the Stone. "I could never bow to a rock," he is quoted as saying, "and I have too much taste to go about clad in a blanket." He is the monarch of our dreams. He is seen at Loma in a green coat, at Feirivel in gray. No one imagines that, with his cousin Tavis, he is planning a war.
Suddenly, in the Valley, the peasants are armed.
It is the Feast of Lamps, and all the roads are blocked.
They travel in groups of ten. They wear red cloaks, red woolen caps, sometimes only a red rag pinned to a shoulder. Even the poorest have hennaed their beards.
They are singing the songs of Ayalei on the roads. The hunting knife is within my heart. The hunting knife is the ornament of my heart.
Such a moon! The dogs bay as if wild with joy.
Fighting breaks out in Bain. Within hours, the garrison is set on fire.
Fighting in the Balinfeil. It begins in the mountains and spreads to the woods and farms. Soldiers are bleeding out of the hills. They knock on doors, they are found asleep in haystacks. Their stories are garbled, excited. "No, it's not the Brogyars," they keep repeating.
The first refugees from Kestenya have crossed the Ilbalin.
In Bain, the duke, Veda, is trying to control the rioting in the Old Quarter. During a brief retreat to the Ducal Residence, he receives a note from the Isle. Dear Uncle Veda, I have decided to take the throne early!
He stares at the card, his bones filling with ice.
Smoke drapes the windows.
Outside, figures huddle in the walled garden. They are devotees of the Stone, seeking refuge at the Residence. Their lives are in danger in the streets of Bain.
Veda drops the card and runs up the stairs.
He runs up stair after stair, panting, until he reaches the flat roof. As he has often done over the last few days, he peers toward the Blessed Isle, his eyes prickling in the smoky air. He looks toward Velvalinhu, the Holy City, his royal brother's seat, where he has sent so many frantic letters, asking for help, for counsel, for armed men.
Today, for the first time, he sees flames in the distance. Velvalinhu is burning.
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[ Yours is a negative kingdom. ]
"The towers are all aflame and I, I skim the air between them, defiant in my feathers of burnt lace." Lines by the great queen Fanleshama the Poet, who recited them long ago from the Chrysoprase Seat. In this poem, the Seventy-Fifth Elegy, she speaks in the voice of an owl. "Oh pines, oh rain of opals, oh curling ice." The owl laments the loss of its home in the north but refuses to leave the Blessed Isle, where its mate is trapped in a burning aviary. Today I repeat this elegy over and over through numb lips, for the towers are burning. Smoke pours thickly from the Tower of Mirrors; the Tower of Lapis Lazuli is visible only as flashes of murky light in a vast pall of ashen fog.
The railing of my balcony has gone black. When I grip it, it stains my gloves.
It is the ninth day of Fir, the Month of Darkness. On this day, the Telkan hears reports from the Master of Granaries and seed samples are presented on beds of raw wool. The Telkan tastes the winter wine and pronounces it either Sloe, Amber, or Earth. Based on his choice, his rooms are refurnished in purple, red, or black. He hears reports from the Master of Prisons. His chief scribe, known as the High Engraver, records the number of prisoners in each province of the Empire.
A priest of Tol enters in a pair of otterskin slippers and touches the ears and throat of the Telkan with white ash. Bells are rung in the ninth room of the Temple of the Storm God; the iron boar on the doorstep is rubbed with resin. The Teldaire hears reports from the Keeper of Gardens and the Master of the Reservoir, who recites the height of the water in all the wells. The Teldaire wears either plum-colored or rust-red garments. In either case, she wears gold jewelry, because the silver is being cleaned.
If the Telkan has children at home, they are dressed in scarlet and scented with bergamot. Tonight they will listen to stories about foxes.
The worms have entered their deepest sleep. The gods favor dogs and ravens. The stars bend low, trailing their long beards.
So says the palace almanac, the one I keep in my bed, in between the sheets. I have always kept it there, for fear my father would discover it. He would have sneered at me—perhaps raged at me, depending on his mood—for keeping this trash in my room, this compendium of palace life. It was the life he had sworn to destroy. He used to refer to all rituals as "bears' dances." And Velvalinhu he called "the den." But I found meaning in the almanac: in the light of its brief and graceful descriptions, the life of this Holy City became legible. My reading, too, grew richer: Fanleshama's poetry called out to me with new urgency when I realized that the "wind-battered owl" of the seventy-fifth elegy, written on the last day of the Month of Lamps, undoubtedly refers to the pair of horned owls released by the Telkan and Teldaire on that day. "Oh pines, oh rain of opals," she writes—references to the Grave King, the Lord of the Dead, whose steed is a horned owl. While the refrain sings over and over of "perfect love." The poem captivated me; when I turned the page of the almanac, I left a streak of blood... I had been chewing my nails as I read, a bad habit that grew worse in times of excitement or distress. I closed the book and kissed its garish cover splashed with poppies. Lunre had given it to me that afternoon. "Read the Month of Lamps," he told me, smiling. He did not say, did not need to say, "Don't tell your father."
And now my father is gone and I am alone and still I keep the almanac under my sheets, with my drawing pad, my brushes, my charcoal pencils, my private notebooks, my mother's hand mirror, dear gods, after all these years I do not think I could fall asleep on an even bed.
Yet the rituals mean nothing now. Nothing. My father's purpose is achieved: Velvalinhu is broken like a cup. Horses clop through the halls; figures hurry across the courtyards with chests and bundles; the air swells with the odor of smoke. Enemy soldiers lounge everywhere: strange, ragged rebels in mismatched uniforms, some of them speaking only the rasping tongue of the Kestenyi highlands, that language which, Firdred wrote, makes it sound as though all of one's teeth have been shattered. They play londo on the roofs, rings-and-arrows in the gardens; their bonfires paint the night. Dirty, flea-bitten, drunken, and happy, they sing vanadiel until dawn, decked with spoils: gold earrings, bangles, rich scarves fashioned into turbans. My father's vision is achieved, in a sense, the rituals of the palace abandoned—though it is his enemies who have stopped Velvalinhu's heart.
Even how I hear soldiers singing down below.
The one assigned to my door is a Valley boy with a snub nose. His name is Vars. He brings me bread and olives, but no news. "Be easy, teldarin," he says. His eyes are red; perhaps the smoke irritates them, or perhaps, like most soldiers, he drinks.
One day I tried to push past him and escape. I brushed against him and he stepped back, probably conditioned by his upbringing, for he has the air of the minor nobility or that tradesman's class whose manners are even more impeccable. He could not at first bring himself to seize a lady—and so I ran down the hall, my slippers skidding on the dusty tiles, and he shouted and caught up to me before I even rounded the corner, for he is younger than I as well as stronger.
"Now, teldarin," he said reproachfully, his hand on my arm. His breath had not quickened, while I was gasping like a carp.
I think it is possible that they will kill me. This is, after all, Velvalinhu, where as Olirei puts it, Death wears dancing shoes.
Vars took me back to my room. Now, when he brings me something to eat, he is careful to block the doorway with his body.
It is possible that they will kill me. Write, write, it rings in my head, remember, quickly, before it is too late.
Write.
My name is Tialon of Velvalinhu. I am the daughter of Ivrom the Priest of the Stone, who brought to Olondria the message—
My hand goes slack. I find myself drawing flowers in the margins. I draw spikes and a small woman among the thorns. The woman is ugly and wears a black dress. I lick my finger and smear her to create shadows, but only succeed in ruining the page.
Get up. Go to the door. Listen for Vars. My stomach grumbles; the light fades. What if they plan to starve me in my room? Blow out the lamp and step out onto the balcony (I am afraid to appear there after dark, with a light at my back—they might use me for target practice). How dark it is down below! I can scarcely see the Alabaster Court, where I walked as a child, or rather trotted along behind my father, awkwardly trying to match his long strides, carrying his writing box. It was so hot I sweated dreadfully in my wool frock. I remember the day I noticed a bitter odor from under my arms: an attacking smell, fiery and somehow shameful. I scrubbed myself almost raw with our brown soap, coveting the florets of scented toilet soap the maids carried through the halls...
Write. Write. My name is Tialon of Velvalinhu. I am the daughter of Ivrom the Priest of the Stone. If only he would come back and stand over me again, in the way I hated so much when I was a girl! The sound of his breath when I made a mistake. His disgust. I want it back—that short, irritated sigh—I want to crawl inside it.
I think I could make a home there, in that angry, hollow place.
I'm wasting ink. I must write of his vision, of the Stone.
My name is Tialon of Velvalinhu.
I draw a woman with a beak. A woman with the feet of a hare.
Forget yourself. Crawl inside, crawl inside him—not into the sound of his breath which is lost to you but into his message, the treasure he wanted to give the world. For certainly he did not wish to give it this tall, round-shouldered woman, going gray, whose jaw aches dully because she grinds her teeth together. She, I feel sure, was an accident. Yet if the accident could speak. If the beads of a ruined necklace could arrange themselves to spell a word. Father. I will not allow them to bury you as a heretic.
Write. Remember. This is the History of the Stone.
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[ You will sever all ties and pass from your bondage into light. ]
When he had shed his name, left the capital, cut off relations with nearly all of his family and friends, when he had become this harsh young man, Ivrom, "the Mirror of the Stone," he still remembered the pink peppercorn tree in his aunt's garden in Bain. The old lady scattered pink peppercorns over everything: the meat, the flavored ice. And the cloth on the garden table, which had once been red, had been left outside in the sun so long—held down at the corners with bricks to keep it from blowing away—that it echoed that marvelous dry, pink, summery color. A color that at once recalled the little handheld fans, made of paper or wicker, or, in one case, seagulls' feathers, which his aunt kept in the desk by the terrace doors and always offered to guests before they went out in the garden to take the air. "Don't go without a fan, it's so hot." And when Ivrom, on one of the Telkan's barges, was crossing the Ithvanai to the Blessed Isle, and first caught sight of Velvalinhu in the splendid evening light, its walls throbbed with that same vibrant peppercorn color. It made him uneasy—or perhaps that was only the motion of the boat—he had always hated boating—his cousins used to tip him out on purpose—but no, most likely he felt uneasy at being reminded so strongly of his aunt's house, now, on the eve of his new life. The Isle grew closer and closer, and with it those scintillant pink towers. Their color oppressed him, as did the complex, salty smell in the air, and most of all the muted snuffling of his pregnant wife, Tenais, who was crying bitterly among the bags.
The barge drew up at the pier. A pair of young boys were lighting lanterns, their voices bouncing back from the calm sea. And Elarom, the Priest of the Stone, rose from the bench where he had been sleeping and faltered forward, hands outstretched for balance. Ivrom took his arm. "Thank you, my boy," the priest said with a smile that pierced the younger man's heart. Ivrom helped his new master onto the pier. Faintly he heard Tenais calling behind him: "Ivrom, Ivrom!" Like the cry of a gull. He held tight to Elarom's arm. "Lean on me, Master," he said.
Ivrom and Tenais moved into a pair of bare rooms in the Tower of Aloes. Tenais tacked a few of her paintings to the wall: wobbly, watery creations on heavy paper, made on excursions to the Isle of Songs with her sisters when she was a girl. She owned enough of these pictures to cover the walls with representations of blurred fountains, crooked mares, and dropsical squirrels, but she soon lost heart and left them in the box, and sat at the window all day eating raisins from a bowl balanced on her stomach. From the window she could peer upward at the sky between the towers, or down into a complex system of drains. On the Feast of Birds, when doves and pigeons were released, panicked flocks clattered overhead, and a bird fell down past her window—dead, no doubt, of the shock.
"The windows are too small," she complained to her husband, who spent his days studying with the Priest of the Stone, absorbed in the tenets of a bright new faith, a faith that seemed to him deliciously cold, stripped of impurities, serene as a winter dawn. He would come back to their rooms from his days of study wrapped in a freezing and holy cloud. And there was Tenais, complaining the windows were too small. "The daylight can scarcely come in!" He brought her extra candles to quiet her, and one night he returned to find she had lit them all.
She had prepared a stew. They ate in the profligate glow of twenty candles—two would have sufficed, as the sun had not yet set. Tenais ate slowly, her round face seeming to pulse in the light, a moon. Ivrom was sweating; the dye of his robe would run, leaving marks on his skin like bruises.
Bruised by the Nameless Gods, he thought. A potent image. He would use it in the tract he was writing for distribution on the Feast of Plenty. If only he wasn't so hot! Then he could think... how to connect the image of the bruise to the notion of prayer...
Tenais wore no shawl. Her plump arms gleamed in the blaze.
"It's warm," he said.
"I am very glad," she said softly. "You were so late, I feared it would be cold."
"Not the stew," he snapped.
She raised her eyes. She knew perfectly well what he meant. Her eyes were flat, hostile, like two circles of black paper... And he began to shout at her, amazed at how easy it was to step through into rage, as if it were an open hall inside him, a hall with no door, or more accurately, an abyss, an empty space into which he hurtled, exhilarated by the plunge. Let the whole Tower of Aloes hear him shouting—he didn't care! He was already lost, deprived of the refined, austere atmosphere of the room of the Stone, where the glow of the small green lamps enveloped him as he studied with the old priest, reverently copying the words of the Nameless Gods. They examined each mark on the Stone with care, observing it through a glass. The old priest had a number of special brushes to remove the dust from the lines. They could spend whole hours, whole days, on a single scratch. Time disappeared—and now he was plunged in time, in heat, in the vicious stare of this woman Tenais! The smell of the stew rising from the table was making him ill. He knocked his bowl to the floor—he'd fling the candles—he'd set the place on fire! And Tenais was standing and shouting too, red in the face as if ready for a brawl, despite the bulge underneath her apron.
"You'll break my mind! You'll break it!" he shouted, jumping up and down and snatching at his hair, which was already growing thin, and he knew he looked absurd, and the thought enraged him so that his temples throbbed and he feared that his mind really was going to pieces. He gazed at his wife with hatred. She waved her fist, her face shining with sweat or tears. Of course she wanted to undermine his work, having no real work of her own, only the Temple of Heth Kuidva in Bain, where she used to go every Tolie to dole out rice to the poor. That was where they had met—he, a priest of Heth Kuidva, the Oracle God, already aloof, touched in advance by a marvelous destiny, with the sharp, proud profile that made him look noble and withdrawn even when his stockings, as Tenais would soon discover, were falling into rags—and she, delicate-featured and shy, the eldest of four sisters, the only unmarried one, fond of songbirds and the romances of Korim, scrupulously devout and committed to serving the hungry once a week, her hair demurely bound up in a pale green scarf. They had walked by the harbor together, and he had bought her a caged cricket. She told him he had the nose of Baron Murei. And this was the same Tenais who now tore off her apron and threw it on the candles so that he—he!—had to beat out the flames with his hands.
"I hate it, I hate it!" she sobbed, while he tried to burn his hands as badly as possible. "I want to go home! There's no one to talk to here, nothing to do!"
"No one to talk to!" he cried, looking up. "I've never enjoyed more splendid conversation in my life!"
"Oh," she said, gazing at him scornfully. And she called him by his old name, the one he had left behind in the capital. And she said that he was a dupe and a toady, tricked by the old priest and drawn to the Isle by his longing to sit at the table with kings. She said he was dazzled by the young Telkan—when in fact he despised that silly oaf! And this was Tenais, whom he had married in the Garden of Plums. He would never, never forgive her. He clung to his anger like a spar while, quiet at last, she daubed his burns with medicinal honey.
Write. Write how they sat on the floor together in their little room, a single candle burning on the table. It shone on her brow as she bent over his hands in concentration. A faint reek of drains came in at the open window. Tenais, Tenais. She would be his enemy always. He felt almost cheerful. She was binding up his hands in linen strips. When she had finished she looked up and gave him a single, searching look, her eyes quivering darkly. She would die that year.
And I want to stay with them, for the sake of the child who will be born in a thunderstorm just as the hunting season begins. For the sake of the child who will grow up in the dark, accustomed to torches and lamps, expert at snuffing out candles with wet fingers. This child will possess no images of her mother. She will have to peer into a mirror and dismantle her own face. Her high, flat cheekbones—they can't be from her father. Her curly hair, her verdigris eyes, she must have gotten them from the other place, from Tenais.
For the sake of that child I want to go back to Bain and walk by the harbor with the young couple, accompany them to their cramped rooms behind the temple. Rooms so small Tenais propped the window open with a pair of tongs when she used the stove, even in winter, in rain. Ivrom, who had a different name then, would stand on a chair to help her hang the clothes to dry—they couldn't be hung outside, or they'd be stolen—the dark blue robe with the silver trim he wore when interpreting dreams in the temple porch, and the rich sash, the keilon, weighted with silver beads.
He loved his vestments, Tenais knew—how he fretted if he dropped wax on the cloth! He would pick it away himself with one of her needles. That robe was his reward, a sign of the gods' approval after his terrible childhood, his years of torment at the acolytes' school. She knew so little of those miseries, though he had told her how, at the age of five, he had been set to work in his father's shop, how his aunt took pity on him and sent him to school, and how, at school, the other students blindfolded him and pinched him till urine flowed down his leg. These things she knew. She read others in the way he treated his robe, his tenderness toward it. And so a dreadful bell began tolling in her heart, a bell that said finished, finished, the night he came home from attending a lecture and calmly placed his robe and keilon in the fire.
"What are you doing?" she screamed.
He stood shining in his rough undergarment, a shift that ended slightly above his knees. His eyes glittered, his cheeks were drained of color. While she dragged his robe from the fire with the poker, he stood on a chair as if intending to help with the washing. He raised one hand in a strange, jerky gesture. He had met the true priest. Olondria's one true priest. Why did he hold his head on one side that way? As if he were listening. "Get down," she cried, trembling, weak with fear. She called him by his name. "Don't call me that," he said.
He had been hollowed out, transformed by the Stone. This holy gift. The Nameless Gods blew it from Their palm like a dandelion seed. It floated, then hurtled to earth, white and then black, obliterating everything, harbors and candles and crickets and peppercorn trees. It tore through his mind like lightning as he sat in the gloomy lecture hall at the temple, in the tiny audience that had gathered to see the priest, this priest of an obscure new cult, which, it seemed, the Telkan favored, an old man hobbling in his great square boots. The windows were open; there was a smell of cut grass. Gnats circled the lamp beside the speaker. In the audience people whispered and passed bags of sunflower seeds. The young priest who would be called Ivrom gripped the back of the empty chair before him, his eyes fixed on the old man's mild, wrinkled face. When the talk was over he stumbled forward, rushing, trapped in the crowd, and only afterward did he realize that in fact there had been no crowd, that no one was trying to keep him from seeing the priest, they were going the other way, it was only his fear of missing this chance that made him see obstacles everywhere, and he reached the old man and grasped his hand, a cold dry hand like precious enamel, and he said he had always felt in his heart that the gods would send a new book, a text more eloquent and absolute than any dream, and he begged to go with the priest, to go to the Isle, to see the great Stone. To see.
"Strength to you, my son."
"Thank you, Master," he said. Something was wrong with his mouth; he thought he might be thirsty.
"Come closer, child."
He approached the hard chair where the priest sat with his legs stretched out on a stool.
"I should die," said Ivrom.
"That is blasphemy," the old man answered kindly.
"I should suffer."
"You are suffering, are you not?"
"Not enough."
"Consider the sufferings ordained by the Nameless Gods," the priest quoted. "A cupful weighs as much as an ocean."
In fact—as Ivrom would discover later—a cupful weighs much more. When the time came, he would be able to bear more terrible things with less pain, less anguish than he felt that night, the night he became a father and a widower, the night of my birth, of the death of Tenais. He could not yet say the words to himself: She is dead. Instead, in the priest's room, he staggered toward the great black Stone against the wall, a block as tall as a man, its surface glimmering faintly in the firelight, and he embraced it, something he had never done before. He had barely touched it. Now he laid his cheek against its darkness. He could feel its etched surface against his skin. The priest did not reprimand him. His cheek pressed hard against the lines: You will sever all ties and pass from your bondage into light.
At times she came back. Strangely, she did not come when he looked at the child, who was less an object of pity than a generator of duties—the nurse to be hired, the letters from his wife's relatives to be dealt with—and who grew into a sober, alien little creature, nothing like Tenais. If he thought of Tenais when he looked at the child, it was only in the abstract: what would the dead mother think of her daughter's progress? But at night, in the room of the Stone, Tenais would come, more often after the old priest's death, when Ivrom himself was Priest of the Stone, a man of power. Then she came. She was lying on the bed, her face turned toward him. Women were weeping. The air smelled strongly of edlath and jasmine oil. Her face on the pillow, the eyes sunken and withdrawn. Someone put a bundle in his arms: the child. Her eyes sunken, accusing, withdrawn.
He remembered holding the child to his chest. And how he carried it out onto the balcony while the women of the leilinhu mopped the floor. He was going to jump. He was going to kill them both. It would be quite simple. He gripped the railing, the newborn child tucked almost carelessly in one arm. Then he paused, distracted by the notes of a hunting horn in the wood. He stood motionless, breathless; the child began to wail. One of Leilin's women came onto the balcony and scolded him. What was he doing, what did he mean by it? Look at the rain.
It was something he would discuss often with his fellow scholar and Stone worshiper, Lunre of Kebreis, the only man he ever called friend. These tricks of memory. Pink peppercorns in the towers of Velvalinhu, his dead wife's face at night in the room of the Stone. Lunre felt that such shadows represented the two forms of pain: the loss of happiness and the coming of grief. Such experiences caused lumps to form in the ventricles of the heart; at times of stress, the lumps swelled, causing a slowing of the blood, and with it depression and illness. In addition, the swollen lumps secreted memories into the blood, which carried them to the brain and the inner eye.
"You will make me out to be nothing but a pudding of blood and fat," said Ivrom.
"So are we all," Lunre answered cheerfully.
Lunre was a passionate reader of the physician Ura of Deinivel, known to her enemies as the Bloody Imp. Hers was a happy philosophy, in which any sorrow, however great, might be diagramed and treated with some combination of herbs and baths. Her optimism suited Lunre, Ivrom thought, as the wind blew across the terrace where they sat, lifting Lunre's dark hair out of his eyes. The younger man leaned back on his elbows, tilting his head to catch the sun on his face. No doubt he believed that lumps in the heart could be cured with mallows.
Ivrom's idea was different. He held that the phantoms of memory, like ordinary shadows, only appear in the presence of light. Events are lamps of varying strength: a strong lamp, such as a painful or dangerous event, causes shadows to spring out on the wall of the mind.
His daughter, who sat on the floor with her knees drawn up, listening avidly to the two men, decided she agreed with Lunre. She, too, preferred the interpretation of Ura, the Bloody Imp, because, she reasoned to herself with a child's practicality, all the others were useless. What good was her father's talk of lamps and shadows? But a swollen heart could be treated, with, for example, oinov to thin the blood. She rubbed idly at the terrace wall with the tip of her finger so that the dried dust, gold in the sun, crumbled away like a morsel of cake. She did not yet know (and it would take her two decades to admit it) that she approved of Ura's philosophy in part because Lunre liked it, or (and this would take her even longer to admit) that she approved of it because it was a philosophy of the body. Ura's conclusions were thick with blood and with time, her instructions unwinding in strings of numbers: a five-minute bath, a cupful of edlath, two blows to the chest. The child's blood had recently begun to obey the moon's calendar and she felt herself in the realm of flesh and time, the realm of Tenais.
Tenais, who swelled. One month, two months, three, up to nine, and then death. The child dreamt that her mother was an animated clock. Its belly stuck out angrily. Her father was dashing to and fro, small as a dragonfly, dressed in white for some reason, crying "Eternity." Waking, she found that her sheets were damp with blood. Her father would never make her feel that she was not worthy to study the words of the Nameless Gods, he would never suggest that she was too timebound to touch eternity, he would never even mention that she was a girl. Yet she felt it obscurely, always, this sense of heaviness, of torpor. As she grew older she suffered from headaches and insomnia. On the terrace that day, as she picked at the wall, she experienced the first twinge of a strange resentment. She put her finger into her mouth.
"Think of history," her father was saying. "Think of the Drevedi, Ayalei's curse. They disappear in times of peace, and resurface in times of unrest. They are the memory of the Olondrian Empire. And war is a lamp."
"They might be lumps in the empire's heart," Lunre said.
A lump in his heart. A shadow in his mind.
You will sever all ties, he thought. He whispered it to himself the night Tenais died. The words of the Nameless Gods, revealed on the great black Stone drawn out of the desert, scored in it by the Architects of Time. Sever all ties. The words in his mouth like ash. It was not the coldness of the words that horrified him, their utter opposition to anything human, but rather his own affinity for them, the way he was drawn to this vision of solitude with a feeling almost of nostalgia. He had the kind of loneliness that battles everything, that makes a person strange forever. If only he had seen it before, he would never have married Tenais or produced the tiny child now pressed against his heart. Sever all ties. And he had severed Tenais and she was dead. He'd jump from the balcony, he thought suddenly, taking the child with him. He was a monster that should not live. Her face on the pillow, oh Nameless Gods. He was choking, something terrible was happening in his throat. The misery of his wife's last days! Without habit, he would explain to Lunre years later, we should all of us run screaming out of doors. It was habit that made life possible, both for individuals and for the empire. For this reason one must be careful to take things slowly. One could not simply outlaw the worship of Ayalei outright; one must teach the people, lead them by stages, allow them to keep their rituals as long as possible. Habit is a curtain. It dims the lamp. As he stood on the balcony, he heard horns: Ahadrom II was riding in the rain. Thin, merry shouts rang out like the clinking of jewelry as the whole company of idiots passed on horseback far below, the Telkan and his wife's insufferable family, invisible to Ivrom but no doubt clad in gaudy cloaks that glistened in the torchlight. His jaw tightened; how he loathed them! And it was this bracing hatred that brought him back from the brink of death that night, that allowed him to think of the vase he would have commissioned in his wife's memory, a white marble vessel engraved with her name and the dates of her birth and death. It was the sound of those shouts, so bright and ephemeral, quickly erased by a roll of thunder, that saved him even before the child began to cry, and before one of Leilin's women came out and scolded him. And in fact he did commission the vase, as Telkans commission memorials of war. For the memorial does not preserve the memory of suffering, but rather transforms it into habit. At first he kept a bundle of blooming sage in the vase. But after some time, this gesture toward the afterlife was abandoned. The child would know the vase as the place where they kept the pens.
"Vars, what is happening?"
I went so far as to grip his sleeve, almost upsetting the pewter dish he had brought me, the olives and cured meat. He managed to put the dish down on the table. I never let go of his arm. His fingernails, I noticed, were very black.
"What's happening? Tell me something, anything! It's cruel to keep me locked up in ignorance."
"You are not in prison, teldarin," he said.
"Am I not? Yet I can't go out."
"For your safety."
"Safety from what? The fire? Or a hanging?"
He winced at that and briefly massaged his ragged beard. Vars grows rougher by the day, his jacket stained, one shoulder tearing. Does he bathe?
"Is everything in ruins?" I asked him. "The fountain in the Alabaster Court is choked with rubbish—I see it from my window. Have you done the same to all of them?"
"The water I bring you is all right, I hope?" he asked anxiously.
"I don't care," I cried. "I wish you'd poison me. What does your prince mean to do?"
He drew himself up then, and a high color came into his cheek.
"He has already done it," he said. "He has returned us to Ayalei."
A chill ran down my limbs. I dropped his arm. "Very well," I whispered.
It was his turn to take my arm now. He led me to a chair. He fetched a knife and fork from the cupboard and cut up the meat he had brought me, saying something about preserving my strength.
My laugh was a sob. "For what? So I can abide the torture longer?"
"Nonsense, teldarin." He crouched before me, stabbed at the meat, and held the fork toward me. I took it; the meat was tough and salty, so delicious it brought the tears to my eyes. Vars nodded, encouraging. "There, you see? It's just hunger."
While I chewed he sat cross-legged and told me he came from the estate of Ollahu, near Feirin. He was the youngest of eight brothers, and his inheritance was so small he could only survive with any honor by joining the army, which he had done at the age of fifteen. There he had met his captain, Lady Tavis of Ashenlo, the Telkan's niece. As he spoke of her he grew at once more animated and more serious. He and his captain had endured torments in the Lelevai, he told me, such as he would not recount while I was eating. "We understood then that Olondria was going to ruin," he said. "People were unhappy all over the empire. The Kestenyis had been miserable for generations, of course, kept under the Telkan's boot, as they put it, but now there was rage in the Valley as well. My mother sent me letters saying our Temple of Ayalei had closed for lack of funds..." Here he trailed off and gave me an embarrassed glance, no doubt remembering that it was my father who had closed Ayalei's temples.
I smiled at him coldly. "It's all right. I feel quite well now. Please go on."
"Well," he said. He cleared his throat. "Well, teldarin, it wasn't right. That temple was nearly as old as the War of the Tongues. We'd all been dedicated there—myself, my mother, my grandmother, going back into the mists of time, as it were. You can't take something like that away from people. And they were saying the High Priestess of Ayalei was imprisoned here on the Isle, and it was against the law to interpret dreams or even to read the taubel, and soon the Feast of Birds would be outlawed, dancing, wine—even weddings! And there we were in the Lelevai, dying for the empire like sheep. We couldn't stand it." He lowered his eyes and passed me the dish.
"So you all banded together against us," I said.
"Against the Telkan."
"And against my father."
He met my eyes again. "Yes."
I nodded. My strength was returning; perhaps he was right, and I had been hungry without realizing it. I tried to speak in an even tone, but my voice came out tight and scornful. "You must not think I am surprised to learn that we were hated."
He inclined his head, acquiescent. An absurdly elegant and formal gesture, something out of a different era.
I looked toward the balcony doors, which are streaked with grime and rimmed with frost. I thought of how, at the end, my father had made an error of judgment. He, who had once advocated caution, had pushed the people too far. And they had broken on him like a wave.
"Today is the twelfth day of the month of Fir," I murmured. "On this day, the Telkan hears reports from the Master of the Hounds. The Telkan's nails are cleaned and trimmed and the wax removed from his ears. The High Priestess of Ayalei examines the wax and predicts the coming year's harvest."
Vars stood up and poured a cup of water from the jug. "Drink, teldarin."
I took the cup. "Our Telkan gave up this ritual," I told him. "I suppose your prince—your Telkan—will bring it back."
Vars hefted the water jug, drank from the lip, and wiped his mouth on his sleeve. "He'll do what's right," he said.
|
[ For they have set forth in a ship of fools. ]
Ayalei. Love. Ripener of the Grain.
When Ivrom was small he dreamt of gorging himself, as rich children do, on pigs made of almond paste. One year on the Feast of Birds he stole a handful of nuts from a vendor's cart and was beaten and locked in the coal cellar for two days. The sweetness of cashews, their unctuous buttery flesh, the way they collapsed between the teeth as if in longing to be eaten, combined in his mind with the darkness and cold of the cellar and the struggle he waged with his body before he gave in and relieved himself in a corner. The shame of it, the stinging scent of the lye his father made him use to scrub out the cellar afterward, his terrible helplessness, his rage—all of these insinuated themselves into the atmosphere of the Feast of Birds: into sweetmeats, the worship of Ayalei, and the spring. So much so that when he saw plum trees in flower, it gave him pleasure to imagine them shriveling or in decay. And when his aunt asked which god he would serve, he chose Heth Kuidva, whose voice is the knell of doom, and who is no friend to the Goddess of Pigs.
During school holidays he stayed with his aunt in her quiet, leafy neighborhood between the Savra Mai and the Quarter of Sighs. The peppercorn tree presided over games among the cousins, all of whom were handsomer and better dressed than he. There was a game with a key on a string; one of his cousins, shaking with merriment, hid it in the bosom of her dress. There was sweetened lime juice, so bright and cold he couldn't stop drinking it. And someone pushed him and sent him sprawling among the azaleas.
And on the Isle, on the Feast of Birds, the Teldaire approached him with a star on a chain, her black eyes flashing wickedly, and she stood on her toes—for she was a very small woman, a journalist had once named her the Mantis—and raised her arms as if she would favor him with the star. When he flinched, she lost her balance and placed one hand on his chest. He flinched again. "I am sorry, Your Highness," he said gruffly.
She laughed. "Dear, dear," she said, swinging the star so that it sparkled. "Are you really so frosty? They told me it was warmer in the Valley, but, by the Rose, you'd make a stone shiver."
"I am sorry," he repeated. Was she mocking him with that reference to a stone? "I do not wear jewelry of any kind, Your Highness."
Again a peal of laughter, like glass breaking. "I can see that; my eyes are quite good. I don't expect to go blind yet, at my age!"
She spun the chain on her finger. It came so close to his face that he stepped back. She did not appear to notice. "I thought you might wear something festive, just to please me. It can't be entirely forbidden. My dear Ahadrom is wearing his great uncle's medallion—though, between you and me, it suits him very ill! How can something so precious contrive to look like it's made of tin? I told him to wear his rubies, you know he owns half the rubies in the empire, he has perfectly splendid ornaments, some of them nearly as big as breastplates, but he wouldn't do it, even for the feast. I suppose that's your influence?"
"I hope not, Your Highness."
"Why? Surely you hope to influence him, as his priest? I understand you've been made a priest now—a priest of the Stone."
She said the words slowly and carefully, with the shadow of a smile, like a child repeating a lesson and hoping for praise.
"Yes, Your Highness."
"You grit your teeth—are you ill?"
"No, Your Highness."
His legs were trembling. She gazed straight into his face, malicious and amused. He avoided her eyes, looking instead at the amethysts in her high black hair, at the dancers whirling behind her under the lights.
"Veimaro."
"Yes, Teldaire."
"Look at me. Yes, that's better. It's not so terrible, is it? I'm not entirely repulsive to look at, I hope? No, I know you can't answer that, don't bother. I wonder what you know about me? I mean, besides what the papers say—that I'm pretty and know how to dance. I don't suppose my intelligence comes up in the newspapers much—not that I read that trash. But I assure you, veimaro, I am not stupid. My husband is a very young king. Very young. He requires guidance. Do you know what the Old Telkan said to me before he died?"
He thought: You are even younger than the king. She was only eighteen. In her little face, her eyes glowed like a blacksmith's tongs. "No," he said.
"He said: 'My dear, you are more than decorative, and this union is more than political. My nephew is but a man of dough. He needs fire to bake him.' I can only suppose he meant that I was to play the role of the oven. He said it to me in this very room. At my wedding."
She smiled sweetly. "The Old Telkan was a very cautious man, though people remember him as a pleasure-loving prince. He was careful to make sure that people thought of him in that way. Olondrians like a king who is large and strong and cheerful. I know this, although I'm Nainish. And you—you're from Bain, aren't you, veimaro? So you must know it even better than I. Olondrians rule the world, but their national character is essentially weak. Isn't that odd? They're like children. Now, look at Ahadrom."
He looked. Across the room, the young king sweated under the lamps, buttoned into a black coat that shone like a beetle's carapace.
"Gray as a cod," the Teldaire said, "and miserable as a victim of the toothache. I suppose he looks happier when he's tucked away with you? With you and your High Priest and his old father. And the Stone, of course. Is he happier? Tell me. Does he ever smile?"
"Our work is not done for pleasure, Your Highness."
Her eyes widened. "You snap! Very good! I knew you had it in you. I think we might become friends after all."
She slipped the chain with the star over her own head. "I'll wear this for you, as a token. And you," she concluded with her bright laugh, "will leave the bread in the oven."
Leave the bread in the oven! As if Velvalinhu were a kitchen! And it was, it was, he thought as he stamped out of the ballroom in fury: a stinking kitchen, begrimed with soot, where the empire's wealth poured in the back door, and princes, like dirty scullery boys, stood with their hands in the pots. But he would not be part of it—he'd starve first! "Who is she?" he raged in the little room where his High Priest sat beside the fire, and the Stone stood heavy in the corner, covered with a black cloth, and Ahadrom I drowsed in his low chair.
"Who is she? This chit of a girl—she dares—! Where did she come from?"
"Nain," the old priest said mildly.
"Yes, but how did she get her claws into the Telkan?"
"You are very angry, my child," the priest observed. "Remember: A quiet heart is a clear doorway, through which may enter the horsemen of the gods."
Elarom's puffy, discolored hand wandered over his chest, found the strings of his robe and drew them tight. Even in the spring he felt the cold. His trembling sent a pang through Ivrom's heart. "Forgive me, Master," the younger man said.
Ahadrom I made a snuffling sound and jerked upright, looking blearily about him.
"You," said Ivrom, turning to the Telkan's father. He would not say "my lord"; such words had been banished from this holy place; in this room, he did not even call the Telkan "Your Highness."
"Yes?" Ahadrom I said, startled.
Ivrom knelt in front of him, bringing his face level with that of the former Duke of Tevlas. Ahadrom I had a round old face and a pitiful straggling beard; his head was bald, his eyes poor; he rarely managed to speak two words of sense together. But he will speak sense to me, Ivrom thought grimly, if I have to slap him awake. "Tell me about the queen," he said.
"Iloni," Ahadrom I murmured with a hint of fondness. "Eyes like grapes. Such watercolors... on the terrace..."
"Not that one. I mean the new queen, Firvaud."
"Oh, that one!" the old man chuckled. "Graceful. Like a little black goose."
"How did she meet your son?"
"It was... they came to Ashenlo. All the family together. For the—was it a wedding? In winter. Tanbrivaud, perhaps."
"They came from Nain in winter?"
"Yes, in a..." Ahadrom I skimmed his hand across his robed knees.
"A sleigh?"
"Such handsome children. The girls had very sharp feet. Marks in the parquetry, you know, from dancing. Then the falcon died. Beilan was so sad. The grave, all afternoon, digging. The ground was frozen..."
"Tell me about Firvaud."
"Oh, that one! A little veil. Little quick hands. In the parlor for hours. The needle flew..."
"She made herself look industrious."
"Eh?"
"And what else? About Firvaud."
The old man yawned. "A good girl. Came to look at the Stone."
Ivrom turned to the priest. "She saw the Stone?"
"Oh, yes," Elarom said, smiling. "In those days we had more freedom. We worked in a little lumber room in the west wing of the house—do you remember that, Ahadrom? The corridor was very long and dark, but anyone who got to the end of it could find us. The servants used to visit at night sometimes. We'd make them tea, Ahadrom and I. Young Firvaud came several times. She seemed quite interested, as I recall."
That flint-eyed, shiny-haired, dancing wretch. With the Stone.
"What did she wear?" Ivrom asked hoarsely.
Elarom hesitated, but Ahadrom spoke up with sudden confidence. "White. All white. She and her sister and brother. White jackets, white frocks for the girls. White shoes. They'd lost their father that year, you see."
Ivrom left the room. He was finished with the two old men. They had given him enough to begin. And then, the room of the Stone was windowless, stuffy with the fire burning, and he felt the need of expansion now, of distance. In his own apartment, the nurse was asleep on her cot with the child beside her. He passed the solid darkness of their shapes in the airy darkness of the room. He stepped out onto the balcony, into the smell of rain. His new apartment, bigger than the one he had shared with Tenais, commanded a view of parks and gardens flecked with lamps. He breathed the sweet, humid air, filled with the exaltation of hate, remembering the night his child was born. A company had passed on horseback then, hallooing in the dark. She had been among them—Firvaud of Faluidhen—probably in the lead, her little boots snug in the stirrups.
He saw her. In her dark green cloak. Her face turned in the torchlight, the laughing mouth. He saw her three years ago, before he knew she existed: demure in her white mourning frock, in the formal parlor at Ashenlo, white ribbons in the black cream of her hair. She was doing needlework—very fine, with her fine sharp fingers! She would be sure to put on an attitude of sadness. Her father had died of a catarrh in the autumn. Perhaps, when she spoke of it, she managed to produce a tiny tear. He could see it all so clearly! Her father had been a general in the Olondrian army, fighting the Brogyars along the northeastern border; the handsome award of appreciation the family had received from the empire upon his death had financed this trip to visit the Prince of the Realms. That money had purchased the girls' exquisite lace stockings, which made it look as if some snowy nymph had breathed upon their calves; their dresses were of the softest wool; their cloaks, in typical Nainish style, were richly embroidered with silver on the inside. Who could doubt that Firvaud, with her sinuous dark beauty, appeared to advantage in her mourning clothes, like a black flower in a silver vase? And then the way she widened her eyes—the way she took the prince's arm, when they walked among the trees of the frozen gardens! Her vivid face, rosy with cold, peered out of her white fur hood. "Tell me about the Stone, I am so interested!" And Ahadrom II—Teskon, as he was called then—the great, slow, credulous fool, with his mouth half open—he had been taken in!
Nothing Ivrom discovered about the queen's family afterward caused him to alter this initial vision. And he learned a great deal about them, for he made it his business to know all that could be known about the House of Faluidhen. He knew their names by heart: Mardith, the reclusive matriarch, never married, who controlled the family finances from her castle of Rediloth; her sister Tanthe, petite and pretty, her hair dyed fox-red, who often visited Velvalinhu, her slight frame brilliantly clad in the latest fashions; and Tanthe's three children: wine-loving Fenya, a bachelor with tea-colored eyes that were large and "full" like the eyes of the heroes in Lindioth's paintings; Firvaud the queen; and the tall, timid younger sister, Firheia, whom a journalist had nicknamed "the Nainish Rose." Ivrom knew them all. He endured plays and celebrations, sitting stiff and often too hot in his black robe, in order to observe them: Lord Fenya dancing a stamping Nainish klugh, Lady Tanthe cooling herself with a peacock fan. He observed the pained expression of Lady Firheia, blushing fiercely in a gown that was far too tight across the bust, as her mother surreptitiously prodded her toward the table where Lord Irilas, the Telkan's brother, tossed back a cup of wine. Ivrom smiled coldly. The Teldaire glided up to him: "Welcome, friend! Look, I am wearing your token." She pulled the jeweled star from between her little breasts. Let her laugh. That night, in his room, he pored over her history in a book called The Nains, written by her great-aunt:
The lords and ladies of Faluidhen are descended in a direct line from Braud the Oppressor, the conqueror of Nain: not from his first union with the unfortunate Nardis of Lokhond, but from his second, with Singheia of Bar-Oul. His kingly relations disputed his choice, for which we are thankful: for their stubborn opposition to the match, their prejudice against the Nains, sparked an investigation in which Singheia's exalted lineage was revealed.
"Have we forgotten," asked Dardh, her cousin and primary defender at the open council held in the fortress of Niva, "the scourge of that accursed folk, the Drevedi, and the manner in which they captured and bore away the daughters of Nain?" Thus did the Nainish princes scorn to seek a link with the conquering western nobles; they claimed the goddess Ayalei as ancestress, she who was also the mother of Elueth and of the Drevedi whose wickedness had once shattered the countryside. Naturally there were many who cried that one could not join with the line of kings by claiming to be descended from a vampire; however, only two years previously, Nerod of Beal had proved his rights to that princedom through the same cunning logic. Singheia's curiously colored fingernails, which a historian of the time compares to "fragments of brown crystal," were displayed as proof of her heritage, and the wedding took place at Niva without delay: the first between a noble Lath and a noble Nain.
In addition to her strange fingernails, the bride is said to have possessed "eyebrows like ravens' feathers" (though she probably combed them upward), an army of nine thousand skilled warriors, and a weathered castle crumbling on the shores of the Inland Sea. Her son was that Gara whose true name was either Mavelok or Mavedok but who took the name of the mighty fortress he built in the Haramanyi, from which he defended his lands against the Brogyars, slaying with his own hand the terror of the north, Muisegh of the Boars. Able in war, he was also a brilliant diplomat in times of peace, and successfully protected his domain from the ever-greedy Laths through a combination of diplomacy and belligerence.
"And they who possess the sweet lands of the west," reads his epistle to his cousin, Aurik of Bain, "with its vineyards and noble breezes, can scarcely be tempted by this country of burning dust and savage hills of ice; though if they please, they may come and take it from me."
The veiled threat did its work, and in a generation, as the Laths had feared, the Balinfeil was in the hands of the Nains. They did not hold it continuously; they were harried from both the north and the south, and fought many bitter battles in self-defense. Hargilu, the eighth descendant of that house, which had already become known by the name of the Gara-Hiluen, was defeated and slain at Ora, his sisters were forced into shameful exile, and his followers went into hiding in the mountains. For many years we find it hard to trace them, though they always record new births in the precious Book of Singheia's Children. We see them taking to ships for a time, finding sanctuary with Dauvor the Wielder of Iron, fighting in mountains and drinking out of their helmets. This sad period was ended at last by Merva the Dog—so called by his enemies, though he accepted the title with laughter—who, having prepared the army for rebellion, slew his Lathni lord and claimed his lady, Queen Vaihar, as his wife. Several happy generations followed ("happy" in the sense of those distant times, when kings maimed themselves at games of rings-and-arrows and sustained themselves on pigs' feet). It was during this period that the fruitful lands in the foothills of the Ethenmanyi became known as "Faluidhen." Here, in the twilight of Nain, King Brom visited, and was astonished by a purple tablecloth purchased in the west.
He was that great lord known as Brom the Last, not because he was the last of that name but because with him an era passed away, the era of Nainish independence, ancient and warlike values, and the wedhialsu that were once sung every evening. For the reign of his nephew Tandrus coincided with that of Ilherin the Sunny Prince, whose mighty army destroyed the gods of Kestenya, and who attacked the Nainish princes not with arrows, but with objects of fine make, such as the fatal tablecloth of Faluidhen, which now hangs in the castle of Rediloth. Conquered by greed, the Nainish princes fought one another for places in a foreign court and competed to stamp out the language of their fathers. Ilherin's army was welcomed with banners, and the noble Princess Ridh, who had sought to poison him, was flogged to death. Within three generations the Nainish nobility were speaking the Olondrian tongue, and the word "Telkan" was used as a matter of course. There was great peace and prosperity. "We are all conquered," wrote Nabien of Bar-Theil, "whether by force, by strategic unions, or by the pleasure of the gods."
Ivrom closed the book and turned on his back. In the next room his child wailed briefly and then fell silent, soothed by the nurse. He thought of the House of Faluidhen, the House which—if the queen bore a child—would one day see their issue on the throne. A bitter, resentful, grasping House, humiliated by the submission of the Nains, riding toward power on the twin horses of money and marriage. They traded in fruit, in opium, in livestock, in silver, in Nissian slaves, in tobacco, in wool, in timber, and in their own daughters. Ivrom was not surprised when, three years later, the younger daughter of Faluidhen married Irilas, the dashing Duke of Tevlas, adding another knot to the family's bond with the Royal House—"They've been planning it since the girl was born," he crowed. He shared this opinion with the nurse, as there was no one else about—no one but the child who, though she could talk, was not yet capable of reasoned argument, and knelt at a little table, her drawing pencils before her in a row.
He slapped his desk. "The second goose is slaughtered," he shouted, "and sizzling in her fat!" His own vulgarity delighted him; he felt impatient when the child stared at him in dismay and the nurse replied with a barely perceptible nod. This nurse was a pale, awkward peasant from among the king's olive growers—capable, Ivrom thought, but very dull-witted. It was his fate to be surrounded by people who did not understand him, to never, never discover his own people. . .
"A winter goose," he cried coarsely. "For Tanbrivaud!" It was the Feast of Lamps; Tanbrivaud Night was only five days away. The windows were closed against the chill, but still the sound of the wedding celebration seeped in from the Tower of Mirrors. The child could hear it as she lay in bed. Her nurse lit the little red lamp and told her a story about an enchanted goose. While in the next room her father paced alone, laughing and shouting. "Breast meat! Oh, so tender!" It was her first memory.
But we are not concerned with the child's memories. We are concerned with him, with his genius. He had begun to write. He had begun, carefully and with pain, to collect the lines written on the Stone and record them in a white book. He submitted each phrase to Elarom for discussion, and to the small group that had gathered around the old man: volatile, nervous, yearning people, mostly failed priests and priestesses of one sort or another, who looked lost, like strange paupers, in their black robes. When the weather was fine they sat on a terrace, arguing and sweating. The devotees of the Stone had pockmarked skin, dandruff, bad breath, bad teeth. There was an exquisite thrill in watching their faces in the shade of a rare fern tree whose starry blossoms were meant to adorn a noblewoman's sash. And there was an exquisite humiliation in asking them to critique his work, to correct his usage of one of the many languages found on the Stone, to offer suggestions which Elarom might approve, nodding quietly, his eyes melancholy and full of light. Sometimes, when they worked in the room of the Stone, one of Ivrom's colleagues discovered a line of writing—then Ivrom would rush forward, pushing the others aside, pushing aside even the one who had found the frail, etched trace, in order to put his hand on it, to mark it with his touch. This was his right, because he felt more than the others, he suffered more cruelly. The others read, yes, they studied—but they also laughed. Sometimes, from his high window, he saw them playing at dakavei on the lawn, gawky as crows running over the grass.
And if his lip twitched in contempt when he watched them chasing a ball, how much more did he despise Ahadrom II, who rode, hunted, attended obscene comedies at the theater, and danced, holding his wife gingerly as if he feared she would sting! The blood of their souls floods the marble ballroom—when they dance there, they shall slip. These were the words of the Nameless Gods! Words carved into the Stone and flung down into the wastes of Ulunith where Elarom had found them in the snow. Elarom had nearly died in retrieving these words. And Ahadrom II, Telkan of Olondria, who had had the great good fortune to be born at Ashenlo, who had crept, as a boy, into the room where the flower of the age lay recovering from frostbite—Ahadrom danced because, he said, he was king. "I can't get out of it," he said, seated on a stool in the room of the Stone with his knees splayed out, turning and turning his skullcap in his hands. His big, pallid, sad young face with the firelight playing on it, the cropped black hair already growing thin... and the robe he wore when he came here to work, but not to official functions, not to parties: on those occasions he put on his plain black suit. The iron ring of the Telkans shone on his finger. And the lifeless metals with which they adorn themselves will avail them not, though they flash like a dragon's scales.
"We shall work late," Elarom said gently. "You may join us after the ball." Ahadrom wriggled off the stool with a little sob, knelt on the floor, and kissed the old man's hand. And the other Stone worshipers looked up from their books and murmured in sympathy. Ahadrom, who had been more sensitive than usual since the death of his father, remained bent over Elarom's hand, his great shoulders shaking, while Elarom, who ought to have spurned the king, kicked him, spat upon him—Elarom smiled, and a faint blush of pleasure warmed his withered cheek. "Your burden is great, my child," he said. And if the old man was warm from the king's tears, Ivrom was hot, white-hot, gripping the seat of his wooden stool in both hands, the pressure of his seething blood mounting into his temples so that the figure of the kneeling Telkan swam before his eyes. He must leave the room; he was choking; he was falling into a fit. But he stayed. And mournful, traitorous Ahadrom shuffled toward the door. Useless, stupid Ahadrom, who contributed nothing to their work, slumped off to dance with his barbed and sparkling queen. "A man of dough," she had said; and she was right. And she would mold him with her fingers and her teeth. She would dip him into a vat of caramel and roll him in colored sugar till he gleamed. And still Elarom would say, "my child."
But I'm your true child. I'm your child. Ivrom passed a shaking hand over his eyes. His body felt enervated, as if after a long illness. He turned his gaze to his notebook and the words heaved before him. For they have set forth in a ship of fools. "A ship of fools," he murmured. He was tossing on the sea. He clung to his hatred and it bore him through the waves. Gradually, he discerned the shape of land, the shape of the message: a condemnation, vast and final, of the worship of Ayalei.
"It occurred to me that night," he explained to Lunre, shortly after the younger man had joined the work of the Stone, "that there was a wonderful consistency in the statutes of the Nameless Gods. They condemned wine-drinking, gambling, adornments, gluttony... and many other things, such as popular divination and the interpretation of dreams, which are associated with the cult of Ayalei. They condemned all forms of the worship of the body. They condemned superstition and the pursuit of invisible spirits. They urged us to read, to write, to think. To live simply and with grace. In that moment, I saw the future."
He saw it alone, without the aid of his master or his colleagues. Utterly alone. Impossible to comprehend the burden of that vision. He told Lunre of it quietly, almost casually, seated on the floor of his apartment after a meal. Evening light came through the open door that led to the balcony and glinted on the strings of the limike against the wall. Ivrom was peaceful, leaning back beside the instrument, his throat elongated, vulnerable and still. A small vibration when he spoke. "I saw it, not as a blinding flash, but as an accumulation of solid truth. It rose up like a mountain. It was as real to me as the stool on which I sat. As tangible as the Stone itself."
He did not speak of the violence that accompanied the vision. How he gnawed his sleeve. The bruise where he struck his fist against the door. The nurse coming into his bedroom with a taper, fearing disaster, the terrified child clinging to her skirt. "Get out, get out!" he roared. He was half naked, streaked with sweat and ink. Broken pens were strewn across the floor. He flung the heavy inkwell at the nurse; it hit the wall, and she retreated with a shriek, dragging the child. His shouts reached them from behind the closed door, muffled, inarticulate. The nurse muttered prayers—prayers to Ayalei—she was, after all, a peasant. The words took up residence in the child's heart; they would be uprooted later. "Protect us, merciful Ripener of the Grain..."
"Insect! Scum!" he yelled. Everywhere his shadow appeared it took the form of a woman in a rich dark gown. He spun, but could not catch her. He would tear off her jewels, tear down her hair, grind the roof of her House beneath his heel. He would see her people sober and bowed in contemplation, or dead. These noble descendants of the gods, these pigs, these vampires! He would burn their theater, shred the canopies above their scented beds, put out the lights of Velvalinhu one by one. What is a mantis? It is well known that the female of the species is larger than the male, and that, when she is finished with him, she eats him. The queen had taken offense when a journalist nicknamed her the Mantis; that journalist now languished in Velvalinhu's dungeons. The king had put him there, though he knew it was wrong. He wept, but he obeyed. And Ivrom craved that power over the king. He craved it, and he would get it. Many years later, the Telkan, whimpering softly, would write the order to burn a school in the village of Nerhedlei. At this school, in the depths of the Valley where the worship of the Ripener was most entrenched, where the half-civilized peasants lived on bais and mushrooms, the eunuchs of Ayalei were teaching the autobiography of Leiya Tevorova in defiance of the new law written by Ivrom. The book, considered a classic of Olondrian literature for the writer's refined and effervescent prose, was among those he had banned because it encouraged a belief in angels, and therefore in spiritual voices other than that of the Stone. Violaters of the new law must be punished. The Telkan would weep at the thought of destroying the school, but he would obey. Ivrom would stand behind him with his narrow hands clasped; their shadow, cast on the wall, resembled an insect's spiked forelegs.
On the night of his vision he had no such power. He was wild, feverish, desperate.
Write. Write. One day he would teach the child: Writing is power. He leaned on the table and added a scrawl to the page. Such pain. He was tearing down walls. He was trampling their starry chains and cashews and peppercorn trees. The Teldaire had wasted away and he broke her sternum and she was dust. He ground her aunt, Mardith of Faluidhen, to a smear of chalk. This woman he had never met but who faced him across the country from her castle in Nain, manipulating the Teldaire, laughing at them all. She had orchestrated the farce of the Telkan's marriage; she wanted to see a Nainish prince on the throne. She sought power only for wealth—not, as Ivrom did, for change, for a transformation in Olondria's deepest heart, for the start of a new, quieter, more pious era. He had gathered from his research that this Mardith was regarded as a woman of principle, self-denying, almost ascetic, that she went about clad in the palest colors as if in perpetual mourning, and he hated her even more for this posturing. She was no ascetic—but she'd know asceticism soon enough, when the temples of Ayalei fell and demands for wine dried up, when she could no longer make a fortune from her vineyards and frankincense trees, when she was forced to exchange her theatrical white for black! Then she would cry—in his vision the smear of chalk wept icy tears. He was surrounded by a chorus of weeping women. And Time was defeated, and Death. When his book was finished, he'd mock the queen in the title. Wear these jewels, my queen, just to please me. Jewels from a Stone.
Today when Vars came in I was holding my father's book in my hands. That little white leather volume, the edges of the pages touched with blue gilt, has been until recently a bestseller in the capital, ostentatiously displayed on shelves and tea tables throughout the empire. "Even if they don't read it they have to buy it," my father said a few weeks ago, triumphant, upright in his chair. I was silent. I never liked his attention to power, so naked—it humiliated me to hear him crow. I felt his ambition threatened the book itself. Those words Lunre called "a healing rain." And if you find a stone along the way, pick it up and set it aside. It will leave dust on your fingers but cause no pain. And in this way you will proceed to the Mount of Clouds. The last words Lunre said to me, the night before he left the Isle forever. Under our favorite stone archway in the Tower of Aloes. The air pulsed blue and his eyes were full of shadows. I thought it was the beauty of the words that made us weep.
Vars unpacked his satchel onto the table with some pride. A heel of bread. "You can soften it in water," he said.
"Vars, have you read my father's book?"
He glanced at it, uneasy. "No, teldarin. My sister's read me a few lines."
"Really? She's sympathetic?"
He blushed.
"Ah, I see. She read it to mock at it. Is that right? In the garden, after a glass or two of wine? No, no, you mustn't apologize," I went on, talking over him, "you mustn't think I'm offended, why should I be? I know how we are used. But Vars, did you never think that we are really on the same side, you and I? We are both rebels after all."
"Well. But we came to restore the Goddess."
"Yes. You are rebels who look backward, and we are rebels who look forward."
I rose and walked toward him, smiling. There was a prickling behind my eyes. The truth is that my morning had been very bad. Had it not been so, I doubt I would have tried to push the book into his hands. He recoiled, of course—as if a moth had flown at him in the dark.
"It's only a book, it's only a book," I soothed him. I reminded him of Uskar, known as Ahadrom I, the grandfather of the prince. How Uskar, like Vars, like all the rebels, was wounded by Olondria, by its violence, the ruthlessness of its ceaseless wars. Like them, Uskar had tried to free Kestenya. But in the end he had relinquished his sword and become a man of peace. He had found another way to turn his back on the Olondrian Empire. He had turned his face to the Stone.
All morning I had been thinking: I am now the High Priestess of the Stone. I had been thinking: How can I survive without my father?
For a long time, it seemed, I tried to make Vars take the book. Its white leather binding nosed feebly at his hands.
At length he took me by the sleeve and led me to the chair. He was saying something—words of comfort, I believe. Something about the prince. That the prince had guaranteed my safety. "No one is to touch you," I think he said.
The room was coming to pieces. I opened the book, I don't know where. I don't need to see the words. I read without seeing: "Yours is a negative kingdom." I thought of my father and how he was like a bird who flew through a window by mistake. Ultimately, we Stone worshipers are a homeless people.
This did not keep us from cruelty. From murder. The children at Nerhedlei dead. Farhal dead. My argument with Vars was flimsy, I see now, hollow. Ahadrom I may have been a man of peace, but everyone knows my father was not. And even Ahadrom, when he was Uskar, betrayed his own kin to their death.
It is the twenty-first day of the month of Fir. On this day the Telkan puts on a blue robe and yellow slippers. He drinks rose-colored sherbet made with snow from Porcelain Mountain. He meets with the representatives of the White Council. They come to see him on the Isle and sit in the Chamber of Midday Reflection, their feet submerged to the ankles in a rug made of white lion's manes. The rug has been laid down for the occasion; afterward it is combed by the servants and wrapped in seven leaves of waxed paper.
Such polished ceremonies. And the end of it is blood. Such graceful language in my father's book. Blood.
I have been thinking that I don't know how to be Priestess of the Stone. I don't know where our followers live, I don't know their names. I can't convince a single soldier to read our book. My father prepared me for nothing. Why did I think that he would never die?
The fire sinks. Vars is gone. The room goes colder. I put on my gloves. The sky is dark today: they are putting out the fires.
No one is to touch you. The words seem terrible, profound.
Only one person could mourn my father with me: Lunre, who is lost.
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[ And gentle from the edge of night the blue. ]
Look at his face. This is the face he will wear until his death. A grim face, beardless, chiseled out of jasper. Every morning he washes and shaves the face. The hair grows thinner and whiter and he is the Priest of the Stone and his master is dead. Elarom, whom the gods favored, is dead, and Ivrom still dreams of the chilly morning he entered the room of the Stone, feeling his way toward the lamp and the flint on the table, and he had never lit the lamp himself because Elarom was always awake and reading in its light, and he fumbled with the flint and knocked the lamp over, spilling the oil, and he could just see the white, almost dead log lying on the hearth, but he couldn't see his master's bed at all, and at length he realized that the strange, shrill voice crying for help was his own.
Look at his face, at the funeral on a hill overlooking the sea. The king is weeping, as are most of the worshipers of the Stone. The sea wind tugs their robes. Lunre and Farhal, two young men who joined the work of the Stone two years ago, are digging the grave. They are scholars, slender, unused to the work. It takes them half the morning. When the child, now thirteen years old, sinks down to sit on the grass, her nurse quietly pulls her up again. Slowly the light changes from the gray of a dog's coat to the gray of a coin.
Ivrom's profile becomes ever sharper, more rigid, more heroic. He does not weep. He notices that the child does not weep either. He is proud of this. He cannot see her young heart shuddering under her ugly homemade frock, in panic, in anguish, in a kind of horror. No one speaks as the body, wrapped in Elarom's black robe for a shroud, is carried forward in the arms of three sobbing women. They can't keep hold of it once they've sunk down, they don't have any ropes, the body tumbles into the hole like a sack of rice. Everyone looks at Ivrom. Look at his face, it might be carved on a granite doorpost at the entrance to a temple, except that there is no Temple of the Stone, and if there were it would be without images, decorated only with words. For the image is vulgar, the gods have said; it coarsens the spirit and dulls the intellect. Who but an infant needs to receive the world through pictures? The wise use words. But Ivrom does not speak, and the Stone worshipers are at a loss, for they possess no traditions, no funerary rites.
Look at his face, like a blade. At length Lunre clears his throat. He draws his wrist across his sweating forehead, leaving a smear of mud. He steps forward and begins to shovel earth into the grave. Soon Farhal joins him. And the others watch.
Walking back to Velvalinhu through the fields it grew colder and colder and they stumbled in the stony aisles among the faded vineyards, and had it not been for the child's nurse, who knew these paths from childhood, they might have lost their way altogether. For though Velvalinhu, with its vast and complicated towers, its hanging gardens like cuffs of precious lace, was ever in view, the way toward it was not direct, but involved a series of unexpected turns and sometimes even reversals around a house or copse. And this, Lunre said afterward, was an apt metaphor for the process of deciphering the message of the Stone, in which so many promising trails had to be abandoned. Indeed, he said, it might serve as a metaphor for any worthy endeavor. This was in Ivrom's apartment, where the nurse served tea while the child went into her bedroom and curled up, trembling, with Nardien's Tales for the Tender (and when her father came in to say good night he would frown and ask if she could not find something less babyish to read). It was after they had reached the Court of the Sands, vast as a battlefield, where the sentries watched them steadily and in silence, as the Telkan paused and cried out with a loud voice that he had no anchor now, no adviser, no friend, no counselor but Ivrom. "Both my fathers have passed away," he said, "and I must depend upon my brother." And Ivrom's heart, frozen in sorrow, shook itself awake, and he held out his hand to the tall, clumsy, black-robed king of Olondria who knelt on the stones and grasped and kissed that hand. The king had a bald spot on the top of his head and his kiss was repulsive, slick with grief, and the new High Priest of the Stone wore his usual knife-hard face. When Lunre mused about their circuitous journey home, the priest laughed. "Oh," he said, "but we might have cut the vineyards down."
Here was Velvalinhu, with its courtyards, its gardens, its mighty towers, its light and darkness, always light in one place and always dark in another, and how strange it seemed, now, that Tenais had been so oppressed by the darkness, that she had lit a fortune in candles one night long ago. How strange that he himself had been disturbed by the salmon-colored stones, half-blinded by the glitter of the ballrooms—half-blinded, if the truth be told (and why not, there was no harm in admitting it now) by the brazen, jetty, taunting eyes of the queen. He looked back in astonishment at his nights spent poring over the Hath Harevu, and that idiotic little book The Nains, by the queen's great-aunt, with its anguished clan sensitivities and the bloated, rubicund figures on the cover, who looked less like knights than the inhabitants of a sanatorium. How small the palace seemed now, though they called it a city! It was so little he could balance it on his palm; it reminded him of nothing so much as the music box in the shape of a castle that stood on his aunt's writing desk in Bain. This castle, manufactured in Feirin or Deinivel, where such trinkets were churned out in great numbers, was graced with gardens of green baize, with trees of wire and felt, balconies of such fine filigree they might have been earrings, and windows of real glass. When the key was wound, the box played the popular vanadel "Bain, City of My Heart," and the mechanism inside rotated, so that, peering through the windows, one could see tiny smiling ladies and gentlemen passing in a row, in a kind of eseila. Now, bending down and squinting through the window, he could see the queen, no taller than his fingernail, passing with a fixed smile, her paste jewelry glinting as she moved jerkily in the path she must travel forever. Her black hair looked freshly painted (and he knew for a fact that she had begun to dye it, although she was not yet forty, because one of her ladies-in-waiting, a secret devotee of the Stone, spied for him, and even copied out the queen's letters). She passed to the plinking of the keys. Behind her, holding her hand, came her son, Prince Andasya, now eight years old, stiff as an effigy in one of his marvelous outfits, so thick with embroidery and pearls that he might have been tossed down the stairs without injury. He bumped along in his mother's wake; he was already unhappy; his eyes brimmed with resentment in his candy-colored face. He would come to the Stone. Ivrom wound the key as tightly as possible, then released it, and the whole company whirled around to the sound of the keys. Bain, city of my heart! All the colors blended together; it was no longer possible to make out the black stains on the queen's teeth (she had begun to chew milim), the red marks on her fingers (she slammed the lid of her writing-box on them deliberately every time she received a letter from her tyrannical Aunt Mardith); the young prince's glowering brows had disappeared, the melancholy jowls of the Telkan, and the sumptuous oiled shoulders of a thousand court ladies, and the gentlemen's jeweled scabbards, and all of their boots, wineglasses, prize-winning roses, londo debts, racehorses, intrigues, and affairs. The ballroom was nothing but soup. It looked like the gray, gelatinous, peppery soup he had once eaten at one of the queen's dinners, back when he had felt that he must always be where the Telkan was, that he must watch over the king to maintain his power. The noxious soup was treacherously threaded with melted cheese, which clung to Ivrom's spoon, his lips, and the side of his bowl; he found himself in a desperate battle with this cheese, though he tried to copy the cunning manner in which the others spun their spoons in order to break it. At the head of the table, the queen's eyes glistened with tears of mirth. Muffled laughter ran up and down the room. But they were not laughing now. If they were not careful, he'd make them dance until they fainted; he'd wind the key until it snapped.
No one laughed now, for vineyards might be cut down, and it was not only the Mantis who could have people thrown in prison. Jewels from a Stone, Ivrom's collection of the words of the Nameless Gods, had appeared in print in the winter of 931. It was a particularly cold winter; there was snow on the Isle, and many went hungry in the east. "It soothes me," choked the Telkan, wiping his face, cradling the little book against his chest in the room of the Stone, "it soothes me to read these blessed words, when things are so difficult!"
The priest bowed slightly. His hard face did not change. He dwelt in a different realm, one infinitely more exalted: the realm, not of those who are soothed by the truth, but of those who draw it forth—those who are torn by its brambles and battered by its stones. It had wrenched his heart (whatever Lunre supposed) to have Farhal imprisoned in order to keep him from spreading his inferior translations. He had wept when Farhal, whose health was poor, had perished in the dungeon after his usual winter cough spread to his lungs. The inner lamp had blazed out at Ivrom then, and his heart, he told Lunre, had nearly stopped. And Lunre, seated at one of the desks in the room of the Stone, with a barricade of dictionaries and prayer books around him, had looked up calmly and said: "Peace, Ivrom."
Ivrom stared at him. "Peace?"
"Peace," Lunre whispered. Somehow, though his hair was cropped short and his cheeks clean-shaven, he looked disheveled; something about him suggested that he had been rubbing his face, or trying to tear his hair. His eyes glinted flatly.
Ivrom looked at his own papers, but found he could not work. He spent a few moments trimming his pen. "Farhal was ill," he said.
No answer.
Ivrom tried a sigh. "Perhaps you are right, and this feeling of depression comes from a slowing of the blood..."
With a sudden, violent scraping, Lunre thrust his stool backward over the stone floor and stood. The oil lamp on the table lit his face from below; the shadows made him look aged, almost a skull. "Everyone has left you," he said in a strange rough voice. "Everyone save poor Ahadrom, who cannot go anywhere, and Tialon your daughter. You have chased everyone away; Farhal you have killed, yes, murdered; I am still here. I am still here, and I hate myself. I hate myself. But Ivrom—"
Here he stepped out from behind the desk, his hands outstretched, his voice breaking with tenderness, and clasped both of Ivrom's hands. "I cannot go. I will not go. I will not leave the Stone, and our work, and you. Not yet."
The two men embraced. Lunre was shaking. "Only," he said, stepping back, his face warped with grief, and with something else, something dreadful, a kind of warning—and his voice grew in strength and harshness—"only we will never speak of Farhal's illness again. We will not speak of Farhal at all."
Ivrom nodded, speechless. And he kept that bargain. It was Lunre who failed, Lunre who went back on his word. Lunre, whom he called friend. They quarreled when Ivrom banned the heretical autobiography of Leiya Tevorova—a monstrous act, Lunre said. They quarreled again, more bitterly, when Ivrom forced the Telkan to burn the school at Nerhedlei and three little children were killed. Have you seen the Ethendrian grottoes? Neither have I; I was happy with the stone arcade in the Tower of Aloes, where Lunre gave me the almanac.
"Read the Month of Lamps," he said. His smile.
It seemed impossible that he would leave us. But it had also seemed impossible that we would lose Farhal. Things were becoming more possible. The world was growing larger—terrifyingly so. The Priest of the Stone traveled back and forth to Bain. Everywhere he drew crowds. They came to heckle, then to engage him in serious debates, then to buy his book. Once while he was away, before Farhal died, the priest's daughter crept down to the dungeons with a copy of Jewels from a Stone. She ordered the guard to let her through in a piping, imperious tone. A young girl, only fifteen, her face as green as glass. The guard hesitated; she told him to unlock the door at once or she'd tell her father. The guard obeyed and gave her a paper sealed with black wax. This was her pass to show to the guards on every level of the dungeons as they admitted her into the bowels of the palace. After a certain level the floor was flooded, her slippers soaked. Farhal lay on a bench; she could see him through the bars.
"Farhal! Farhal!"
"Here, little mistress, let me," said the last guard. He banged on the bars with a dented pewter cup. Holding his lamp aloft in the horrible din. Farhal jumped up, trembling pitifully. He stared toward the bars, shielding his eyes from the light.
"Farhal, it's me, it's Tialon."
He stood and came toward her, his bare feet in the cold water. His beard had grown and it seemed as though one of his eyes would not open. He coughed against his shoulder: a deep, full sound. The priest's daughter was losing strength in her knees. She slid the book through the bars. "Here..."
"It's all right," said the guard. He had checked through the book for hidden weapons. "There might be a needle in here," he'd explained to the girl. "Someone swallowed a needle once."
Farhal took the book and looked at it wonderingly. "Is this from your father? He asked you to give it to me?"
"Yes," she lied.
His beautiful sloe-colored eye, huge in his starved face, brimming with light.
"Thank you!" he whispered.
The guard caught the girl's arm before she fell. He took her to his chair by the door and rubbed her temples painfully with his great thumbs. "You'll want to wear boots next time," he said.
Stop. Don't go. In the foothills of the Tavroun there is a marvelous rainy valley overgrown with purple gentian. The air tastes of herbs. And we never had to go there, because we had our little hillside above the sea. We had the narrow walkways running through the palace orchards and the parapet overlooking the garden of the iloki—the huge saddlebirds with their raucous honking and prehistoric heads, who give off a terrible odor of decay. Once a day the sentries toss them the carcass of a pig. We used to watch the creatures moving through their gloomy garden, the chains on their necks clanking, their dusty tail feathers trailing in the weeds, till they reached the carcass and shredded it like silk.
Everything. We had everything, it seemed. Sooner or later, we thought, my father would forgive Farhal and let him go. We thought this, Lunre and I, even as our little circle dissolved, the other Stone worshipers leaving us for the mainland. They became leaders of reading circles in the capital, in Ethendria, in Sinidre. My father never mentioned their names again. It was forbidden to speak of them in his presence. The way he'd look up, crackling with rage. The red-hot orb of his eye.
I think of Farhal lying on his bench in a dark room. Did he even have enough light to read? Did he beg the guard to hang a light from the bars? Did he need the light to read Jewels from a Stone, or did he just run his hands reverently over the lines? Some of them were his own transcriptions. Some of them were Lunre's. Some belonged to other Stone worshipers. Three of them were mine. But the book was my father's because my father had drawn them together into a coherent vision, he had forged meaning out of scraps. At a moment when two powers were struggling for Olondria's soul—the cult of Ayalei with its mysticism, more magic than religion, and the wealthy barons of Nain, who cared for no religion at all—my father raised a two-edged sword against them both. Jewels from a Stone is divided into three sections of equal length. The first attacks Ayalei's cult: superstition, dream interpretation, communication with spirits. The second decries ostentation, greed, the accumulation of wealth. And the third sets forth an argument for reading as prayer. The words seem to glow as if wrought in adamantine. The book is perfect. It is perfect because it admits of no contradictions. It is perfect because a great number of the words written on the Stone—more than half, in fact—are absent from its pages.
"Orphans," my father called these writings. The ones that contribute nothing to his vision. Minor scratches, marginal, like vestigial wings. The love songs, the lists of horses and camels bought and sold, the detailed accounts of events in long-lost villages. There is a prayer for an ailing cow. There is a message in plain Olondrian that might have been written yesterday: "I've gone up the pass with luck we'll meet on the other side." My father's theory on the "orphans" was that they were recent defacements, scratched into the Stone by those who were ignorant of its value. In the terrible conditions of the desert, he thought, people used the Stone as a rough signpost, almost a way of exchanging letters. He raged at these scrawls for complicating our efforts, quoting a line from the Stone itself: "A curse on these orphans darkening my path!" But Lunre felt that the orphans were worthy of study. If we agreed, he said, that the Stone came from the Gods, that They directed the hands that touched it, then we must attend to even its smallest, most crooked lines. "After all," he added, half smiling, "one could build an entire theology on 'with luck we'll meet on the other side.'" And Farhal—Farhal loved the orphans, especially the ones that seemed to contradict my father's theory that they were only recent marks, the ones that were deeply scored in the rock, written in the Ancient Tongue yet cryptic, senseless. "And gentle from the edge of night the blue."
Useless, my father said. A waste of time. And then, as time passed: dangerous. The orphans might weaken the true message of the Stone. He forbade us to work on them. Farhal did not listen. Secretly, he published a small pamphlet of his transcriptions in Bain.
This pamphlet no longer exists. All the copies have been destroyed. Farhal too.
His enormous eyes. The way he looked at my father with love. So eager to sweep the floor, to carry my father's writing box. He had moles on his neck; when my father felt cheerful (affectionate, cruel) he called him "Spots."
Ivrom and Lunre quarreled for the last time when the priest found Lunre's private notes on the orphans. Lunre was the last of Ivrom's disciples, the most intelligent, the most gifted, the most beloved. "How dare you?" Ivrom roared, louder than the autumn storm that thundered outside. His heart was breaking. And we never visited Nain, where the little houses glow red among patchwork fields and tame musk deer are tied up at the gates. We never needed to go anywhere. We had poetry. Lunre made me a crown of aimila blossoms from one of the gardens. "Fallen star," he said.
Fallen star. He crouched at the hearth, throwing his notes on the flames while my father watched to make sure that every shred was ashes. It was the end, it was ending, Lunre was leaving, the next day, forever. "You might as well kill me," he whispered. "As you did Farhal."
Farhal lies in an unmarked grave on the hill, beside Elarom. Lunre—who knows?
Ivrom's follwers were weak. He brushed them off like burrs. He maintained his precise activities, his routine. Every evening, wherever he was—on the Isle, on the mainland to give a speech—he sat down to a soup of herbs. In Bain the soup was ordered in a hotel. "No butter please." On the Isle it was composed in the tiny kitchen in his apartment, first by his daughter's nurse and then, once the nurse had been sent away, by the daughter herself, who was then nineteen years old. The soup required that the bones of a goat be boiled for seven hours. All the fat had to be skimmed off, the thyme and mint chopped very fine. The single narrow window in the kitchen whitened with fog. Not too much salt, no pepper. The daughter cried and cried.
Lunre, she wrote. Come back. She hid the letter under her mattress.
The daughter grew pale and sluggish. She, too, was weak, Ivrom thought regretfully. He attempted to strengthen her with the example of his own upright carriage, his thin hard mouth, his unrelenting poise. Clink, clink, went the spoon on the edge of his bowl. The daughter cried in her soup. He asked her if she was taking a course in amateur theatrics. No answer, of course—she was sulking. As usual he left his robe on the floor outside his room so that she could scrub it and hang it to dry.
Lunre, she wrote. Don't come back.
In her room she took off her clothes. She could not see herself whole; she did not have a large enough mirror. She had only the little silver-backed mirror embossed with mourning doves that had belonged to her mother: her nurse had given it to her before leaving Velvalinhu. "I kept it," whispered the nurse. She had found it in the old apartment, in the chaos of the death and burial of Tenais, and had tucked it in her own bag. She had been afraid to give it to the girl before, she explained: she did not think the old man would like it. Now the mirror flashed in the light of the candle on the table. "Mother, come fetch me," whispered the girl, but no one came. She drew a picture of her hand in charcoal, a picture of her face. Both pictures were ugly, distorted. She burned them at the candle.
I want to stay there. I don't want to go any further. I want to stay. I can't remember who it was—one of the poets, perhaps Tamundein—who said that all of our happiest hours must pass away at last, even those in which we believe we are unhappy.
Look at his face.
The fire dies down, the air grows clearer, but everything looks bleak. How quickly Velvalinhu has fallen into ruin. Without its servants, who have been permitted to leave the Isle—chambermaids, gardeners, footmen—the palace is as desolate as a cave.
Thunder. Racing clouds. Across the Alabaster Court, a great painted cloth ripples in the wind. The rebels put it there, I know, so that I can see it, though Vars insists they do not know where I am. My kind, cruel jailer—he pretends the fires were started by accident—lamps knocked over in panic, bed-curtains alight. I know better. They set the fires on purpose, this gleeful, jeering rabble, as they raised that rough painting outside my window. Rabble—a word my father would have used. I see his face on the painting. Though the colors are crude, the brushstrokes hasty, the artist is not without talent. The pigs in the foreground look healthy, like ripe peaches, the mint-green grass appears soaked with rain, and the children seated nearby gnaw their maize with obvious delight. In the center, a peasant youth in a blue robe dances in a mire that is meant to represent grapes, or perhaps blood, with a girl, also in blue, on whose upright breasts and sunburnt calves the artist has expended considerable effort. How the rebels yelled as the painting went up, waving their wineskins! In the right-hand corner—the corner of law—the artist has painted my dead father. Dangling from a tree with his mouth open. His eyes bulge, but it is his face. Jasper. Hard. It is his face.
When Vars came in I was lying on the floor. "Get up, teldarin," he said, alarmed. I obeyed, though I could not see why it was important. What does it matter where I am? Bed, chair, floor. I could lie on a table. I could curl up in the big washbasin.
It is the thirtieth day of the month of Fir. Today the Telkan. Today the Teldaire.
No. Today the old rituals do nothing for me. I opened the balcony doors while Vars was building up the fire. I made sure no one was below, then dropped the almanac over the railing.
"What are you doing?" Vars cried.
The book unfolded in the air as if trying to fly, then crashed in the branches of a plane tree in the courtyard. I came back in and closed the balcony doors, but not before I caught sight of my father's painted face streaked by the rain.
Vars had brought nothing but olives and water. He told me to conserve whatever oil I have. For light. His fingers trembled.
"Sit down," I told him. There are two chairs at the table, but he's never sat with me. He seemed nervous, awkward, pulling everything close to the fire, arranging, fussing. At last we both sat down. My slippers and stockings began to grow hot. He rubbed his face and hair with both hands, as if he were washing.
"What is happening?" I asked him.
He looked up, tired, rumpled, reddened. "The duke is coming."
"Which one?"
He laughed briefly at my ignorance. "Veda of Bain."
I thought of how the palace has seemed quieter lately—less singing, fewer revels. At intervals, shouts ring out in the distance.
"I thought it was me," I said.
"Hm?"
"I thought it was me. The way everything's getting quieter."
He did not understand, but was too distracted to ask questions. He told me the fires in Bain had died down, the city was under the duke's control once more, and warships were filling the northern harbor.
"They can reach the Isle in a day," he said.
"What will you do?"
"Fight them, of course."
His voice was frayed; it did not match the confidence of the words "of course." After a moment he added: "I hope you'll tell them we've treated you fairly. That we've done only what's necessary to hold the Isle."
Perhaps because I have been eating so little, it took a moment for what he was saying to reach me, but finally I said: "You expect to lose."
He crossed his arms on the table and held his elbows tight. "No. We'll win, with Ayalei's aid. But the prince—the prince is ill."
The prince is ill. He is lying on a rooftop under furs. He does not speak. His eyes are fixed on the wintry sky. If they try to move him, to take him indoors, he stiffens his limbs and groans through clenched teeth—a high-pitched sound, terrible, almost a shriek.
For a week he has eaten only black foods: raush and hard black bread. He takes almost nothing now. Sometimes he lets them spoon a little olive paste into his mouth.
"Nobody knows what's wrong with him."
And the Duke of Bain has reclaimed his city. The rebels are falling in the Valley, in Nain.
"I tell you this," said Vars, "because the prince said you were his friend."
I should have screamed with laughter. I should have flung the olive dish at his head. I should have snapped my fingers in his face and gloated: The duke will unstring you like a harp. I should have wept. My father. My father.
Instead, I ate. Rava, sister of the twentieth Telkan, said that the Isle possesses two things in abundance: music and clarity. I too will look at the world with clear eyes. I will see my own part in this. When Vars had gone I stepped onto the balcony and looked at the painting again. In the left-hand corner of the picture—the corner of passion—a table in an arbor. There the prince drinks wine with the High Priestess of Ayalei. Dappled sun on his claret coat. His black hair like a wing. His mouth a bloom. His eyes obscured by a ray of light.
|
[ A curse on these orphans darkening my path! ]
"It is time," said Ivrom, "for the young prince to come to me."
"Ah, yes," said the Telkan, rubbing his knees. He glanced uneasily at the priest's daughter, who sat in the corner turning the pages of an enormous dictionary. In the opposite corner of the room gleamed the Stone.
"Yes, well," the Telkan stammered. "It is difficult to find time. There are his riding and music lessons, and the calligraphy. He is practicing advanced swordplay now. And then, in the autumn, he goes to stay with his aunt and uncle in Kestenya..."
The priest sat with his arms crossed, wearing a sardonic smile. He knew very well why Prince Andasya traveled to Kestenya. Redis, one of the Teldaire's ladies-in-waiting and a recent convert to the Stone, copied out the queen's letters for him. Sometimes Redis wrung her hands and yanked at her layered skirts: she ought to be wearing black, she said, not this gaudy stuff. And the priest replied unctuously: "Calm yourself, my child. The gods understand the requirements of your service. Remember—this is the work of the Stone."
So, dear sister, he had read the previous night, I intend to send Dasya to you again before the Feast of Plenty, for though it tears my heart to be parted from him, I cannot bear the thought of his falling into the clutches of Ahadrom's wretched priest.
Now the "wretched priest" gazed at the Telkan. His hips ached, his spine twinged, but as usual he ignored the pain. He was only five years away from the wheeled chair in which his daughter would maneuver him through the halls of Velvalinhu to the end of his days. The Telkan had no such fortitude: tears of sweat gleamed in his brows. He was not made to rule—but then, Ivrom reflected, neither were his brothers: sunburnt Veda, Duke of Bain, who always smelled so strongly of saddle oil, and the fiercely handsome Irilas of Tevlas, a nervous recluse and bolma addict. Olondria's Royal House was like a gambling den, Ivrom thought, whose members would gladly forfeit both wealth and honor, if only they could have (for Irilas) a cup of wine, (for Veda) a horse, and (for the Telkan) an hour of peace. No doubt the young prince was equally feckless; the sooner he was taken in hand, the better, for the cult of the Stone was still small and required the next king's support.
"There is the month of Lunre," the Telkan admitted at last, "but during that time he is always fitted for new clothes..."
The priest's smile, like a sword cut, remained in place. His daughter drew in her breath audibly at the sound of the word Lunre—an irritating habit, for it was, after all, a common word, a month of the year, and one must expect to hear it. The Telkan wiped his brow with his wrist. In his mind, Ivrom basted the younger man and turned him on the spit. Then he increased the heat. "And are these things," he asked quietly, "more important than the well-being of his soul?"
"Believe me," the Telkan cried, "if I could, I would bring him to you at once—you would be his tutor—you must know that nothing on earth would please me better! But the Teldaire is very firm, very attached to him, very excitable—truly excitable—she has not been well."
"Has she not?" the priest asked dryly.
"I think not," said the king. "She is always on her couch when I arrive."
"And harshness is no crime!" snapped the priest, quoting the Stone. "Leave her be, or yank her up by the roots of her hair, but bring me the boy."
And harshness toward the self is no crime, Lunre thought it was. A question of the translation of an ancient word.
Years later, Ivrom's daughter would say: "You care more for the prince than you ever did for me." One of her rare arguments with her father. And her father would stare, taken aback that this slip of a girl, this shadow who owed him everything, could attack him. His first impulse was to shout, but he thought better of it, and raised his chin proudly. "In the War of the Tongues," he declared, "King Thul sacrificed his daughter. He threw her into the sea as a gift to the goddess Ithnesse. A painful act, yes, but honorable. And he won the war."
The Telkan, however, was selfish; he would not make sacrifices; he shrank and whined; he sat up all night, according to Ivrom's spies, not studying or praying, but watering, sniffing, and crooning over the plants he grew in pots in the Tower of Lapis Lazuli. Plants! The priest longed to run up the stairs and hurl every one of them over the balustrade (but he would not—that would happen many years later—and it was the young prince who would send those pots crashing into the courtyard one by one, to the cheers of his rebel army). And then, one rainy winter, when the fog lay so heavy on the Isle that lanterns were carried about even in the middle of the day, and the servants' children rang bells on the landings to drive away melancholy, the Nameless Gods smiled on their priest at last.
"Oh, very good," he whispered. "Very good."
What have I raised, Firvaud? he read. How did I manage to fail so completely with both you and your sister? What was the purpose, I ask you, of all my care with your education, if it is to result in nothing but dishonor? Those sessions in the white parlor when you were a child—wasted, wasted! I might have been working! I might have been devising some alternate plan for success. Instead I placed all my faith in you children, all of it! And this is how you reward me—the trap sprung too early, and the pheasant flown!
A letter from the queen's aunt, Mardith of Faluidhen. Ivrom had a moment of fellow feeling for the rigid, power-hungry old lady. He could picture the white parlor where she had taught her nephew and nieces herself, forcing them to add up long columns of figures. He knew that she kept no steward; she alone managed all the business of the estate. She was formidable, formidable! But now something had happened—he could not quite tell what—something had gone awry, and the time had come to grind her people to chalk.
To make matters worse, Firheia has allowed Dasya to start home, so he is on his way to you, though he ought to have come directly to me. I would have cured him; I would have made him sensible of his duty, if I had to wear out Fenya's riding crop on his back! That, I know, is the sort of image that usually makes you laugh—your old aunt whipping a boy of seventeen. I hope you laugh, Firvaud, I hope you have your fill of laughter before your son comes home, trailing our name behind him through the mire! Perhaps, then, you will look at him without smiling. Perhaps you will begin to take your duty seriously. But no, I know you—wine, milim, lovers, I know it all, your escapades are notorious even here in Nain.
"How did the queen look when she read this?" asked Ivrom.
"Sallow," answered Redis. "And when she had finished, she struck her head on the wall."
"Did she indeed?"
"She did. It will leave a bruise, that's certain; tomorrow she'll have her curls arranged on her forehead."
"I see, I see," the priest murmured. Firelight shone through the paper and he lowered it to his lap to read it better. I expect you will go on spoiling the prince, while your sister spoils her daughters in the highlands, and Faluidhen shatters like a glass on the stove. I expect no one will listen to me. But if you did, this would be my advice: the children must be kept apart. They must be kept apart, far apart, until even the servants have forgotten that there was ever a hint of impropriety between them. (The servants at Ashenlo must be bribed, of course, to encourage the process; I am sending Irilas some money for the purpose, so that he cannot plead destitution. I have never seen a person less able to keep his wealth in hand, though he sells more land every year, and not cheaply.) Tavis must go to Bain, as she is old enough to go into society now. She must be kept free, if possible, from the taint of the whole business, for if we should lose Siski, Tavis will be our only weapon. And Siski—if only Firheia listens!—Siski must come to me.
Impropriety. A taint. The priest folded up the paper and absently pressed a corner of it against his teeth. He gazed into the fire. The trap is sprung, the pheasant flown—what could it mean? The queen struck her head against the wall.
Redis had taken out a little ivory filigree fan and was cooling her face with it. The firelight gleamed on her hard young skin.
"What do you think has happened?" he asked her at last.
"Isn't it obvious?" she smirked. "They want the prince to marry his cousin."
Of course. Of course.
Faluidhen spread before him. The linden trees. The white parlor where Lady Mardith turned the pages of her prayer book. She had raised her nieces and nephew to know the common prayers and a good third of the Vallafarsi, but not to be particularly devout. Don't over-salt the soup! It was not genteel to pray too much, to talk constantly about the state of one's soul. Look at Uskar of Tevlas, who now called himself Ahadrom I—he was a laughingstock, a bumbling, earnest clown in woolen robes. His son was going the same way. "Make sure you ask them about this Stone!" she advised her niece Firvaud, smoothing the girl's lace collar. That collar was not more intricate, more cunningly conceived, or more elegantly executed than her plan. Slowly she drew the threads into marvelous flowers. Firvaud married Ahadrom II, Firheia his brother Irilas. Firvaud bore a son, her sister a daughter. The marriage of first cousins was frowned upon, but there were precedents in the royal line. If those children married, the throne would belong to Faluidhen.
"Brilliant," he said.
"Do you think so?" Redis sniffed.
But something had gone wrong. A hint of impropriety between them. Every year, the queen sent her son east to Ashenlo, to keep him from Ivrom, but also, he saw now, to encourage the boy's attachment to his cousin. Siski, that was her name—barbaric—surely chosen by her father—the name of an ancient princess of the highlands. Had the young people become too attached? Had they consummated their love too early, unlawfully? The trap sprung, the pheasant flown.
Yes, that was it. The priest chuckled. Ah, youth! He remembered the faint stink of the canal in Bain, the streetlamps reflected in the oily water, and himself, on one of his rare visits home, flinging a handful of gravel. The object was to hit the windows on the other side of the water; perhaps one of the harlots would look out. "Open up!" he shouted, and the boys with him (urchins he only played with when home—they introduced themselves by bloodying his nose) clutched themselves laughing. And one night a window opened and a coarse word was hurled out, along with a glimpse of a fleshy, radiant, naked arm. And afterward, back at the temple school, such remorse! He shook his head, smiling. "Redis," he said, "we must prepare to receive our prince."
He came. He wore a black suit and black skullcap like his father. Pearl earrings gleamed against his skin. It was the eighteenth day of the month of Mur; the prince had bathed in the Tower of Aloes that day, and his hair had been fumigated with apple-wood smoke. In the Temple of Sarma, he had walked three times around the ancient, blackened mirror representing the Waters of Destiny, and his face had been painted with silver flowers. He had washed, but a scrap of metallic paint still clung to his cheek as he sat in the room of the Stone. The prince's eyes had a strange, lifeless glitter; his spine curved. In the afternoon he would put on indigo and flame-colored garments. It was the day the Teldaire tasted the new wine. The prince would escort her and open the ceremonies by blowing a swan-shaped horn.
He sat hunched at the table, and the priest's daughter saw at once that he was like her father: a person of absolute loneliness. The air around him seemed red, as if he dwelt in a different atmosphere. He awaited instruction with apparent indifference.
"Well," said the priest in his stinging, sarcastic voice. "You have come at last, eh? You have left off digging for truffles in Ayalei's mud patch."
The priest's daughter flushed, but the prince said nothing.
Ivrom laughed rustily, then coughed. "Sulking, my prince? Perhaps you are missing a riding lesson? How sad for you. Or perhaps my tone offends you? You are accustomed to flattery, no doubt, and to hearing the words 'Your Highness' from noon to midnight. But you are in a different place now. In this room your blood and accomplishments mean nothing. Please follow me with the lamp."
He turned his back on the prince and approached the Stone. The prince took the lamp from the table and followed, his movements oddly smooth and subdued, as if he were floating. Obediently he held up the lamp and listened as the priest explained the work and showed him where the dictionaries were kept. Then Ivrom gave the boy a stack of transcriptions in the Ancient Tongue. "I hope you read it?"
Prince Andasya nodded.
"I see! They have not wholly neglected your education. You read the Ancient Tongue and also dance the arilantha! Dear me, you are drenched in knowledge like a pear in syrup."
The prince returned to his table and set down the papers. He went back to the dictionaries with the lamp and selected Ainoe's Coastal Lexicon and Muir's The Harpist's Tongue. Armed with these, he sat down at his table and began to work. In the green lamplight his hands looked attenuated, fragile.
Ivrom watched him for a moment. No sound but the scratching of the prince's pen and the soft slap when he opened a dictionary. "You will find it very dull," the priest said at last, in a voice that sounded forced, even to himself. "Our work takes more concentration than a game of londo!"
Silence. The prince wrote. And the priest, discomfited, turned to his own work. Throughout that strange season when the prince worked in the room of the Stone, Ivrom found no way to reach him, no barb that could pierce his armor of almost somnolent impassivity. Each day the boy arrived precisely an hour after dawn. He always walked from the Tower of Pomegranates, accompanied by a gaggle of gaily clad courtiers provided by his mother: gorgeous men and women with antimony-stained cheeks, their jewelry and beaded clothing clinking, many of them stinking faintly of wine. He was a prince; he could go nowhere alone. When the priest's daughter opened the door for him, she would catch a glimpse of his elegant companions in the hall, yawning, whispering, or rolling their eyes, evidently glad to be rid of him. Once one of them led a small wildcat on a chain.
The prince worked. His throat was a pale arrow. He still possessed the famous winglike lashes that graced the portrait Death, with Kite, but the color had abandoned his cheeks and his skin had lost its wonderful elasticity, so that it was more like granite than (as the journalists said) almond butter. It was rumored that his lungs were diseased. It was rumored that he had contracted an ignoble illness and was being treated with mercury. He worked every day until sunset, foregoing all daylight duties and pleasures. Gloom hung about him like fog. His translations were excellent.
Ivrom spent a great deal of time on the mainland that autumn and early winter, proselytizing and debating in the temples. It seemed strange, considering the time of year, the dampness, and the increasing pain in his hips, for him to choose that season for travel, but only to those unaware of the heavy numbness that had taken up residence in the room of the Stone, a numbness in the shape of a prince. Though the prince did nothing to offend, his presence acted on the spirits like an eclipse. At this time, the priest's daughter, who was often alone with him, took to roaming in the palace gardens. She'd run up and down the outdoor flights of steps in her mannish boots and circumambulate the Long Gardens in rain, underneath her white umbrella. Sometimes she held the umbrella aside and let the rain beat on her face. After one such journey, she entered the room of the Stone and heard the prince's voice. A half-strangled whisper, caught in the moment before he knew she was there. "Will it change," he muttered. "Will it change will it change will it change."
Will it change. The door clicked behind her. The prince looked up.
His heavy-lidded eyes like a pair of dead coals.
She busied herself shaking out her umbrella. She propped it against the wall and pushed back her damp hair. Her nervous fingers caught in the strings of her coat.
When she had hung up her coat and brushed off her skirt, he was still looking at her. She gave him a half-smile. "Good morning, Your Highness."
For a moment he stared, and she feared she had insulted him somehow—should she have bowed? But then he answered: "Good morning."
His voice was surprisingly deep, gravelly, unused. And somehow this low, rough voice reminded her that he was still a boy. He was a boy, and that day, the sixth of Brome, the month of Melancholy, he had kissed a jade stone in the Temple of Heth Kuidva. A day of wind and reluctance. In parts of the empire the frogs were already going to sleep. His head looked terribly heavy, bowed on his slender neck. A few nights ago, wandering the halls, as she did more and more often these days, the priest's daughter had happened upon the Dedication of Instruments. No, that is false—she had not happened upon it, she had gone there deliberately. Why lie, why now, after all this time? She knew what was happening every day, she had the almanac by heart, she was familiar with the draped galleries above the Hall of a Thousand Tapers. She knew she could hide there unobserved and look down into the hall where the Teldaire sat on a pale blue throne as magnificent as a cake, her black hair shining, her laugh ringing to the ceiling as musicians, seated around her on the floor, presented their instruments. Talk, laughter and fractured notes of music filled the air. The Teldaire inclined her head to each limike and harp. Because she was queen, she was said to have the best ear in the empire. If an instrument pleased her, she blessed it by rubbing a bit of her spittle into the wood.
At her side, standing, the prince. He wore white boots and a beryl-green suit. His bowed shoulders were swathed in a violet cape. His plaited hair sparkled under the lights, studded with chrysolite pins. His face looked devastated. His face was like a wilderness.
Now in the room of the Stone she rose and approached his table. "What have you been working on?"
He spread his papers out and showed her the work. As she looked at the even lines of script she forgot, for a moment, her compassion for his sufferings, for his rigid, barren, and ritualistic life. She forgot that she had intended to speak to him of reading as prayer, of work as sustenance. She had planned to use herself as an example, hoping to break through his reserve. "Sometimes I want to die," she was going to say. But reading his papers her heart thudded. "This is all wrong," she said.
"Wrong?"
"Yes, yes." She shifted the papers, searching them. "This isn't what my father gave you. It's not in the Ancient Tongue."
"No, it's in plain Olondrian."
"But how—he didn't give you this."
"No. I found it myself. On the Stone."
She drew in her breath and let it out slowly. "You're not supposed to do this. You've transcribed an orphan! You were supposed to do what my father asked."
"I did," he said. "I finished it. I didn't have anything to do. I took some impressions—look." He showed her papers covered with pencil rubbings. He had laid the papers against the Stone, collected the markings with this crude method, and then transcribed them in his elegant hand. "On the seventh day of the Month of Mur the Abomination of which we shall speak appeared upon the borders of this our village of Ambrelhu..."
The priest's daughter covered her face. "All this work. I'm so sorry."
"What's an orphan?"
She explained, quoting her father's favorite line.
The prince repeated it with a faint smile. "A curse on these orphans darkening my path."
"So it won't do any good. This work. I'm sorry. It's useless."
The prince was silent for a moment. Then he said: "Look at me."
The priest's daughter looked. In the green radiance of the lamp his face had a mineral sheen. A face like a desert. A smile like a broken mirror. "Do you think," he said stiffly, "that any amount of writing will do me good?"
"I don't know," she heard herself saying. But it was a lie.
Her father's voice reached them from the hall, harsh, disapproving—he must be speaking to the Telkan. Their fathers were coming: one soft as jelly, the other a hard knife. The prince held her eyes, and she wanted to tell him: No. No. She wanted to say: No, this work won't do you any good because in the end you will be claimed by whoever is stronger. My father, your mother, your aunt. The one who wins. And that person will wield you like a scepter to rule the empire. You will appear on feast days, she wanted to tell him, in gold brocade or a black wool robe, but you will appear as a sign of power.
There was no time to say all of this, so she bent down and whispered a single word, the one she did not have the courage to say to herself: "Run."
Perhaps this is why, years later, the prince referred to her as his friend. At any rate, he never returned to the room of the Stone. He began to be seen at parties instead, loud, mocking, careless. He collected a fortune in paintings. He ran off to Bain and explored the Evmeni Quarter. Then he ran farther: to the Lelevai and the army, after receiving a brief letter from his cousin Tavis, who had herself recently escaped to military school. "There's good fun up here," she wrote. The prince stowed away on a merchant ship on the northern sea. When his mother learned of it, she tore down her curtains, screaming.
Ivrom, of course, was furious, humiliated. The trap sprung, the pheasant flown.
His daughter did not run away. She stayed. She stayed to carry on the work of the Stone, to convey her father through the halls in his wheeled chair, to organize his notes. She stayed to listen to him grumbling over his bowl of soup. His monologues grew fiercer when the prince returned to Velvalinhu after years in the military, not to rejoin the work of the Stone but to take up ostentatiously with the High Priestess of Ayalei, whom Ivrom kept virtually a prisoner on the Isle. "I must get him back! I must get him back!" the priest fumed. One night, when he and his daughter had quarreled because he would not permit her to attend a limike concert, she startled him by bursting out as she knelt to build up the fire: "You care more for the prince than you ever did for me."
Sometimes she took out the prince's orphaned text, which she had secreted in her own writing box. His looping handwriting progressed like fine embroidery. She would read his work and think of him bent over the table, trying to put some meaning into a life weighed down by duty. Not everyone reacted that way to the life of the palace; some thrived on it; the Teldaire was one of these. But for the prince Velvalinhu was a place of torture. Suffering throbbed in every line of his cold face flecked with ceremonial silver. She thought she could read this misery even in his handwriting. "We mention in passing that the weather was cruel..." How strange to look at his text again after all these years have passed, now that I know the prince for what he is: a butcher.
On the seventh day of the Month of Mur the Abomination of which we shall speak appeared upon the borders of this our village of Ambrelhu. It was first observed by shepherds and other humble folk, always at night, and was taken for a figment of Dream rather than a deadly actuality. The Monster was blamed for the disappearance of sheep—and this, too, in the minds of the judges and responsible men of Ambrelhu, seemed to support the idea of its being merely a Phantom, devised by the shepherds to excuse what their negligence had brought to pass. It is true that a boy of twelve years was so terrified by the Apparition, that he became nearly demented and had to be carried back to his hut, and that no amount of threats and violence on the part of his uncle could induce him to return to the fields. But this was seen as an isolated incident, and we deemed it best to proceed as usual, issuing no warnings or commands, but continuing quietly to supervise the daily life of this our town, until some event of note should take place.
It is thus that we date the appearance of the Creature from the seventh of Mur, though it had almost certainly arrived before that time. On that day, or rather evening, a certain Meirin of East Ambrelhu was returning from a visit to her father's home in the country. Dai Meirin is an educated woman and a lady's maid in the house of the Honorable Simyas of Ambrelhu, and her employers vouch for her truthfulness, further stating that she is given neither to drunkenness nor to fits. It was after dusk, for Dai Meirin had spent longer than expected at her father's house and was returning later than she had intended. She affirmed in a private interview that she was walking quickly and with her head bent low against the autumn wind. The kerchief with which she had covered her hair came loose, and she stopped to tighten it, setting down for that purpose a basket of foodstuffs which she was bringing from home. It was upon raising her head that she saw, in a stand of trees beside the road, "a boy in torn clothes with horns growing out of his forehead."
Dai Meirin states that the boy was of an astonishing beauty, despite his unnatural pallor and the unruliness of his clothes and his uncut hair. This hair was black and curly, but, though it fell over his brow, it was clearly parted by the marks of pollution. Forsaking her basket, Dai Meirin ran for the village, arriving half dead with terror to receive the kind ministrations of her employers. She glanced behind her only once, to see that the Creature was not pursuing her, but examining the contents of her basket.
Following this incident, steps were taken to preserve the security of the village. Sentries both stationary and ambulatory were posted, and armed escorts were provided for the protection of travelers and all those, such as woodcutters and shepherds, who were required to leave the town. Some days passed without incident, but on the eighteenth of Mur, the Abomination, driven no doubt by hunger to attempt to cross our borders, was surprised in a peasant's pigsty by the owner of the pigs, one Koivan the Juggler, so called by his neighbors for his proficiency in that art. Aroused from sleep by the clamor of his pigs, Koivan, carrying a torch, arrived at the pigsty to find the Creature seizing a suckling. The lusty peasant shouted for assistance while the Creature, perhaps surprised by the strength of the other's voice, fled into the darkness. In so doing, it stumbled over a fence and released the stolen piglet, which was afterward burnt alive in the Temple of Ayalei at Virna. A search was conducted by torchlight, but the Creature was not discovered. It was assumed that it had escaped into the Aravain.
Realizing our peril, we now proposed to destroy the Monster before it was able to cause further harm to our citizens. We mention in passing that the weather was cruel, crows thronged the village in numbers, and many of us had fallen victim to accidents. To rid ourselves of evil, we set iron traps in several barns on the outskirts of the village, leaving these places apparently unguarded, while posting obvious sentries in other locations. The traps were moved every twenty-four hours and regularly anointed with blood and milk by the priestess. But the cunning of the accursed Beast enabled it to avoid these snares—nor did it cease to torment and harass us. It was seen in the very center of the village, by several witnesses, exiting a broken window of the bakery.
On the second day of the Month of Ami we followed a peasant tracker into the Aravain. A recent snowfall assisted the tracker's efforts. Accompanied by dogs, we traced the Creature to its lair, where we discovered the remains of a fire and the carcass of a squirrel. There was also a pile of cloth, roughly in the shape of a swallow's nest, which was found to be composed of garments stolen from the village. The Creature, however, was not there. We divided our party into three and spread out through the precincts of the forest. The Abomination was discovered, pursued, and at last brought to bay in a snowdrift where the valiant Lord Avras shot it in the shoulder. This writer can uphold the testimony of Dai Meirin, that the Creature was young, beautiful, and clad in assorted rags. Bleeding from the shoulder, it uttered the words "I am a Lath" before our courageous villagers brought it down with the blows of their cudgels. Its remains were burnt in the forest, and the village and countryside purified by the priestess. And may Ayalei never fail to protect Her own.
What is the difference between a king and a monster?
A tremor is moving through the palace like an earthquake. A sense of fear. At night, torches waver across the Alabaster Court, but they look lonely now, fugitive, with no spirit of celebration.
Vars brought me a few more bitter olives and, unbelievably, two letters. I explained to him that the letters could not be for me, that I'd never received a letter from anybody in my life, not once. "Nobody knows me as a person," I said.
He smiled, insisting: "Look." He's so worn down with poor diet and worry I thought he might be delirious, but in fact my name was on both letters. "To the Daughter of the Priest of the Stone, Velvalinhu." I stared at the yellow paper. "They came in soon after we took the Isle," said Vars.
"But who can have sent them?" I whispered.
"Why not open them and see?"
I looked up at him, clutching the letters to my chest. He is gaunt and his lips are cracking but still he wore the curious expectant look of a person for whom it is normal to receive letters.
"I can't," I croaked.
"Oh, come!" he said, disappointed. "I thought it would please you."
I sat down slowly, still gripping the letters. "How is the prince?"
"Bad," he replied. He told me the prince had been unconscious for two days. He smiled as he spoke, his face open and almost boyish in its despair.
"I am sorry," I said, and it was true. I was sorry he had carried his passion for the goddess Ayalei up out of the Valley, sorry that he had put that passion into the service of a cruel and mercurial prince who now apparently lay dying. I wondered how long the prince had been ill, how long he had known of this illness. Was it illness that had forced him to seize the throne instead of waiting to inherit it? Was he unable to wait for the Telkan to die a natural death because his own death was slavering at his heels?
If so, then he is not only a parricide. He is not only guilty of hanging my father from a tree. He is guilty of killing Vars and all his companions, of leaving these loyal and eager young men to the mercy of the Duke of Bain. The withdrawn, unhappy boy I knew so briefly is a monster, as surely as if he had horns growing out of his forehead. "Can't you get away?" I asked. It seems I am fated to tell others to escape, to advise everyone to flee.
Vars lifted his chin. "We will defend our prince to the last man."
"Don't be stupid," I said. But before I could argue further, wind rattled the balcony doors, shouts reached us from the courtyard, and I glanced at the window smeared with melting frost. It was then that I saw the ilok.
It rose above the Alabaster Court, huge and clumsy as a vulture, chains swinging from its neck. Its beak shone dull bronze. Its wings, impossibly vast, cast a shadow over the roof on the other side of the court. At first I could only stare and gasp and stutter—for the iloki never leave their garden, they are creatures of ancient history, incarcerated like dusty archives in a library, and no one has ridden one of them since the War of the Tongues, yet this one had a rider—two riders—no, three!
"Look!" I cried at last.
Vars turned. When he saw the creature, he opened the casement and leaned out with such violence I feared he would fall. "Captain!" he shouted. Other shouts rose from other windows and from the court, while the ilok circled, tentative, as if learning to fly.
"Captain! Captain!"
It was hard for me to make out the faces of the riders, but Vars knew them, and when the bird dipped down for a moment, I recognized two of them: Lady Siski of Ashenlo, and, clasped in her arms, secured with ropes, sagging, apparently unconscious, Prince Andasya. The foremost rider, who seemed to be guiding the creature with his knees, I did not recognize, but this was the one Vars addressed as "Captain," and when he cried "Captain Tavis!" I understood that the black-haired rider in the military jacket was the prince's other cousin, Tavis of Ashenlo.
Only she, of the three riders, seemed to hear my companion's cry. She turned her head. Her face was both sorrowful and forbidding. It was clear what was happening: the prince's war was indeed lost, and now the rebellion's leaders were making their escape.
"No!" screamed Vars.
He thrust himself back from the window and ran from the room, not forgetting, even in his panic, to lock the door, good soldier that he was, and he pounded down the hallway and then the stairs, those shallow stairs of Velvalinhu that resemble floodwaters and take forever to get down, and he had to go through several gardens, at least it was faster that way, though he may not have known that, he may have stayed inside the walls, in which case he would have had to go up stairs as well as down, and through several empty galleries and pointless antechambers until he spilled out at last, lungs aching, into the Alabaster Court—and there, I could see him from my window, a small figure among the others who were clutching their hair and wailing as if at the greatest of disasters, but the ilok had already flown, it had winged away eastward over the sea and Vars was left spinning in circles, as if at the foot of a cataract.
|
[ For in a field you have found a hidden treasure. ]
What is the difference between a king and a monster?
It was the Feast of Lamps and the towers of Velvalinhu blazed like torches, prefiguring the fire that would rage through them in the coming days and turn the bright halls to a wilderness of ash. The Tower of Mirrors was particularly splendid, strung with lights, colored light spilled over the balconies of the ballroom, and sometimes, from across the Alabaster Court, you could see (if you were a lonely young woman sewing) a lady in brilliant clothing smoking a pipe. Everywhere, on every available body of water (in some places they broke the ice to reach it), Olondrians were setting little boats afloat, each loaded with a tiny lamp or candle and a twist of shiny paper on which was written a name and a message for the dead. We miss you. Rest easy, the horses have not been sold. My nurse gave me these examples, for the followers of the Stone do not participate in this ritual, and I never sent my mother a little lamp. "Never?" asked my nurse. "Never," I replied. She was a kind woman, and shrewd, whatever my father thought. She knew how to arrange her face to hide her feelings, how to change the subject, to spare me the knowledge of how small and sad a life I lived. How often I must have been protected by her bland, circumspect face, which my father said resembled a boiled potato...
Write it. Write.
The ships came into the Inner Harbor, floating fountains of light. The prince made no attempt at stealth: that was the trick. He arrived as if on parade, in the sort of ostentatious gesture one expects from a merry, sportive, and profligate prince. To run away to the army, to come home again for nearly two years, enough time to lull everyone into thinking his restless spirit had been tamed, to run away again, and then, on the Feast of Lamps, to arrive with an army of revelers—what roguery, what a prank! I am told they cheered when he entered the ballroom: those fools who would soon be led away in chains. Some of his cousins began a chorus of "Gallop, my little black mare." His mother was so overcome with joy she leaned on the wall for support, and her beauty turned blue, as if it had been preserved in brine.
Then misery came; then joy was turned to dread. "Kneel!" cried the prince, and "Kneel! Kneel!" echoed the jostling crowd of his followers, and the dancers knelt, laughing, still thinking everything was a joke, save Baron Fidrin of the Isle of the Poet's Daughters. An elderly man with aching joints, he leaned on the wall, irritated, lips pursed, the Order of the Lamp shining on his chest. And then someone (perhaps Vars, who knows) struck him across the shoulders with the flat of a blade. The old man crumpled, groaning.
An instant of silence. The flutes and guitars of the orchestra dying out.
From music to silence, and from light to darkness.
"Ha!" cried the prince, swelling with exultation, his cheeks as red as his military sash. And he drew his sword and ran around the edge of the ballroom, leaping and striking at the lamps, putting them out one by one—crash! crash!—while the revelers cried out in terror. He could not, of course, reach the great chandeliers that hung from the domed ceiling; these dispensed a dim, uncertain, gold-tinged light, which glinted on the drawn swords of the rebels and on the prince's hair, which glittered with powdered glass as if with frost.
The scene swirls before me like a ruined watercolor, everything blending. These hints I managed to gain from Redis, before she left the Isle. I lay facedown on the tiles and she whispered to me under the door while my father hissed at me impatiently from his chair.
"What is she saying?"
"Shh!"
"And they've taken the nobles and locked them up," Redis murmured hurriedly, "and nobody's tried to do a thing about it, because all the palace sentries and everyone, everyone's glad to see Ayalei restored, there's celebrations everywhere, bonfires and noisy dances, and the High Priest and Priestess of Ayalei go about like a king and queen, showered with rose petals, it's disgusting, they go out on pleasure boats and hunts, they're quite happy to see Velvalinhu burn to the ground around our ears! Whole sections of the Tower of Aloes are gone, and the library—"
"Don't," I whispered. "What of the Telkan?"
"Locked away, like the others! And rumor says he'll be executed."
"The prince wouldn't kill his own father."
"Wouldn't he?"
"What does she say?" my father snapped.
"Nothing, Father. Redis—have you heard anything about us?"
"No," she whispered. "But everyone with a robe has taken it off. Naris of Ethendria stripped it off as soon as they came to her in her room. Yanked it over her head and stood before them in her shift. At her age. They let her put on a coat, then they took her away in chains. It's dangerous for you... dangerous, I tell you... I've brought some things for you and your father, clothes—"
"No use," I told her, "the door's locked." (And even if it had not been locked, I knew my father would never give up his robe, and I—I've never worn anything but black wool in my life.)
"Be cautious, then," said Redis. "Don't say anything to anger the prince, tell the priest not to shout at him! He's drawn tight as a bow, everyone says; sometimes he seems delirious; he is as strange a lord as anyone has seen since Wuol dined on his enemies' eyeballs! He went through the Gallery of the Princes and tore down all the portraits that looked like him, and set them on fire in the Garden of Sated Ambition; and the other night, when it rained so hard, some of his men found him lying at the feet of a stone angel near that hill called the Girdle of Ayalei. An evil place, and he is an evil prince, in an evil mood! And Lady Tavis, his cousin—the military captain—she terrifies everyone! A face like the bars of a jail! They say the two of them are planning all sorts of horrors... they might set the dungeons on fire, or throw people into the sea..."
"She cannot be saying 'nothing' all this time!" my father interrupted.
Redis was babbling still, and I stopped her. I told her she must find a way to leave the Isle. No one knew her for a follower of the Stone; she must go away at once, to Bain, to safety, to another life.
"Tell your father I'm sorry," she sobbed. Then, with a small rustling noise and a flicker of shadow under the door, she was gone.
I sat up, resting on my knees.
"Well?" my father said testily.
The light from the window. The curve of his brow. His hands.
In the War of the Tongues, the war that established for all time (or so we have always been taught) the superiority and centrality of the Olondrian language, King Thul sacrificed his daughter Solin. He bound her hands behind her back and hurled her from a window in the Tower of Pomegranates. A direct plunge into the placid waters of the Outer Harbor. In the Vanathul, Ravhathos creates a touching scene from this historical fragment. The girl begs her father to leave her hands free. "No," he answers, weeping, "for I would have thee suffer little and die swift."
Alas for the king. Alas.
No one knows what Solin thought, or what she said. We only know that her death was a step on the road to victory. A victory that seems less and less certain now, as I sit alone, drinking my water sparingly, nibbling at the last of the dried fruit. I light no lamps, hoping the rebels will forget me, as they roar through the night, smashing vases and furniture in their despair. The moon gleams between the towers and I long for the Stone, its solidity, its dark weight, the solemn cadence of its words. For you are following a thread. For you are cloaked in dawn. For in a field you have found a hidden treasure. It occurs to me that perhaps we did not understand its message, that this message may have been concealed in plain view. Why so many languages? Different tongues, different scripts, some of them dead. The hours we spent poring over dictionaries and grammars. We thought the message of the Stone, arriving in such a spectacular form, would unite us. But perhaps its true message was one of disintegration... Or perhaps it spoke a message of unity we could not understand, one that did not unfold in language as my father thought, but rather in the way the lines crossed over one another, cutting across each other, one word into the next. If the message is not in the words but in the cutting. How flint etches stone, how diamond enters. How flesh intersects with flesh. Newer languages digging themselves into old ones, accounts of vampires into the meditations of some nameless saint. How we are written into one another. How this is history. Then the meaning of a line like "Sever all ties" is not in the words themselves, but in their entanglement with the words written underneath them: "For in a field you have found a hidden treasure."
Alas for Solin, drowned in the waters of the Sea of Songs. Alas for me, that at my age I still weep when I think of my father's words. A painful act, but honorable. And he won the war. Useless to record this for posterity; he probably forgot about it himself. I'm cold, and I can't remember what I meant to write. Writing is power, he said. Standing over me in the bare room at the center of our apartment. His robe in the corner of my eye. Always in the corner. And his silence. And his breath, tight, irritated, impatient. I risked a glance up at his face; he was staring out of the window. So much distance. But I'm your child. I'm your child. Fanlewas informs us that the Ideiri believed the Sea Goddess rescued Solin. For them, the dead girl was a minor hearth goddess. Her symbol a chain.
And as for the priest's daughter: she was a bird that flew into a window by mistake, a ragged creature among the fine ladies of Velvalinhu, ignorant as an owl, she knew nothing, no one had taught her, she had only her peasant nurse and of course her dour inflexible father, and she was stunted somehow, stunted and odd, very odd indeed it was whispered, able to converse fluently about anything that had been written in a book, but completely lost when it came to ordinary daily activities like plucking one's eyebrows or even riding a horse. She only left the Isle once in her life: she went to her maternal grandfather's funeral somewhere in the Valley with none but her nurse for company, and she ought to have been thrilled at the adventure but instead she cried every day, because birds that are raised indoors lose their tolerance for the sky. The girl had lost her tolerance for the hugeness of the world, or rather she had never developed it at all, and she cried at the horses and cried at the cities and cried at the strange beds and cried at the fields and cried at the people, her relatives, who tried to make her stop crying. She said she would never leave the Isle again, and she never did. But you must not entertain the idea that she was innocent as well as naïve. No, she was crafty, in fact a thief, and she stole her father's papers and rifled through them when he was working or at a council with the Telkan. And between these thefts and the almanac under her mattess she knew a great deal about the palace even if she could not select a good bottle of wine or tie a sash: she knew that there was a patterned silk called "twilight" that sold for seventeen droi a span, but that a friend of the queen's had managed to get some for fifteen, and she knew that Evmeni pearls are far superior to the ones brought up around Bain, which are only pitiful little bits of greenish marble, and she knew how very boring Lord Fenya was when he got to talking about rare porcelain, and that Lady Tavis of Ashenlo had run off to join the army, making it impossible for her to be received in decent society ever again, and that this was a shame because she might have made a good marriage. For even though Lady Tavis was very clumsy and her mother let her go about in horrid Kestenyi getups that made her look like a trained bear in clothes, she had the Faluidhen coloring, all of the women of Faluidhen have it, that dazzling dark skin that makes them glow like lamps in the middle of the day, and Lady Siski had it too, and was the only hope of the family now, and the queen was introducing her to one bachelor after another, because she must do something, her sister Lady Firheia was so hopeless, such a peasant really, years of life in the highlands had coarsened her, in fact she had begun to smell distinctly of animals and coffee, and Siski must be spared that awful fate, and the sooner the better, she was not getting any younger, though she was admittedly a vision when she arrived at the Isle in her gorse-yellow traveling suit.
The priest's daughter read about the life that was going on in the palace. She drew pictures under the beam of her single candle, pictures of ladies and gentlemen walking and dancing and sitting down to meals at elegant tables. She knew all the styles of dress, how bodices changed from year to year, the fashions of hairpins, and whether the gentlemen were wearing their hair short or long, and sometimes she drew herself in the midst of the dancers, in a light carmine frock with a necklace of tourmalines and Evmeni pearls. She read the geographers, Elathuid the Voyager, Firdred of Bain, and she drew herself aboard ships, in hotels, in tents, on the pinnacles of mountains, and then sometimes in cities, in little parlors, among cousins, in the garden of an aunt who passed her an ice decorated with pink dust. She had to imagine the colors, as she possessed only charcoal. She drew in a frenzy of self-loathing and a sick, irresistible craving. Sometimes she made herself eat the charcoal as a sort of penance and vomited ecstatically over the balcony.
At dawn the sky was so clear and almost green. And she felt bright and light. She always burned the drawings before she left her room.
How quickly the feeling dissipated. As she walked to the room of the Stone her bones seemed to sigh. You will sever all ties and pass from your bondage into light. She repeated these words to herself. She repeated: Yours is a negative kingdom. She felt herself becoming stranger, her loneliness irrevocable. But she never tried to go anywhere else, she never tried to change anything, she only committed one grand act of betrayal, when she helped a little foreigner, an enemy of her father's, escape the Isle, so that he could deliver her letters to Lunre. Once again she told someone: "Run." And now alone in her room she wonders if she is somehow responsible for the howls and crashes outside, if by telling the prince to run away, and later by setting that foreigner free to aid the prince's design, she woke this dragon, this new war, its wings blazing, and she wants to run outside, as she did just once when a man named Vars was her captor, pelting down the abandoned hallway only to be caught and brought back in minutes, because Vars had told her her father was dead, hanged by the prince from a tree in the Garden of Quinces, and she wanted to see his body.
(And how he would have hated the Garden of Quinces—the fussy little benches, the anemic statues, the carefully cultivated moss to make the rocks look "natural." It was raining, but not hard enough to douse the fires. One could hardly breathe for the smoke. The prince—broader now in the shoulders, and taller—was grimy with soot. He was shouting something, jabbering about the Stone, about how it was an abomination, he was condemning the Stone worshipers as foul heretics, as mockers of Holy Ayalei, and the people around him were cheering, all of them rough and muddy and smoke-smudged in the rain. And look, there, between the walls: a wash of vivid color, a perfect pink. My peppercorn tree! the priest thought, smiling. In his radiant solitude he did not recognize the fire. I think he did not recognize the fire. I think he went easily to the noose, slipping earthward like a leaf, and gave the prince one stern, cold look before he died. I think he died so quietly that the crowd was awed for a moment and fell silent, and the prince himself quaked with fear. I think he did. No, I think my father begged for mercy. I think they dragged him from his chair and made him crawl to the foot of the tree. I think he loosed his bowels and his murderers laughed. I think he thought of me and feared for me and thanked the Nameless Gods that I was not there. I think he cursed and threatened them, he swore the gods would smite them. I think his bones were so light he took a long time to die. I think he is still hanging there. I think they cut him down. Let me go, I begged Vars. Let me see him. Let me go.)
Geography.
Nothing distant, not the grottoes of Ethendria or the blue paradise of gentian-covered hills, but a tree-lined street in the harbor district of Bain. Discreet, yet determined, I shadow the steps of a young priest of Heth Kuidva who walks with his wife on his arm. He wears the gray robe of his order, tied with a belt of braided leather instead of the keilon—an off-duty priest, a priest on holiday. And there is a holiday air to the crimson cap, decorated with faience beads, that sits jauntily atop his wife's brown hair. It has rained recently; a watery sun peers hesitantly through the catalpas, and the priest tugs his wife's arm to keep her from walking directly under the branches, because drops of water are shining on them and sometimes falling off, and it would not do for her to get wet in her condition. Sometimes, in his efforts to maneuver her around café tables and people rushing in the opposite direction (in Bain people always rush, they never just walk, something the couple has discussed many times), he pulls her sideways so unexpectedly that she stumbles, and he gives her a glance of wide-eyed alarm, for it is well known that the ankles of pregnant women are exceedingly unsound. And Tenais, who is not at all vain (he was drawn to her, when he saw her serving a meal to the poor at the temple, by her uneven dress, one sleeve rolled up, one down), nevertheless insisted on wearing for this outing to the harbor a pair of Dueman shoes with scarlet heels. Her swollen feet are obviously suffering in these shoes, but she smiles at her husband and gives his arm a reassuring squeeze. Still, he is annoyed at her choice of footwear, which is keeping him from enjoying their walk... at the corner, he will refuse to buy her an ice...
Lies. The truth is, Bain is on fire. The spice markets have gone up in a plume of incense. The trees crackle in the heat.
The truth is, I don't know if my parents ever went on an outing to the harbor. I have had to imagine everything of importance: the coal cellar and the stolen nuts, the horns of the Telkan's riding party, and yes, even the iconic, the inimitable pink peppercorn tree. I have breathed on shadows, as one breathes into a soap bubble, to give it breadth and life. I did it because I had to, because human beings cannot live without history, and I have no history or tradition that is not located in a pale, aggressive body lying in the dirt, or hanging from a tree. How cruel it is to live in a community of two. I used to crouch on the floor, with my bedroom door open a crack so that I could peer out, and watch the lamplight on his motionless shoulders as he read, just to feel that another person was alive. I stole his papers in order to feel that I was not alone. I went through his cabinet. (I found nothing there but pencils, lamp oil, and thread.) I read all his books and tried, in my clumsy way, to debate them with him. What is the difference between a genius and a monster?
The truth is I know nothing. Perhaps he led a completely different life. Perhaps there was even a secret lover (Redis? I ask myself). Our relationship was so distant, barely perceptible except when we were jolted into intimacy by a quarrel or an illness. His tenderness over my toothache, astonishing. He brought me a glass of almond milk. How I struggled not to cry. And when he approved of my translations he'd raise his eyebrows: "Well!" My happiest moments were those in which he was talking to me.
If Ura, the Bloody Imp, was right, and suffering causes lumps to form in the heart, then surely suffering is the geography of the body. I have tried to reconstruct the inner geography of a visionary by imagining how those lumps, those hills, were raised. Dear gods, the powers of children are terrible! A child can conjure a universe from the feel of a worn glove. A child like the one I was, given only a hand-mirror and a cold figure in a black robe, will make a family saga: Ivrom and Tenais.
Such delicate history. Blow on it and it flies away like soot.
It is the second day of Avere, the Month of Rain. On this day, in an earlier time, the Telkan's beard was scented and dyed blue for his meeting with the Master of the Galleries. The Teldaire inspected her ladies-in-waiting, who were expected to exhibit immaculate stockings. The heels were examined with particular care. A dirty or threadbare heel sentenced its wearer to two years in the kitchens. But this is not that story anymore.
This is no story I have ever read. On the paper before me, in turquoise ink:
Dear Tialon, I suspect you have never heard my name: Lerel of Bain. I am your father's cousin. My mother—Fadroe of Bain, dead now twenty years—was your father's aunt, and used to host him here at our house when he was a boy. I make a point of writing to your father, and to you, every year on the Feast of Lamps, when, as the poet says, all debts are forgiven. I am sorry to say I have never received a reply—though you must know this. I write again now in the hope of receiving some news of you and your father. We are all concerned for your safety—dreadful rumors come from the Isle, and here in the capital there have been attacks on your father's followers. I might as well tell you that we are all old-fashioned devotees of Ayalei here, but even Fanlewas admitted that blood flows farther than language! If you would allow us to receive you, we should be honored! I have always felt it was wrong for us to be so estranged, not to know each other at all. Your mother's family, too, wishes to reach you. I am sending their letter with mine. Like me, they write to you every year...
In the second letter:
Dear Tialon, This is your cousin Bron of Kasanhu I am of the Tetherin branch of the family. Your mother and mine are cousins. Forgive me if I do not write well we are not very lettered here certainly not like your mother's branch in Bain. But perhaps you will remember me from the funeral of your grandfather. I took you into the barn to look at the cows. I am writing now to say if you wish to stay with us we will have you. I think you cannot stay on the Isle anymore...
To think that my father kept such letters from reaching me. For years.
For in a field you have found a hidden treasure.
I searched his papers so often, yet I never found letters like these. He must have requested that they be destroyed on arrival. Such cruel, absolute integrity. He would not read a word. He would not even poison his mind with the address above the seal. And his daughter was in her bedroom drawing pictures of herself at tables, in carriages, in cozy rooms, in the garden of an aunt. And she would have given anything for such a letter. She would have raised the paper to her face, as she does now, and breathed in its fugitive scent.
The light is fading. I must work quickly. I crawl around the floor like a child at a game, cutting a sheet to make a skirt. It is white, and I have only black thread. I will look terribly strange, like some deranged ragpicker, but at least it is appropriate for me to put on mourning. I'll stitch the white skirt over my black and transform myself from a Stone worshiper into—what? The thought of it makes me wheeze with laughter. I bite my lip to stop the sound, it doesn't seem right, not now when I am surrounded by dangers. Wind shakes the windowpanes; somewhere it's whipping the sea. Perhaps I won't be able to find a boat. Perhaps I'll run into the duke's warships and be struck with a flaming arrow. The towers are all aflame and I, I skim the air between them, defiant in my feathers of burnt lace. In the Seventy-Fifth Elegy, Fanleshama's owl remains loyal to Velvalinhu, it refuses to leave the place where its life is turning to ashes, but I will not, I am making myself the costume of a humbler, shrewder creature, a piebald crow. At last I am telling myself to run.
From Our Common History
In the Valley, the peasant revolt is crushed by noblemen on horseback. And Veda of Bain, who never wished to lead, who already seemed an old bachelor at the age of thirty, when the death of his uncle made him Duke of Bain—Veda retakes the Isle. By the time he has regained control of the capital, organized a sea-going force, and traveled to Velvalinhu, the usurping prince is nowhere to be found. The tatters of the rebel army shiver among the palisades. The sea glints like the flat of a sword.
The rebels surrender. Deprived of their leaders, Lady Tavis and Prince Andasya, they shed their plumage of weapons like birds in molt. They are boys, just boys, some from the Valley, others from Kestenya, all of them dazed as if torn out of a dream. The duke speaks with the Kestenyis in their own language. "Spare us, sud," they say. The duke's heart swells. All its fences are broken. He remembers riding with boys like these in the hills around Ashenlo: perhaps the fathers of these very boys, these "rebels."
The boys from the Valley kneel and press their foreheads to the ground. "Rise," he says. They tell him they did everything for Ayalei. "Well," he tells them, "congratulate yourselves. Olondria belongs to the goddess again. The Cult of the Stone is dead."
Dead. Like its priest, slain by the rebels. Like the duke's brother, Ahadrom II, who hanged himself in the Tower of Lapis Lazuli. "We didn't know what to do," says Vars, a hollow-eyed youth whom the others regard as their leader. "We just cut him down and buried him in the park."
Oh, Andasya, thinks the duke. You have killed your father.
To Vars he says: "Where is the prince?"
"Gone," the man answers. His eyes so bleak. A sob caught in his throat. "They... flew."
"What?"
"They flew on an ilok. They're gone..."
"An ilok?"
The duke stands stunned. It's like something out of a legend: a saddlebird. Legendary, not because it no longer exists, but because its ancient role has been forgotten for so long it has come to seem preposterous, impossible. He remembers, of course, peering into the bird garden on childhood visits to the Isle, nose buried in the crook of his arm against the stench. Irilas threatened to throw him down there once. "They'd gut you like a hare." He remembers their scaly necks, rubbed raw by the chains.
They flew away eastward, the rebels say. "Over there." Waving exhausted hands toward the Tower of Aloes. Beyond that looms the Tower of Pomegranates, where the Teldaire stays in her rooms, as if her son still kept her a prisoner; and beyond that lies the sea. "We must search for Andasya and Tavis," says the duke's cousin Hinro, incensed (but clean, at least; one of the unlucky ones, he spent a month in the dungeons, and emerged, as he said himself, stewed in his reek like a pheasant in jelly), "and when we find them, they must be publicly hanged."
The duke smiles.
"We must make an example of all these rebels," Hinro insists.
But the duke has already begun to let them go. Those who wish to leave—mostly Kestenyi boys—are setting out on the remaining ships and barges, prows turned eastward. Others stay, and he is grateful: he needs them for the rebuilding effort. He needs carpenters and stonemasons, especially for the ruined libraries. He needs scribes to mend whatever can be salvaged from the wreck. He needs gardeners, blacksmiths, glaziers. He needs nurses.
Peace on the Isle. Peace under Veda of Bain. There is a general cry: Veda for our king!
The duke writes to his brother Irilas in his sprawling hand (he has never been good at letters): "For the love of life I did not even want to be duke but if it means a lasting peace of course I am willing and then I'm a better choice than Hinro with his gambling what do you think?"
A woman is brought to see him: the dead priest's daughter. Tall, with a face like beaten bronze. His men apprehended her near the Outer Harbor. She carries only a writing box and umbrella, and wears an ash-streaked cloak and a wrinkled, dull white skirt. Her face is pinched with hunger and something else—excitement or terror. He expects her to ask him for the Stone, and prepares himself to tell her regretfully that she cannot have it, that it has been placed in the shrine called the Girdle of Ayalei, deep inside a hill at the edge of the Telkan's deer park. But she does not ask for the Stone. She asks only for passage to Bain. "Of course," he says, surprised. She seems to care nothing for her father's legacy. His assent to her request goes through her like lightning—when he gives her a letter of passage, she seizes it and rushes from the room, her umbrella clacking.
She is right, he thinks, to distance herself from her father's cult. For a true Stone worshiper, Olondria has little to offer. Peace has come to the cities and the libraries no longer burn, but the Valley remains in the grip of a frenzied love for the goddess. Caramel pigs and ostentatious charm jewelry everywhere. People are calling the revolt "Ayalei's Revenge." They say the Priest of the Stone called down her wrath. A popular song describes, in gruesome detail, his torments in the afterlife.
Others say the goddess was never threatened by the old raven. They say it is Olondria's destiny to be shattered. Kestenya broken off now, floating, lost. They say: "Remember the War of the Tongues." They call Andasya "the Dreved Prince."
Alone in the room he has commandeered—formerly a scribe's office—Veda puts his head down on the desk. Why could you not wait? he asks in his mind. Dasya, why could you not wait? Where are you? Where are the girls?
He closes his eyes. He'll rest them for just a moment, he assures himself. He is instantly asleep.
When he wakes, he will have to read reports from Nain, where scattered fighting continues between the loyalists and the few but passionate Nainish separatists. He will have to pay his respects to the queen in the Tower of Pomegranates, where she will stare at him unseeing, the line between her lips dark with milim. For now, he dreams of Kestenya. He is riding in the mountains through clear air, and his heart is light, so light. Then he sees a wagon full of children teetering on a cliff. He rushes to save them. He will be too late.
And far away, to the north and east, where winter clings to the air, a vast shape descends toward the roof of a ruined temple. It lands hard, talons in snow. Two figures slip and fall from its back. One staggers to its feet. The other lies still.
A third figure slides down from the creature's back, more expertly, never letting go of the chain on its long curved neck, and loops the chain around a fallen statue. The great bird shakes itself, then lets loose a deep, mournful, piercing cry.
Both of the standing figures cringe at the sound of that harsh lament. They face one another in the low radiance of an early winter dusk. It is clear that they are siblings: the same emphatic brows, the same skin. Sisters, in another life. Siski and Tav.
One moment. A sob. And Siski throws herself into her sister's arms.
"Hush, hush," says Tav, stroking Siski's hair. "Hush, you'll be all right here. Nobody lives here now. Listen, hush, you'll like this: this is where I went to school."
Siski pulls back, startled. "Here?"
Tav nods.
"But that's awful!" Siski cries, looking about the broad roof in dismay. In places, cracks show under a coating of snow.
"I know," says Tav. And suddenly they are laughing, with a rare and intimate abandon. They laugh the way siblings laugh, or people who have been friends since childhood. "Dear," Tav says to Siski in Kestenyi. Murye. She calls her sister her lamp and her little foal. "You won't come with me?"
"No," says Siski. "No. We'll stay here. This is perfect."
They both look down at their cousin, who lies unconscious. His face so pale.
"I'll take care of him," says Siski. "I know how."
Tav presses her lips together and nods briefly. "We'd better get him inside. I'll help you before I go. And you've got to have some sort of fire."
Her sudden withdrawal, her curtness, is born of grief, Siski knows. She does not argue. How wonderful to exist in such effortless harmony. Taking their cousin down into the temple, arranging him on a couch, breaking apart a closet door to use as kindling. Why now? Why so late? Why in such terrible circumstances? It's as if they've never quarreled in their lives. When they have finished, Siski accompanies her sister back up to the roof, where the ilok turns its head toward them with a moan.
"Look at it," Siski says, shivering. "It's like we're living the Vanathul. Riding the 'winter beast.' You remember that?"
Tav nods. The moon has risen; its light gilds her face. "I'll tell you the truth. I never thought I'd ride it at all."
She keeps her eyes on the ilok as she speaks. "I wasn't planning to ride it, at first. I simply climbed down there to die. Into the saddlebirds' garden. I thought they'd kill me. It seemed a fitting death. But they didn't. And this one came and rubbed her head against my hand."
She sighs. "Dramatic. Death by saddlebird."
For a moment they both stand looking at the creature. Then Siski says softly: "But now you don't want to die."
"No. I probably never did. It just seemed—it all seemed impossible. The war had failed so badly in Bain, and in the Valley. And Dasya... well, I couldn't see how to go on." Tav shrugs. "It was stupid. You could say this ilok gave me my life, but you can't really say I deserve it."
"That's not true," says Siski. "You're the best of us."
She squeezes Tav's gloved hand. Tight, as if she will never let it go.
The time will come for farewells and for the last tears. The time will come for Tav to speak of her lover, a woman of the feredhai, and for Siski to listen. If only the rain would stop, goes the old song, we might speak of these things. They will have that good fortune: a moment of air and of speech. Too brief, too brief. It is already so cold, and it will be colder in the sky. For now they stand on the rooftop, silent, holding hands. In the deep chill, they can hardly smell the ilok's stench of decay. They stand. Hearts in unison. Breath lit by the moon.
|
[ The History of Music ]
Coming down hard like rain.
You, riding over the fold of the mountain. Coming down hard like rain.
You, riding over.
You, coming down hard.
Coming down hard like rain.
This is the book of song, which means the book of laughter. In Kestenyi, song, yai, is related to laughter, kyai, which is related to the Olondrian ke. Your limike: "doves' laughter." I say "your," I say it without meaning to hurt you.
In Kestenyi, for book, we say Bain. As we do for everything that comes to us from the west, north, or south. Only that which comes from the east is ours: dragons, iloki, rumors, cruel winds, snow. So, the book of song, that is the Bain, the city of laughter.
Laughing city. Capital of the world.
But in the che we have another word for book. We call it hawan, lamentation. I don't know why. Perhaps long ago a woman saw someone weeping over a book. Or perhaps it's because we call every long poem hawan. Our many hawayn, histories of death and mourning. We, we women, we sing them, but we don't compose them. It is said that we don't compose them. We are always too late for the battle, we come behind it, we compose little songs, yaili, we don't have time.
So: the book of song. The hawan of kyai, the lamentation of laughter.
Che, women's language, is also related to kyai.
The mourning of laughter, the sob of mirth, the tears of joy, are you finished yet, have you got it all?
How slow you are! How slow!
No. Don't stop.
Look at old Shernai! She pretends to spin, but she's really watching us. Clicking and chewing her lip. She doesn't like to see you writing, Tav, she's superstitious, she thinks it's like making the bone map, a dangerous kind of magic. I don't believe that. I don't think writing is sorcery, something forbidden. I think it's more like a comb, it separates your hair more easily than you could with your fingers. It's like riding a horse to go somewhere instead of walking. You go to the same place, but you can carry more. I think writing is a horse.
Or it might be a knife. An axe.
In the days of the sovoi, they used to stop us with paper. Look, you can't go here, look, it's written. No grazing here. No water. There was writing around the wells. They'd ask for our papers, their eyes innocent, their mouths holding cruel laughter. Why, if you have papers, show them, it will be our mistake then, we'll beg your pardon! And we'd pack up and go, the children crying with disappointment. Little black marks, little red marks on a page you could chew up and swallow, and they were stronger than us.
That's why Shernai curses over her spindle.
You will have noticed that all the great songs are sad. "When Tir rode out from Eilam's halls, he rode to sorrow, oh my brothers!" "Ah, would that I had died before my Sarya, for my life now is a broken desert and a plain of stones." When I was small, when I was learning music, I didn't notice this, I simply sang, it didn't occur to me that there could be happy songs. Not real songs, I mean, not the great ones. Of course there are little ones, songs for dancing. But the great hawayn are inseparable from grief. Fathers and brothers fallen, horses slain, bereft women everywhere. Ruined country. Whole lineages snuffed out: this is the greatest horror. The dream of hawayn is one in which the world contracts in violence. Everyone dies, their blood flies away like scarlet crows.
When Tir rode out from Eilam's halls, he rode to sorrow, oh my brothers, oh!
And he was like a reed, and like a field in bloom,
And he was like the moon reflected in a still lake.
Now the horses have gone to drink, the horses have muddied the water,
The moon lies broken, oh bones of Tir on the high crags!
Oh bones of Tir that once, still well-knit, leapt under flesh,
Struck fire from his enemies' bodies, fire from the jaw of Kavinduor.
Kavinduor, slack-jaw, may your lips never meet!
May you speak with toil and eat with agony,
May the Long Pain sit with you at table, sleep in your bed,
May women turn from you and children flee,
May you curse your own name morning and evening,
May you eat pap like a toothless child!
And when you see us, cry: "Ah, my deliverers!"
We will deliver you, Kavinduor and the sons of Kavinduor!
We will deliver you, sons and brothers,
Male kin as far as the necklace can be reckoned,
Even as far as the smallest bead!
For Tir, Tir, Tir on the mountain, Tir who knelt that night and prayed,
Moon, fill my life with honor as a cup with wine.
Then he turned to Haskon his companion, he of the shattered wrist.
Tomorrow, friend, we nail our stirrups to our boots...
Such praise songs. A delirium of honor. When I was younger, I liked nothing better than listening to the hawayn. Music makes men immortal. Listening, I saw Tir again, alive, his silver body, and I saw him broken to pieces on the crags. Music so potent you could swoon. A sort of communal fever. People cried out, they sobbed for a man who died a hundred years ago. And music keeps anger sharp: that's why in the che we call the guitar sevret, a whetstone. Music keeps everything alive.
That passion for hawayn—I think that's why, years later, I fell in love with a soldier.
Your shoulders and your swinging walk.
That mark on your face. Not a physical scar but a shade of expression, a cast. The look that said: I have killed and will kill again.
A fierce look, I thought then. Now I think: broken. I think: lost.
And Shernai talks to herself over her spindle. An old woman, she has earned the right. Her hands are stiff, but expert. Her thread seems endless. Brightness called out of the air.
The men are going to war and the women are spinning. The women are spinning and the men are going to war. The men are going to war for the women. The women are singing the men to war. The men's hearts grow hot and sharp as blades from the singing of the women. The women are memory. They are the memory of men, of those who have died. The men sing of the fallen and the women keep their songs and memories alive. The women spin threads that never break. The women are spinning shrouds. All the men and women are singing themselves to death.
You had crossed over. Everyone admired this. The men, who had nothing to lose, admired it easily, almost without effort. For them, it was enough that you rode, hunted, ate raw liver, survived cruel wounds, that you were a veteran of war. It was enough that you were silent and never complained, that you didn't speak the che. And of course you were an outsider, no wife or daughter of theirs. For the women, it was more difficult, but they, too, admired you—I know you don't believe it, but they did. They do. Envy is a kind of admiration. Sneers are so often the product of longing. Many women would like to do as you do. Some have begun, in the aftermath of war. They wear their hair loose. They would like to dress like men, to kill like men. To kill.
You say: "No more killing. No more." But you are still a hunter. You bring me the body of a shambus bound to your saddle. Blood for soup, meat grilled over the fire, the pelt for slippers, you joke, to keep my feet from freezing in the cold. This smooth pelt, now, in summer. Tav, I will make you a new vest. I will make you gloves of the shambus you killed for me. "For us," you say. Before you struck it dead, you begged the creature's forgiveness. Something you have never done for men.
At night you whisper: "I wasn't sure I'd killed him. I wasn't sure he was dead..."
Fear.
You are afraid of the Brogyars rising from the snow.
You are afraid of the dead in the Valley. The ones who died in the war, your war, the fire that freed Kestenya from the empire. When you entered that war, you believed it would be clean. One swift stroke, a final blow for honor, a farewell to the sword. But the dead in the Valley cling to you, breathing smoke. What you are learning now is not clean war. It is the absence of war.
What you are trying to learn. "No more," you say. And the dead cling. And your hand remembers the sword, its friend. So true. So sweet.
We need new songs, I think.
Tav, I will make you a new vest. Tav, I will bring you nalua flowers, dark as your hair.
Look, there's Kaili, laying out feathers to dry. Gray ones, plucked from a Nainish goose: a traveler, like you. Kaili is twelve years old now. Twelve years old. She'll use the feathers to fringe a shawl. She murmurs to herself, intent.
Tav, I will bring you flowers dark as cloud, dark as your hair, your hair is cloud. My hands are flowers in your hair. Tav, your hair in wind. You, riding over the fold of the mountain, such wild hair we thought you were a boy. You and Fadhian riding over the mountain that first time and into camp. And everyone thought you were a boy. Who is this slight Olondrian boy with hair blown in the wind, ragged in wind? And in every way we were wrong. Wrong about you, the stern boy slipping lightly off his horse, my stern Tav, your shoulders and your swinging walk. Not Olondrian, Fadhian told us, holding in his smile, and not a boy. Lady Tavis of Ashenlo.
You, riding over the fold of the mountain.
And Fadhian gone now. Gone. Dead in your war. Can I say these things together in this way? You riding over the fold of the mountain and flowers for your hair and Fadhian dead. Can I say it? Can you write it?
Yes, you will write it with your rough hand. Your passion now for letters. Something new.
That dark night I told you of Fadhian's death. After you had come back, so strangely, riding on a bird, an ilok, landing hard beside the camp like rain. Like rain, and that death smell. Everyone came to welcome you. By the fire they gave you meat, stedleihe, tea. "Fadhian," you said. Then they avoided your eyes—all except me. You gazed at me, stricken. "Dead," I said.
He fell in the Battle of Bron. The one that gained us all the land between the Tavroun and the Duoronwei. Torn from his horse. Pierced through the throat.
Shall I sing of it? Who was his killer? Shall I sing the name? Should we remember? Should we seek vengeance, even as far as the smallest bead?
I am asking you: What is music?
Tav, so much loss. Fadhian is gone, and Mantia who was your friend. So many gone. If I had the sight of a kalidoh, I'd tell you, I'd be able to see it written in your bones. The kalidai see through flesh, they see the spots where the bones are weak, too starkly curved, missing pieces, full of holes. Every loss creates a gap. This is why the bones of those who live for many years appear to be made of lace.
So many gone. Your sister. Your cousin. Your friends. My father. My mother. Keliar, who loved me. Tosha, who loved me. Haidhas, my brother.
Your father. Your mother. Fled now into the Valley. Your sister, lost. And the beloved cousin who should have been your king.
Haidhas. My brother.
What song can bring him back to me?
Haidhas, my brother, dead twice over. Dead to our house when he ran away, dedicating himself to vengeance. Dead again in the war for Kestenya. They say he died at the gates of Eilam. They brought this news to me as a kindness. Like the song: Only tell me where he lies. Knowledge is comfort, they say, even knowledge of death. Only tell me where to seek his grave. At the gates of Eilam, they told me. But for me he was already dead, had been dead for years. And I had lived those years in mourning.
It was after he died that I became a singer for hire.
Why not? I couldn't feel myself sing. And we were moving in difficult country. Farming country, full of roads. The lands around Tevlas, which now are free, or what we have come to call free: available to anyone who can defend them. But then it was hard country, you needed papers, or else money; you had to pay the farmers to pitch your tents in their meadows. So some of us went to make money. We went to Tevlas, we sang in the streets, we sang in cafés, collecting coins in an old skin.
Loublai taught me to sing for money. She scrawled black around my eyes, red on my lips and cheeks, she gave me cheap necklaces and bangles of green glass. She taught me to roll my eyes, to wince, to exaggerate all my gestures, to sob while I sang. "You have to forget your training," she advised me. It's true: in order to sing in the towns, to sing at Olondrian houses, you have to forget everything. The delicacy, the restraint. The quality of chaif, "absence," which is so highly prized in our music. There is no absence when you sing for money. Everything is there.
I was a good singer. I gave until I was hollow.
Learn to keep the music in your voice. That's what Loublai told me. Don't let it hurt you, don't think about the words, put all the feeling in your face alone.
This painted, twisting face. No restraint. Only distance.
I sang for you, in the garden at Ashenlo. I know you don't like to remember. Or rather, you don't like to remember that you forgot, that you forgot me. A hired girl.
We need new songs, I think.
I will bring you nalua blossoms.
Tav, I will bring you flowers in these two hands.
I will make you gloves, a vest.
Tav, I forgive you.
So much loss. Kaili murmurs, twelve years old. Her father is dead.
Fadhian, her father, died in your war. I say "your," I say it and I mean to hurt you. Don't stop writing. Look how Kaili tucks her plait behind her ear, then scratches her ear, the flesh translucent as a leaf. There's sand there, irritating her. Sand under her nail. Now she flicks the back of her hand against her cheek. This is what we lose when we lose someone. A manner of moving, something no image can capture. The gestures never come back.
I have my mother's eyes. Haidhas had my father's. I love to sing. Haidhas loved to ride. Haidhas loved the morning, he'd get up early and ride out across the plateau. I love the night, when the singing starts. I never want it to end.
Haidhas was quiet, he brooded, he held a grudge. My mother said: "Fire under ashes." He would go days without speaking, if you angered him. Me, I'm all on the surface. I shout, I'll throw sand, I'm ridiculous, too much. I burst in an instant and then I forget everything.
To lose a sibling is to lose the one different from you. There's no one now against whom to say: But I am like this. I am this.
"I'll always be alone," you said. You were frozen and trying to melt, speaking to me of your sister who is gone. She'll never scold you, never laugh at you again. I said: "But maybe—" You said: "No." It was the way she looked at you, you said. The way she clung to you in Nain, on the terrace of an abandoned temple of Ayalei, where you left her alone with your cousin. You could tell she was saying good-bye forever.
I think when we love we look for someone against whom to say: But I am like this.
Say something. Speak against me.
Speak against me as I will speak against you.
I'll make you a vest. I'll make you gloves. From the hollowed bones of the shambus: prayer bells for our tent. Bells that sing to the gods all day, on our tent, ours. The two of us here. In the deep night, a small lamp on the floor.
You say it's impossible. It won't be allowed.
But why not, why not? Everyone knows. You're here. You say: "But eventually I'll have to go." I say: "Go if you like, but don't pretend it's because you have to." I say: "Listen, I defended us while you slept."
Yes. While you slept. On that first night. You were exhausted. You had come out of the sky, on an ilok, miraculous. You had left your sister and cousin in distant Nain. Do you remember? I brought you into my tent and you cried yourself to sleep.
Then I went to Amlasith. I said: "Tav is staying with me."
So much loss. I'm finished with it. No more now.
Amlasith sat on her bed, surrounded by women as always, beautiful as always, dripping with gold, but in white now, in mourning for Fadhian. Her eyes so deep, and the deep lines under them. Someone grumbled when I spoke: Melya, I think. A click of the tongue.
Amlasith looked at me with her deep eyes. She has seen so many die from her ausk. So many have gone, never to return. And I said: "We'll go. Tav and I. We'll go away on our own. We are going to be together. We have lost and suffered like everyone else."
I shout. I burst.
It's foolish. Tosha told me that. My most distant and difficult lover. "You little fool." During one of our quarrels, she slapped my face.
But there is a song, our greatest song, the longest. The Song of Lo. Most think of it as many songs, they say "the songs." But really it's just one song: prophecy, prayer and map. If you know it, you'll never get lost on the plateau. You sing. You sing and you walk. The line for this place, where we are now, is: "I am a fountain and a field of clay." And if you walk north, to that ridge of hills, the song becomes: "Clay on my boots, clay in my heart, I am of clay like the Firstborn."
If you know the Song of Lo you can walk anywhere. It is more faithful than the stars.
I sang a line of it, there in Amlasith's tent. I am a fountain and a field of clay. I said we'd go, we'd walk, I'd take us away, alone across the sands.
Snorts, disapproval, clicking of tongues. Tosha was there, also in white, her husband dead with Fadhian at Bron.
"We'll go," I said.
Amlasith wept. She held out her hands to me. She gathered me close, in tears. "Seren. My little horse."
Shernai sings. Ta-ta-di-dai-di. It doesn't make sense. A woman's song. Just a tongue tapping and a warmth low in the throat. It doesn't mean anything, and so it's open, always available, a bucket being filled up at a dark well. Ta-ta-di-dai-di. It tastes like water. Now the wind blows, and Kaili gives a yelp and jumps up to catch the feathers whirling with the sand. She laughs, look, she's laughing, the feathers in sunlight and I don't want them to come down, I just want them to stay up in the air.
In your home, in your cities, I know, the mother and father live together. Your mother and father live together in the same house. You say they're unhappy. You think, you don't know, you haven't been home in so long. But happy or unhappy, they live together. Here it is different. The men and boys follow the cattle, the women keep the children and old ones safe. Father and mother stay in one tent only when he is home: when the season permits it, when there isn't a war. Such a golden atmosphere, when the men and cattle come back to us in the spring. The season of "earth ringing." Ringing bells. A bull slain, meat for all. Lovers in each other's arms again, at last. Chadhuren, we call it: "tent heart."
Chadhuren, where everything lives. The place that moves, that sometimes goes dark but can always be revived again, the lamp lit, the rugs shaken out. That's what I told Amlasith and the others while you slept. "Tav is my chadhurei," I said. My chadhuren dweller.
Let's say this: I who sing am Seren the daughter of Larya of the seventh ausk of the Blue Feredhai of Tosk. I am a singer. I sing and I shout and I love, that's mostly what I do all the time, I don't believe I am complicated. My first love was Keliar. She was just my age. Her plaits were always coming out. She had a chipped tooth and she rolled her sleeves up like a boy. When we played she was Hivnawir and I was Taur. We played that story over and over, she was the boy and I was the girl. At first we just repeated the story, forbidden love, the two cousins, a boy and a girl, we'd hold a scarf between us and giggle and kiss through the cloth, but then we started changing it, in our story the scarf came down, the maids went away for some reason, the lovers opened their shirts. And then one day Keliar's plaits were so tight and her sleeves rolled down to the wrists and she said we were women now, too old for children's games. I didn't see why we should stop. She said: Don't make it complicated. That was all. She got married later that year.
I don't think I'm complicated. I think I'm completely simple and clear. I only want to have all the feathers up in the air.
My second love was Tosha. She had two children, her husband was dead. She was one of those dangerous people who take fire with them everywhere. Everyone wanted to be with her. She was vicious sometimes, she sneered, but her warmth was incredible too, when she smiled little lights would come on under your skin. It happened to everybody, not just me. She wanted a husband, but she was taking her time. When she found one, we quarreled, and Tosha slapped my face. It wasn't our first quarrel, but it was the last. Her second husband is dead now too. Tosha's alone. I think she prefers it.
Then you. Riding over the fold of the mountain. Everybody thought you were a boy. Everybody except me. Your dark hair and dark brows, and that cold look. You were my exact. You were my exactly. What I was looking for. You were perfect.
Waking in the night, you're afraid. I soothe you to sleep again. I sing, Moon, fill my heart with honor as a cup with wine.
Moon, fill my cup.
Lost goddess, come.
This is something they say is changing: they say the goddess is coming back. Roun, in her boat. She was never really gone, of course: the gods, we know, will live as long as the world. But she has been buried, forgotten. Her places of worship, the aklidai, destroyed and abandoned. We have learned to think of them as places of haunting and death. Where girls should not go, lest the spirits of the dead kalidai discover them, turn them into birds and roast them over hot coals. This is how we have learned to think of the aklidai. We sing: She strayed among the stones, and he was waiting there. I, even I, when I see an aklidoh, I who long for Roun's return, when I see those white domes it chills me to the heart.
Still, they say Roun is coming. Roun, the great patroness of Kestenya. In her boat, alone, without father or mother or lover. Her boat which is the moon. We were told that she was Ayalei, and then we were told that she did not exist. How changeable you are, you Olondrians! Every ten years another god. For a time we tried to worship Ayalei, because it was law. I remember my mother speaking of her as the Rose, this we understood, we have always sung of roses in the highlands, where they bloom so briefly. But the rest—the pigs, the vultures, the grain—this confused us and left us numb. Where is our grain? Where do we bury seeds and revive them in the same place? My mother was vague about this aspect of the goddess. "She dies and then returns," she explained at last. "Like spring. Like the moon."
Ayalei is untrustworthy. Always in bed with a man. If she is happy, she will produce a line of kings. When she is sad, she goes to bed with the Plague, and produces vampires. You laugh at my words, but I tell you, you're laughing at yourself.
Ayalei wanders. Is she alive or dead? You never know.
But Roun rows. In her moon-boat. She lights the lamp, then dims the flame.
The stars follow her. They are her children, because she loves them. As I am Amlasith's child, because she loves me.
Roun, fill my cup.
Today there's a heat in the air. A dryness. Summer is almost here. The end of our year.
How determined you are, my heart. Dear heart.
Your furious scribbling. Nearly as fast as I speak. You miss almost nothing. Your terrible soldier's hand grasps the pencil like a standard. You say you'll make copies, leave copies of my words everywhere, under stones, in fences, in Kestenyi and Olondrian, you're an idiot, copies of what?
Copies of this, you say. What is this this?
Copies for others to read. Who?
You say: Bildiri fleeing the farms, lost people, anyone. Anyone who thinks the feredhai only make one kind of music. Oh, Tav! You are very Olondrian and stupid.
No. Don't stop.
I love you.
Every copy will bear a dedication. To the anonymous reader. Someone who can read.
Give me your hand.
Give me your hand. Give me your hand Tav riding over the fold of the mountains. Give me your hand Tav coming down hard like rain.
But let's say it, let's say what there is to say. Let's get it out, let's write it, let's put it there. You are from everywhere and I am from Kestenya. You are from mansions and palaces and cities and mountains and emptiness and pleasure and I am from the great plateau. Let's say and let's get it out that your grandfather was Uskar of Tevlas who signed the shameful treaty that ended the last, unsuccessful war for independence, that he was a pawn and a dupe and also a traitor who knew very well what he did and a mystic in thrall to a man with ribs like gullies in a drought. Your grandfather prayed with the great Olondrian visionary who made your grandfather sleep on planks that brought out sores on his soft and timid body, and my grandfather slept in a mass grave on the road to Viraloi where he was hung by the heels with seventeen others until they died of thirst. Let's say that. Let's write it. Your grandfather punished his body, my grandfather's body was punished. My grandfather was a freedom fighter, or, to use the Olondrian term, a bandit. One of those whose names became synonymous with horror on the Karafia when little children were dragged from their beds and slain. My grandfather was not there, in Tevlas on the Karafia, he was at Viraloi, part of another branch of the resistance, this resistance so discontinuous and diffuse it resembled the skeleton of an elderly person or a piece of lace. My grandfather was holding Viraloi under siege. While at Tevlas, your grandfather with twenty-seven Kestenyi nobles signed a treaty, and welcomed the Olondrian army, I think they were called a "pacifying force," and they captured my grandfather and hung him by the heels.
Let's say that your grandmother was the sister of the Telkan. She loved birds. She dyed her hair yellow and wore a green scarf and Kestenyi trousers. She was a Lath of the royal line and she loved the desert and at her mansion she entertained the robber barons who were the last dregs of the resistance. But there was no resistance anymore, only theft and parties at your grandfather's house where your grandmother served the thieves Olondrian teiva. They were so broken they drank and danced with her. Let's say that my grandmother was a great singer who died singing of my grandfather.
Let's say that. In her white mourning robe. Her eyes ringed with thick black paint. When she wept the paint melted slowly, like oil in winter. She sang an old hawan, a conventional lament, putting in my grandfather's name because he was not important enough to have his own song. Thousands had died and my grandfather was not one of the leaders or from a great princely house so none of the men had composed a song to honor him, so my grandmother sang of him as she could, in the usual way, the way most women sing, putting the name of the lost one among the conventional lines. My clear one. Horse of the dawn. His breath like snow. His body shattered like ice. I will tear my flesh for him, my flesh will not forget. My grandmother had scars on the sides of her face where she had torn the skin with her nails. Most old women have these scars, it's normal.
The same songs, over and over. Horse. Clear one smashed like ice. It would not have occurred to my grandmother to compose a new song for her dead husband. She sang as she had been taught. She sang like a woman. Always coming behind, picking up the bones that look exactly the same. And she died at the place called the Little Doves, between Suvias and Bron, with my grandfather's name on her lips. While my grandfather slept in a mass grave at Viraloi. All her life she tried to get her daughter, my mother, to convince my father to ride to Viraloi and avenge the dead.
"Tell him to go. Did I give you to him for nothing?... He's my son! He married my daughter and now he's my son!... If you had brothers, would this have happened?... He is your husband, your brother and your blood!... Is he a man?... Did I give you to a man, or to another woman?"
Over and over, between the laments. This endless, raucous cry. Sometimes in common Kestenyi, sometimes in the che. My grandmother was just this woman in white, crying, haranguing, berating, she drove my father away sometimes, or he'd turn and shout at her too. You've heard that shouting. Family quarrels. If it happens outside you go and intervene, if it happens inside a tent you pretend you haven't heard. You can hear it, physically you can hear it perfectly well through the side of the tent, but you pretend you can't, and then you really don't hear it. You can sit on the ground right outside, making butter, and you'll just hear the birds while behind you someone is being accused or beaten or born. It happens like that. It happened like that for us. The terrible voice. The men sing songs about the nagging voices of women. Your voice is a rain of hot salt. My grandmother proved them right every day. She loved no one but Haidhas, my brother, her little hope, her dove, her killer-in-waiting, her little stallion as bold as a whip, after shouting she'd take him on her knees and croon to him, kissing him over and over. I hated her.
I hated my grandmother. You were afraid of yours. In her old age your grandmother smelled of bird dung. Feathers clung to her dress.
The eccentricities of royal ladies! She let her eldest sons marry two sisters, a pair of noblewomen from Nain. The whole empire was united now, in blood! The celebrations even reached the desert. Sweets were handed out in little velvet bags. My mother was given one of these bags. She was young, seventeen, the same age as your frightened mother who came to live in Kestenya accompanied by her nurse. My mother ate the sweets handed out by Olondrian soldiers and kept the little green bag. She kept her needles in it, and later my brother's milk teeth. She didn't keep my milk teeth, because I'm a girl. I asked her once what had happened to mine, my baby teeth. "What a question," she said.
The two oldest sons married noble Nainish women. Success. The empire is a success. This success is really you. You and your sister and your cousin. The three of you weaving the strands of the empire together: the Fayaleith and Kestenya and Nain. These three strains are destiny, one people, a single radiant language splintered on the departure of the gods. You, your sister, your cousin, you are paradise. One in the desert now, and the other two in a ruined temple in the north.
The two oldest sons married noble Nainish women, but it's the third son who rules Olondria now. Your Uncle Veda, the Duke of Bain. He's a good man, you say. Not a natural king. You're sorry for him. I asked, what's he like, and you said, "Resigned."
A king on the Isle. Ayalei's temples thriving again, now that the Priest of the Stone is dead. It's as if everything wants to go back to what it was. Everything wants to go back, except Kestenya. Kestenya Rukebnar. It wants to go forward, or sideways. Tav, let's never go back.
Kestenya going, parting from the Valley. Perhaps Nain, someday.
You say, no. The Nains will never rebel. They want to become Olondrian. They're passionate about it, even though they pretend to be proud of who they are. You speak of your terrible Aunt Mardith. "A bloodless woman," you say. She was determined to be Olondrian, but on her own terms. She wished to rule. She was working toward it, amassing wealth, arranging marriages, absolutely cautious and single-minded. Her patience for this game was outrageous, twisted, it deformed her. When you speak of her you remind me of myself talking about my grandmother. You say your Aunt Mardith wore pearls at her wrist and throat. She would have killed anyone for money. Of all your family, you say, she was the most like you.
She is. She's still alive.
Your relatives live for a very long time. Mine do not. Let's say that too. When my grandfather died he was twenty years old. Let's say that your people live and my people die because that is so and I am an orphan, I was an orphan when we met. My father was killed in Tashuef at a cattle auction, something went wrong, some negotiation and he was stabbed between the ribs one afternoon, and my brother crept out and avenged him slitting the throat of the one who had killed him and then he died, my brother, he buried himself in the mountains, escaping the sovos. The sovos came to the camp looking for my brother and I burned him with my eyes, I wished all kinds of evil on him, blood and scabs and pests. Women, they say, have a propensity for witchcraft, but in my opinion this is not true, it's only another joke they play on us, to laugh. I don't know a single witch. I wish I did. I just looked at the sovos, helpless. Knowing I would not see my brother Haidhas again. The sovos asked us questions and took notes. We were very polite, as always, not causing trouble, that was Fadhian's way. It was important to have a good reputation if you were feredhai, to be known as docile, to give in to paper every time. My heart, Tav, this politeness. I think it's politeness that really went to the heads of the men when they rushed into Bron to set fire and kill. They say the library of Bron went up like the world's most beautiful bonfire. Everywhere it was like the Feast of Lamps. I imagine them leaping and crowing against the flames. They found the sovos of Bron, they forced him to eat all the brass buttons on his jacket. That is the sort of thing my people do while your people are quietly buying land and organizing garden parties. They forced him to swallow the buttons on his coat and then they stood him against the wall and four of them shot him full of arrows. And far away Haidhas died a second time, he died for good in this war you brought us like a garland full of thorns. And Fadhian died and Mantia died and so many others died and we, we women, we were hiding in caves, rehearsing.
The caves. They smell of filth and decay. They sound like children crying. Every night I lay down there I thought I would die.
I could hear women muttering in the dark. Especially the old ones. Practicing. Not my grandmother, though. She was dead by then.
My son. My brother. My silver horse. The same songs, over and over. And children crying. I pressed my hands over my ears. I thought I would die. The songs were all over me like spit, like a caul. I'd lie there gagging. My horse, my love, his body broken on the high crags.
My grandmother died. She died of a broken heart. Not because Haidhas was lost to us, but because he had gone without avenging his grandfather. He had avenged his father instead. My grandmother hated her life. My mother died soon after her, of a winter fever.
I was just going in circles then. Spinning.
And in the caves I was spinning. Spinning.
And you were entering Velvalinhu with a sword. Say that. Say that you move with swords in palaces and I lie in my own filth dying and pressing my hands over my ears. Say that you planned death and you ordered death. Look Tav, here it is, your independent Kestenya. More than half the men dead, many others wounded. Tav, they killed Fadhian, they pierced his throat with a spear and the blood came loose.
Fadhian so polite they pierced
who never
and in the Valley the towns on fire, towns that now
and ashes
stinking
they say in places the river
for what? Because you wanted
when you were young
the vultures
where
I don't know if you're still
Tav
Tav
Tav
Tav
Today it's hotter. The birds are still, except for the desert susa. That creaking call.
The pen looks strange in your hand. You're clumsy, everything's smudged. I think it's because I've hurt you. You've hurt yourself. That look I used to think was fierce. You are broken on the high crags.
No. Not that.
New songs, I think.
Your sword-hand writes, a scrawl. You'll make copies, you say, you'll leave them in fences, in villages, under stones. I remember in Tevlas once, a professional reader in the square, his wide-brimmed hat, one brown knee crossed over the other. Reading from a tattered book of tales. Men stood around him, smoking. A woman leaned in a doorway, holding a child. A little girl ran up to the reader and gave him a glass of cider. She waited to take the glass back, listening, eyes wide.
Crrk. Listen, a susa. Making noise.
I am generally happy. Some people are generally sad but I am generally happy. I think that you are more sad than happy. Haidhas was too. And my mother, who kept her son's milk teeth in a little Olondrian bag. She taught me how to sing. She was very strict. You sit up straight, you keep everything tight. You are not dancing or playing the diali, you are singing. You are carrying the scars of the ausk. You sing with this tightness, it makes the chaif, the absence, what you won't let go. Don't let go, don't smile but don't cry either, control your breath. You are singing. My mother sang beautifully, in a hard voice like a tree. I have that same hard voice, but I am naturally sloppy, spilling everywhere, it was easy to learn how to sing for money.
Generally I am happy. Even through loss.
I lost my brother and I was spinning. And after you went away I started spinning again. Spinning in the dark and in the cave. But it's not normal for me, I've never had that natural melancholy. I think this is why I can't become a great composer, after the first reason I mean—the fact that I'm a woman. After that first, original reason, which is really enough, there is this problem of not being a serious person. I used to watch the little goats and just laugh. In the spring. They're so comical, and there's this dense light everywhere. When you throw your head back and gaze at the sky it's as if your heart is lifting out of your body, just going up, just going up.
Tav, I will make you something new.
"Did I give you to a man, or to another woman?" My grandmother's jeers, her terrible contempt. This, more than anything, showed me that the life I imagined was impossible. "Didn't I give you to a man?" My father went to eat outside the tent, though the sun was setting right in his eyes. He wouldn't give my grandmother a single word. My grandmother inside shrieking. I went out too and sat beside him, feeling cold because I was thinking of Keliar. We were going to meet that night, as usual: we'd sneak away from the artusa during the dancing. Giggling, knowing that nobody cared, it was just play. Suddenly the thought that it was "just play" twisted around itself, making a painful knot inside my heart.
Play. In the Valley, it's prayer. You told me that. You said love between women was only possible in a temple of Ayalei. In the aklidai, too, it was possible, in the old days, under those chalk-white domes, everybody loving as they pleased. Perhaps someday it will be that way again, when Roun returns in her long boat, when she begins her stately glide across the sky. But it's not the life for you. You were born beneath a wooden roof but you're a true wanderer: a feredha, like me.
Something new. But what? I spill everywhere, I'm too much. You can't find a single person in the camp who takes me seriously. Ask them! I've never been married, I'm a perpetual girl to them, they indulge me, they'd only laugh if I told them I was composing music. Music—a serious art! Death and remembrance! The soul of the ausk! And me, Seren—so messy, only a susa, laughing too much at everything, holding her ribs and laughing at goats, suddenly angry, shouting at people, forgetting it all in an instant, just forgetting.
New songs, Tav. New songs, I think.
Something fresh, light, like a breath. You must have noticed that things are different now, with the men so few. Girls herd cattle and even hunt. They're shy, but they like it. Everyone's wondering what will happen in winter. It's in their minds that you have gone to the winter pastures. And other things have come to the surface, revived. I remember when you told me about the False Countess, a woman warrior you read about in a book. You said she was Kestenyi, and I laughed. It seemed impossible, but afterward I saw that it could have been true. I remembered stories that seemed to resemble the story of the False Countess. A tale of a group of women defending themselves and their children in the hills. They fought with knives and stones, one with a tent pole. And there was a robber princess who lived without a home, without an ausk. She was said to be terribly pale and death to the Laths. I remembered these stories. Now it seems to me that they're all tied together, like a web, they seem like a series of gaps rather than a presence but when you lay them out you can see the outline of a skeleton on the ground. The outline of a woman who has died, but who was there. This is the outline of our women now herding cattle on the plain. The outline of your hand remembering how to form letters, how not to use a sword. The outline of our chadhuren.
The outline of a group of women riding toward the mountains. A few men among them. Cattle. Hesensai: "traveling without women."
Stupid. It doesn't make any sense. Ta-ta-di-dai-di. Only a foolish person could come up with something like that.
New songs. Foolish songs. Why not?
And at the same time the boys are so precious—like pearls, like myrrh, because their fathers are dead. You can see it in the way the women touch their heads, even women who aren't their mothers, even me, I feel this adoration for the small boys. An enormous, protective passion, already weeping. Live. Don't die. This is what my grandmother felt for my brother Haidhas. Live, live, don't die, my sweet, my clear one, my bright horse. And somehow "live, don't die" becomes "Kill, kill, kill."
This is why I say that music should not be for remembrance. We remember too much. We need music to forget. Songs that leave no scars. All these women with scarred faces and the men would say, "She goaded me to kill." It was the common defense in the case of murder, so conventional, like a song, every case of murder seemed to be the same, even long blood feuds among hundreds of people, always the same, it was always a case of honor and there was always a woman who goaded the man to kill. Women like my grandmother, with voices of hot salt. Sometimes at a trial a woman would stand up, screeching. Other women would hold her back. She'd still be screaming for blood. "She goaded me." I always felt that this defense was true, but also false.
True because of the way my grandmother tried to goad my father, to make him kill. False because something else was standing behind my grandmother. A vast and terrible logic. Formulaic, like a song. The closed and shining logic of men and women.
All of us, singing ourselves to death.
Sometimes, yes, sometimes an aching sadness comes to me across the plain. I think of the girls in stories who are set impossible tasks: count every grain in the field, weave a net out of water. Always a girl. She's bent over, counting grain. She doesn't know why. It is her fate. She is the victim of a closed and shining logic. Why does she never stand up? She says: "I have to save the world." Tav, let's never go back. Let's not even remember.
Poor lost bird, you flit from place to place but cannot find your home.
Forget. But the dead cling. You remember your servant Fulmia. Sometimes you wake in the night, suddenly, calling his name in fear. You speak of the day you understood that he hated you. You had fallen and cut yourself, and he was bending to help you up. His hands were tender, but suddenly you knew. Such thick veins in his hands, you told me, they reminded you of rivers. You went to war for this man, to restore his stolen birthright. Kestenya Rukebnar. Stolen by you, by your people. You hope he is free, but he might be dead. In your war. So he clings. And when you're riding, if a stone falls, you whirl, ready for violence. Your body remembers war. This body I love. War has shaped the beloved body.
Music for forgetting. What kind of music? What's the point of music that doesn't want to remember? Why sing at all?
We could remember different things, perhaps. The bones of a woman laid out on the ground. Or the men could remember the che.
They know it, these small boys. They learn it in their mothers' tents. They drink it like milk. Growing fat and happy on the che. But they're not allowed to speak it. The women won't let them, they slap their heads, lightly but seriously, don't talk like that, don't say that, say it like this! You—slap!—you're not a girl! They laugh: shrill, blood-tinged laughter. This thing is theirs, the che. They're going to keep it safe. "Listen to him!" "Are you a girl?" I used to love it when Haidhas got slapped for answering in the che, so happy I wanted to hug myself. I was the good one, I never got slapped for talking. He was an outsider. The che inside me like a well of gold. And then I grew up and this gold was worth nothing, nothing. You can't use it anywhere. It's only for fighting with other women, or for crying.
Or could we? Could we compose a song in the che? It makes me want to laugh. What kind of song? A song about milking goats? A song about thread? We already have those, scraps of nonsense, ta-ta-di-dai-di. And little songs about being abandoned, left behind.
A great song, though. A hawan. In the che.
What makes a song great?
It has a great subject: war. It's about male kinfolk and the death of men. It always ends in blood and a call for blood. I've said this before. Tav, I'm spinning. Tav, I feel like I'm spinning around.
Spinning and spinning. After I lost my brother.
We sang in cafés. We'd go from door to door. Collecting coins in a bag. Loublai taught me to do it. You have to forget. I sang like an evil dream about singing, someplace you were caught, you couldn't escape. In the dirty town with the dirty sluggish canal. Carriages everywhere. The dust choked us. I don't care if I live, I don't care where I go. I might as well sing for money. I snapped my fingers, rolled my eyes. At some cafés the men tried to talk to us, they wanted to take us home. Loublai got between us and the men and yelled, they said she grated like a susa. Someone splashed stedleihe on her dress. The next day we were walking and someone threw eggs at us from the window of a carriage. I don't know if it was the same men, or different ones.
Spinning. Just spinning in place.
You have to forget, but at the same time you remember. This is how it makes a circle.
You forget, you make faces, you stretch your throat, you sob. It's ridiculous, coarse, you've become a clown. And at the same time the words of the song are tearing your face. The words tear your painted face and your painted heart. I am calling, where are you? Every time I remember Haidhas.
You're in the garden, listening, or not listening. You. Tav.
This is our story. The beginning. The part we remember over and over. We can't forget it, and maybe we shouldn't forget. We shouldn't forget that you forgot me. I reminded you later and now we can't forget. I dream of a way of remembering that would not leave a scar. I dream of a way of forgetting that would not mean destruction, burial, loss. A spinning that makes something, that makes a thread, a thread to sew feathers to a shawl, a shawl unfurling in the air.
Feathers. Flying.
I want them to stay up. Even though I wanted you to come down.
You returned on the back of an ilok. The only person I've ever lost who came back. The huge wings, bells ringing on the tents, the thunder. Coming down hard like rain.
It was night. We all came running. You were exhausted. Torchlight. They stopped and I kept running. My knees felt weak, it was like I was running into the ground. My legs dissolving into the ground like water. I was running down underground, I was going to be buried alive, I'd never reach you.
You'd landed in other places too. At Mereves. At Bron. Looking for me, for us. The Blue Feredhai of Tosk.
You came out of the sky. A legend. They have begun to call you Shastuen now. "The Winged." And in Kestenyi the word for "vampire" is shasladhi. It means "the flying Lath." You draw a distinction between the Drevedi, whom you call monsters, and the ancient Laths riding on great birds. We do not. All of them come from the sky and all of them kill. I don't want to remember this, winged predators from the Valley, and at the same time I don't want to forget. I dream of a kind of music in which everything would be held together. All the feathers in the air at the same time. Kaili, this girl with plaited hair, and Shernai with her spindle and you on horseback and me singing and all our dead.
Stop, Tav. Kiss me.
This is the lamentation of laughter. This is the only kind of hawan I know how to make. When you read it back to me, it makes me laugh. Is this music? All these goats and old women and feathers everywhere.
I will sing of a woman made of lace. She's so old! So old she's almost invisible to us now. Her body lies under the sand, intricate and vast. Do you know how to make the bone map? You do it with the shoulder bone of a calf. You ask the bone a question and throw it down, and it answers you by the way it falls. I don't know anyone who knows how to do it anymore. I want to ask a question of the shoulder blades of my ancient, invisible woman, whose bones are like cobwebs. What is music?
Kaili is sewing today. Her feathers have dried.
Shernai spins. A sidelong glance. Her curled lip, tufted with fine hair.
It's hot. We'll have to move soon. I will sing you the Song of Lo. I am a fountain and a field of clay. North. Clay on my boots, clay in my heart, I am of clay like the Firstborn. East. With her necklace of glass beads.
Glass. Bone. Everything smooth. Ornaments. The future.
Prayer bells made of bone on our black tent.
We'll move. You'd like to go north, you say, to see if there's anything left of the forest of hetha trees your uncle sold for timber. A forest, you say, protected by the cliffs. In winter there, there was so much snow. You wonder about your old house, but you're also afraid to go back. Imagine we go there. Tents in the yard. We'll dance a sadh in the dusty ballroom, clutching each other's hands, you and I.
Dance with me! Imagine the children peering at us through the doorway. Convulsed with laughter. Let them laugh. Imagine there's laughter everywhere. I'm tired, so tired of lying in caves. Let's go! Write faster! Let's go riding. Throw me onto the back of your saddle like a stolen bride.
Throw me. Steal me. Let's go faster. Fly.
A song without chaif. Without restraint.
If music is anything then music is everything. Then music is feathers and a field of clay. Then music is played even in the stupidest and most useless of languages.
Ta-ta-di-dai-di.
We'll go north. We'll pass the farm where I went with some of the girls to get onions the other day. The woman there, a bildiri, she was so happy, she gave us a pot of grape preserves. "Take it! Take it!" The war is over.
The war is over. Still, there are rumors carried by the winds. Near Bron, they say, two ausks clashed over the rights to a field of grass. Three killed, two men, a boy. Somewhere near Bron the war is over and they are singing clear one broken on the crags.
Broken. I think: broken. I think: lost.
We need new songs. What kind is this?
Brightness called out of the air.
Tav, your shoulders and your swinging walk.
Shernai's spindle and glass beads, so smooth. Their edges when they break.
The bildiri woman reminded me of Loublai. Generous like that. The same harsh voice, the same extravagant gestures. Loublai, my last mother, who taught me to sing for money, who died of a catarrh on the road to Neiv. She complained to me gently that a demon was sitting on her chest. It was so cold, and she kept asking me to take the blanket off. "Take it off, take it off!" When I obeyed at last, shaking and crying, she sighed so deeply, so happily, in the cold tent. A smoking lamp and her smoking breath in the cold. "Thank you, daughter!" Her breasts were flat and loose, a vein moved in her throat. Her great eyes, deep like wells. She said: "You're never going to be happy unless you learn to keep the music in your voice."
Always in your voice. Never in your heart. Her instructions. She was a wise woman. In the morning I told Fadhian she was dead. He nodded, he would do what had to be done. For a moment he put his hand on my cheek. I didn't cry. I thought I was done with that forever.
But if music is everything, then it can't be only in the voice.
You, riding.
And the creak of the susa. The ugliest bird in the world.
If music is everything, then music is even my grandmother's taunting. That ragged note. Then music is even the thunder of my brother's horse. My brother's horse when he rode away. My heart was tied to the back of his horse, beaten on all the rocks, smeared by all the dust. Learn to keep the music in your voice. By the time I met you my heart was bruised and swollen and still I thought my perfect my exact. When I saw you. Your cold look. Then music is not only in the voice, then music is under everything like bone.
Tav, I will bring you.
A stolen bride.
Roun in her boat. A guiding lamp.
Tav my Tav I will bring you a feathered shawl.
In our tent you are like a reed and you are like a field in bloom and you are like the moon reflected in my eye.
Roun in her boat. And your rib beneath my fingers is a boat. If music is everything then music is also this rib in a darkened tent. Tav, say something. Speak against me. Tell me I'm foolish, too loud, too much, incomprehensible, spilling everywhere. Speak against me and I'll speak against you, my lips against your rib. Ta-ta-di-dai-di. A tapping tongue, a warmth low in the throat. If music is everything. Screeching women and hoof beats and children crying, the susa creaking and children crying in the cave. I crawled out covered with filth, filth in my hair and I was so happy because I don't want to die. I don't want to die! Tav, is this music? What would happen if I chanted this song, tonight, in the big artusa, in front of everybody? Tav, this is where you speak. I think they'd laugh. This isn't music. Now, against me. Right against me. The susa is the ugliest bird. It's a desert dweller, the symbol of Kestenya, it's also slang for a feredha girl, for us, noisy, childish, ugly. That harsh, raw voice. And the spindle spins. Ta-ta-di-dai-di. Then music is also this rib and my hand tight in your hair. Against me now. Over the fold. Coming down hard like a rain of hot salt. Di-dai-di now shatter me like ice.
It was as if I was being buried as I ran. I'd never reach you, but then I did. You slid from the back of the ilok and landed on the ground. Hard like rain. Collapsing in torchlight. I thought, I'll never get there, but I did. I fell. Tav. I was breathing your hair.
Tav, I will bring you flowers like your hair. Nalua flowers. Black like that.
Brightness called out of the air.
Tav, the men are singing. They are singing, the last men. They are singing to each other about a flower. The women are singing to the men. The men are singing to the women. The mothers and fathers are singing to all the children in the world. The women are singing to each other, they sing a song about feathers. The children are singing each other a song about the goats. The hills are singing to the stars, the horses to the rain, the bells to the wind, and the moon is singing to everybody.
And we are taking the cattle north and east. We are traveling without women. We laugh about it for hours, for days.
Just play. And the susa makes a merry sound: a clicking tongue, dry sticks beaten together, children dancing in spurs.
I who sing this am Seren of the Blue Feredhai of Tosk.
Who will find this script? To you I sing through the pen of my chadhurei, Tav.
Give me your hand. Fly.
You, riding over the fold of the mountain.
Give me your hand.
Coming down hard like rain.
By the hand of Tav Lanfirheia Faluidhen lately of Ashenlo, now of Tosk known as Shastuen
the Winged.
[ From Our Common History ]
Slowly, Olondria settles.
Veda of Bain accepts the crown. His brother Irilas, escaped from the newly independent Kestenya, moves into the Ducal Residence. By the end of the year, he will be Duke of Bain. Now he paces the gardens, his beard powdered with cigarette ash.
Upstairs, his wife Firheia sleeps, exhausted. In the corner, her elderly servant—her nurse in childhood, and now her personal maid—places a few belongings in a bag. Her face is serene, as always: she might be sewing, or adding a garnish of fennel to the soup. She leaves her mistress a note propped against the lamp. Dear lady, I am sorry to leave you. But though you will be happy in Bain, I think I will not. In my old age, as the song says, my marrow longs for the north. Bain is too soft for me; and I must see how my niece is keeping the farm.
The spice markets open. Ships fill the harbor. The High Priestess of Ayalei returns to her temple.
The Brogyars sign a treaty with Olondria. The war is over—a war that has simmered for generations. The Brogyar chieftains seal the oath in their own manner, sipping gaisk and melted fat.
In Nain, the fighting cools. The separatists have lost. Lord Fenya of Faluidhen throws an extravagant ball to celebrate. His mother, Lady Tanthe, wears a stupendous emerald tiara. They are loud, hectic, making it very clear where their loyalties lie. Sometime after midnight, Lord Fenya goes so far as to burn his nephew's portrait in the drawing-room fireplace. He listens to the cheering with a fixed and wintry smile. Under the comforting tick of his pocket watch, his heart pains him: he has lost a fortune in Kestenya.
In her grand, gloomy castle of Rediloth, Lady Mardith of Faluidhen sits at her desk. A lamp with a blue shade burns beside her. The fire is low. The elderly chatelaine wears a rich robe the color of periwinkles.
She dips her pen in the ink. She is writing a letter, though she doesn't know where to send it. She will discover the address in good time. My dear Siski. I require your presence at Rediloth. Faluidhen has suffered a blow, but we are not quite desperate—
She sets down the pen. Her reflection regards her from the dark windowpane. The image trembles. This will not do at all. "Stop it!" she hisses. If she should fall to pieces, when the rest of the family lies scattered about the ground like a broken necklace! She crumples the paper, dips her pen in the ink and writes on a fresh sheet:
Siski. You will come to Rediloth. You will not stop in the Valley. You will not pay any visits to "friends" with good cellars and londo tables. You will be prompt and obedient. I am most displeased.
Again she sets down the pen. She flexes her fingers; the knuckles crack. This time, when she glances at the window, she looks beyond her own reflection at the image of the strongbox against the back wall of her study, her Uncle Virdan's strongbox with its gilt edges and magisterial lock.
No one knows of the pleasure she takes when, alone, the maid gone home for the night, she sits at the desk and pretends to busy herself with mundane tasks, feeling behind her the golden, insistent attraction of the strongbox which grows more intense the longer she feigns indifference. Shall I open it, shall I not? Oh, there's really no reason to, tonight. She goes so far as to stand, yawn, and walk to the door. Then, when all seems lost, she turns with an avid brilliance in her eyes and falls upon the lock with her little brass key.
Inside, never mind the notes, she has thousands more with her bankers in Loma. But the deeds she takes out and spreads on the desk beneath the frosted lamp. Those forests, lakes, and wheat fields, some of them tiny estates in the Ethenmanyi that she has acquired without telling anyone. She touches the deeds, their rich red ink. Then, thinking she hears a sound in the hall, although there is not a human being within two miles of the castle, she hurls the papers into the strongbox and locks it, flushed and panting as if she has just escaped from a runaway horse or an amorous embrace.
Oh, how she longed for that box when she was a girl! "I should like to have that," she piped, a child of ten, when her uncle asked what gift she would like for the feast. Her tremulous finger pointing at the box with its lead reinforcements and delicious leather strap, for traveling, fastened with iron buckles. Such a cavern it was, a grotto of treasures glowing with greenish magnificence. Her uncle laughed, pinched her cheek and called her his pretty duck. And instead of turning away as he usually did after one of his brief, infrequent caresses, he stood looking down at her with a pleased and curious stare. She dropped her gaze, unable to bear the regard of those splendid dark brown eyes adorned with glittering pupils and regal brows. "Well, you shall have something nice," he said, patting her cheek with a hand as hard as a mallet and overwhelming her senses with the musk of his sleeve.
She does not remember what she received for the feast. She recalls only the flavor, the tone, the special poetry of those days, of the days when her Uncle Virdan was still alive and master of Faluidhen. The air has never recovered the limpid quality it had then. The very dust smells different, as if parched for want of his footstep. Nor do the doors reverberate with the vigorous clang of the past. As for the sound of his stick on the path, not once has another stick been able to duplicate its fierce and unflagging rhythm. Her father was still alive then, though his end was swiftly approaching, but her memories of him scribbling in one of the smaller rooms of the house, of his cough, the bit of flannel about his throat, and his funeral at which it rained so heavily, are less clear to her now than the image of her uncle. As for her mother, surely she never did anything but sit in the drawing room with her feet up, stroking her pug and complaining of the cold. No, it was Uncle Virdan who provided the charm of those distant days, and what Mardith remembers best is related to him. Waking early on winter mornings, reaching out stealthily to find the dress and shoes she had been careful to lay out the night before, washing and dressing in the dark and sitting upright with glowing cheeks to await the sound of his valet's step in the hall. And when the valet began striking at the doors to awaken the sleepers, running downstairs, feeling her way because the staircase was still dark, and bursting into the room where, in the feeble light of a lamp with a yellow shade, her uncle was raising his glass of tea. Showing him her copybook on his visits to the schoolroom and hearing his approving grunt as he closed it. Watching her brother and sister, who always turned pale at his approach, quiveringly hold out their soiled and tattered sums. Oh, what a merry crack his stick would raise from her brother's palms—it made her jump! And little Tanthe, who was considered too frail to be beaten, would sob as he took her peremptorily by the ear and made her sit with her nose against the window for half an hour. It seems the weather was always excellent then, either a ringing frost which the gardener's feet would break with a crunch as he walked by the schoolroom window, or a glorious summer day that dawned on the mountains with a watery brilliance, blue as a columbine and noisy with birds.
On just such a summer day, when she was eighteen, she began to work for her uncle. She remembers the tightness of her new hooked bodice, the curls on her neck, the way her fingers flew when she wrote out the letters he dictated to her and the odor of jam wafting in from the kitchens. And always her awareness of him as he stood at the open window with his hands behind his back, his shoulders square in his brown twill coat, or walked behind her, making the floorboards squeak, or drummed on the table with his hand which wore an enormous emerald ring. And the letters, how she remembers them. Their bold and blustering tone, their scathing irony for some inferior who did not want to pay his debts. Sometimes while her uncle spoke his eyes would bulge and he would pick up a pencil and break it to relieve his pent-up rage. But she was never afraid of him, not even on the moonless night when he called her to help with the corpse of a man he had beaten to death. How could she be afraid of him? His face was as gray as his mustache when he said: "Mardith, come out, I've done something dreadful Mardith!"
No, she was not afraid. She held the lamp with the shutter almost closed while he buried the corpse in the wood, and she washed his clothes and wrung them out, and the shirtfront which would not come clean she quickly replaced with one she sewed herself the next afternoon, before the servants had noticed its absence. And she never asked him about the corpse, not once. He flexed his hand which he claimed to have bruised when his carriage rolled into a ditch, and said to her: "A hot temper is a terrible thing my dear. But there, he won't be missed. And now I can turn that water into the bean field."
That was the willfulness, the spirit that changed the fortunes of Faluidhen, transforming it from the musty seat of an intellectual family into the frosty, formidable estate, respected throughout the empire, from which Mardith would negotiate her nieces' brilliant marriages. Uncle Virdan attempted such a move: he sent his nephew Brola to Velvalinhu, bullied him into befriending the young Prince Eirlo, and tried to secure Princess Beilan for him. But the war in Kestenya was too recent, and the princess married Uskar of Tevlas. Alas, Uncle Virdan did not live to see the fulfillment of his hopes. When Mardith was thirty and he only fifty-five, a fit of apoplexy struck him on his way to the mill, and he died in the house of a peasant where he had gone to beg for a cup of water. "First he was red and then he went yellow," the peasant woman said, gazing down in awe at the master stretched out across her kitchen floor. Mardith fought her first battle with her mother over the funeral, which she knew that her uncle would have liked to keep simple and inexpensive. A battle she won. Her mother retired upstairs with a slam of her door, and the boxes of lilies, the hideous garlands of sentimental chrysanthemums, were returned to Eiloki posthaste. The niece was accused of not having loved her uncle, and smiled for the first time her signature distant smile.
But perhaps the smile was more bitter in those days, when she wore it with a fresh pain unseasoned by the philosophy of the years. No one, no one knows what she suffered during that dark, vertiginous time when chasms opened beneath each step of her undyed cotton slippers. And she has never spoken of it to a single soul. That is pride. Not for her the shut door, the consultations with doctors, the hysterical displays which, when she thinks of her mother's final years, still rise in her memory to fill her mouth with gall. No. For there was the lawsuit with the Arheni to be settled, there was the wet nurse to be found for her sister's second child, the rents to be collected, a drunken groom to be delivered to prison, the menus to be written for every meal. And so her mourning consisted only in giving up balls and brightly colored gowns, which had never been much to her taste in any case, and in weeping with both hands pressed tightly over her mouth to stifle sound in the dim and somber privacy of her bedroom. Her smile, which no one can look upon without a creeping awe, has been carved from her face by a cataract of tears. Her face was never to be the same. It would never inspire a sensual love, though people continued to call it beautiful. For years it remained as lifeless as a plate. And it only softened when her goal was achieved: when her niece Firvaud was seated on the throne, her niece Firheia a duchess, and her great-nephew and great-niece poised to seize the throne for the House of Faluidhen.
But oh, these children—careless—spoilt! Andasya, she supposes, will have to be hanged—he who would have been the first Nainish Telkan. The thought of him is like ground glass in her heart. Tavis will be hanged as well, like the soldier she is—a loss that is easier to bear. And then there is Siski, the eldest daughter of Faluidhen, by all accounts a stupid flirt, who might have been the next Teldaire, who might yet be persuaded to marry well. Lady Mardith takes up her pen again. My dear Siski. The lives of women are very hard.
My dear Siski. You are no doubt as shocked as I am by recent developments. We must pull together, my child, if we are to keep Faluidhen afloat!
My dear Siski. Where have I failed?
Siski. I write to you because you appear to be the least hopeless of a generation of fools.
A pool of crushed paper gathers about her feet.
Siski. I am ashamed of you all!
My dear Siski. Imagine the life of an artist. Imagine she works on a single painting for half a century. And now imagine a child tears it with a razor.
Something strikes the window: a soft blow like a gloved hand. Mardith looks up. She is startled by her own face in the pane. It's nothing, she thinks. An owl has brushed the shutters. She dips her pen in the ink. Faluidhen Faluidhen echoes in her heart. There is war in Kestenya: her niece Firheia, that fresh little girl with the laughing eyes, may be dead. Firvaud is addicted to milim, Andasya and Tavis lost. She presses her elegant pen down hard, her fingertips almost white. Siski you will not defy me you will come.
A tear on her knuckle.
How do we know? Why, because we were at the window, peering through the slit between the shutters.
Siski you children are all the same. Siski your duty. Siski your failure.
Siski the lives of women.
Dear Siski. Forgive me.
|
[ The Land of Bells ]
The young woman arrives in the town at the time called "the tip of winter's beard." The air is raw, the streets piled with dirty snow. She is not the only one to arrive. Others have been coming for nearly four months, driven or frightened out of their homes to the north and east. They still come, but not so many, and the townspeople say this is a blessing. They say: "The war is over." They say: "The new Telkan will set all to rights." The young woman arrives as part of the last, small wave of refugees that the people of the town would like to see quickly swept away.
The refugees congregate in the square, underneath the new sign that forbids loitering. Some pace in circles, others sit down on the temple steps. They muddy the fountain. The women call for their children, they walk about clutching their hair in both hands. No one knows where to go.
The young woman goes to the square with the others.
She wants to find work. She thinks she could work as a governess. She knows how to write and sing.
No one knows how to find that kind of work.
She leaves the square. She follows the smell of coffee to the back of a café. She hopes for a strip of kebma, a bone with some meat still on it, but she sees at once that she has no chance: there are too many others there.
She walks through the town. She walks and walks. It's a quiet Nainish town by the sea, and the odor of herring hangs everywhere. The town's good fortune is its fishing industry, its ill fortune is its position here, at the edge of the land, where the refugees stop because they can go no farther.
The young woman passes a lamplighter armed against night with his ladder and light.
She sees a young woman about her age leaving the back door of a house. She follows her without knowing why: because the stranger has a kind, nervous face, because she walks purposefully, because of hunger, because of the cold.
The young Nainish woman stops. She tells the refugee woman that she works as a filler of mattresses. She's not from the town, she's from a village three miles away. She takes pity on the refugee. She gives her a stick of raush and the address of a place she should go tomorrow morning.
The refugee woman thanks her.
The two part ways. The Nainish woman is going home to her village. The other young woman is not going home. She leaves the town, she walks northward through the snow, up into the hills. On the way she eats half of the stick of raush.
She walks so far, making her way by starlight. When the way grows steep, she crawls.
At last she arrives at the great stone edifice. Long ago it was a temple, then for a time it was a barracks, now it stands empty. Almost empty. She goes inside.
He is lying where she left him, wrapped in his cloak. The fire has sunk and she builds it up again, adding sticks from her store against the wall. Dear small warmth. The light plays on his face. She crouches down beside his makeshift bed and gives him the piece of raush.
He eats. It's hard for him to chew. He weeps. He says: "You shouldn't have come back."
The young woman is silent. She holds her hands to the fire. Her hands throb painfully, and through the pain and through the brilliance of the firelight she can see her former life.
Into the distance, into Kestenya, into the land of bells.
When they were small they used to go to Sarenha every autumn. The nights came swiftly, filled with shooting stars. Each well had its own particular taste. The well at Sarenha is known as the Well of the Black Ewe. It lies in the garden among the vines, visible from the terrace. The feredhai come up the path with their skin buckets, they are noontide people, sundark and mapless, singing the Song of Lo. The buckets sing too, going down into the well. When they rise again the note is lower, replete, a round and delightful music. She leans on the balustrade watching them through the trees. We'll go with them someday, we'll walk in the desert, wearing out our shoes. It will be easy. Look at them, they just go down the path and through the gate. Then they keep going on from there. They walk as far as Eilam, as far as Bron, as far as the mountains where they hide their cattle in gorges filled with mist. And we'll go too. Yes, but now there are noises from the kitchen and the odor of smoke, and Nenya dishing out platters of sticky rice. Each with its knob of onions, meat, and sauce. It's called the topknot. Siski seizes it in her fingers, dripping oil.
Dasya hides his mouth in his sleeve, his eyes moist with laughter. Tiny bells adorn his plaited hair. Let's go up on the roof. Let's go up to the old observatory. Let's climb the trees in the orchard. Let's hunt owls. Silence and mystery of the rooftop at night beneath an autumn moon, breathless immobility of the orchard. She dances among the fallen leaves, churning them with her boots. From the branches comes her sister's fierce owl call.
It's no use, Siski has frightened the owls away. Let's go in, it's getting cold. The lamp is as tall as an effigy for the Feast of Angels. Placed on the floor it illuminates the whole room. Dasya sits cross-legged, his head bent slightly, tuning the limike. Tav lies on her back and drums her feet against the wall beneath the painting Night at the Inn of the Heartless Dove. Siski turns a page of her book. She raises her head when the notes come softly, softly, like a wing against the window. Dasya's fingers are bright in the light of the lamp and she can see the scar where he gashed his hand on a tree playing rings-and-arrows. He is not singing but when Siski sings he glances up and smiles. O illustrious city, opal of the sands. She sings of the white stone streets and beautiful horses though she knows that Tevlas is really a city of smoke-stained walls and trees choked by the dust. For a moment the other Tevlas, the Tevlas of song, is called up by the music and opens its quivering doorways in the air.
The house is old, neglected, full of decrepit pieces of furniture and paintings rejected by even the humblest members of the family. The children blow the dust from the portrait of Hafyan of Bron in the formal parlor, revealing colors that owe their freshness to an austere climate. Hafyan exhibits the firm tanned cheeks of a sportsman, an epicure's paunch, and the lazy, smiling eyes of the recently ennobled. It was he who built this house at the edge of the sands when he was made a baron by Vaud the Dreamer for his services to the Olondrian Empire. And merry, glittering kebma parties were held in this great dark room, the ladies wearing fronds of the sabior plant in their hair. Hafyan terrified them with tales of feredha witchcraft, of which he had made a long study, his teeth clenching the stem of his olive-wood pipe. It is said that he bathed in warm mint tea to soothe a troubled liver and that he could not bear to look at a man whose mustache was not trimmed well. A lifelong bachelor, he was devoted to his bildiri hunting master, and died with him in an avalanche in the Tavroun.
Once his angel appeared to Dasya here in the formal parlor: Dasya said he looked like a shadow filled with moonlight. "Uncle Hafyan!" Dasya cried, and the angel nodded sadly twice before disappearing, leaving behind an odor of caramelized onions. Thinking that his grave must be untidy, Dasya asked Nenya where it was. "Him!" said Nenya. "His bones are mixed with those of his horse." And that was how the children learned of the avalanche that had swept Uncle Hafyan's hunting party down the side of Spring Mountain.
A distant rumble as of thunder out of the hard blue sky. A ptarmigan shoots suddenly over the cliff. Uncle Hafyan looks up, and then the light banter, the goose-feather hats, the insouciance are snuffed out by the snow. A moment later a dreadful silence reigns. And down at Sarenha the overstuffed chairs, as if knowing they are soon to be abandoned, split their seams for grief, and the mirrors give back images in a tumbling disorder, panicked by a rumor of death.
Even now the big parlor seems distressed. A hundred years have not sufficed to erase the memory of grander days, and the children prefer the informal parlor upstairs, the "Kestenyi parlor" which, never having known opulence, seems undisturbed by the passage of time. Here embroidered cushions line the walls, perfect for collapsing on after a day of riding on the plateau, and the shelves are stacked with curious old books, including some big illustrated ones on the geography and plant life of the desert. Siski lies on her stomach and reads about the karhula flower "whose whiteness fills the traveler with melancholy thoughts." The watercolor plates are faded, and when she turns the page a pair of silverfish go scuttling toward the dark.
"I want to stay here forever," says Tav. "Don't be silly," Siski tells her, "you'd miss Mother." But Siski too would like to stay in that crumbling palace, to play for the rest of her life in the spacious avla where light and leaves and birds come through the broken panes in the colored dome. Forever would not be long enough to live at Sarenha Haladli, to trap the owls and desert hares that come to hide in the orchard, to ride out onto the chalk plateau and sleep in the big old upper rooms where the shutters creak and the beds are covered with furs.
In the evening, after her bath, Siski wants to see Tuik. She goes outside in her slippers and runs along the little path to the stable. She can hear the horses moving in the dark. Tuikye. Darling Tuik. His breath in her face with its odor of new snow.
Tuik in daylight.
He is the color of day and of the desert. He has no equal between Ashenlo and Bron. She thinks he has no equal anywhere. His eyes, his elegant foot, his powerful shoulders, the way he holds his head. He moves as lightly and gracefully as a hawk and he is strong for their long rides and has no fear of waterless places. His trust in her is absolute and this is where he shows his worth, in his perfect docility, faithfulness, and courage. He loves the plateau because his mistress loves it, though in dreams his heart may linger in gardens burgeoning with fruit. Horses have dreams, for they are the only animals to possess souls, and this is why they are buried in cemeteries like men. She thinks that someday she will be buried in the same grave as Tuik, like the prince who owned the great horse Unsaur the Wind. She has told Tav and Dasya, so that if anything should happen to her, they will tell her parents how it should be done.
Wind, silence, the openness of the desert. Sometimes she lets the others ride Tuik, and whoever rides him wins the race. Then, astride the restive Na Faso or the pony Nusha, she is overcome by jealousy and rage. "Get down!" she snaps. And Tav, riding the horse in circles, whooping with triumph, senses her irritation and grins at her. When Tav has dismounted, Tuik comes trotting toward Siski over the sand, contrite, and pushes her gently with his nose. Still he cannot forget his victory, and his eye, reflecting the dancing light, seems to say proudly: I could not lose, even for you. She flings her arms about his neck. Astride him she feels she is riding through the sky. She sings him all the songs the feredhai sing to horses. Love, swift dancer, companion of my heart, I bring thee water carried for twenty thousand miles in these two hands. Beloved the color of almonds. When the dew is on the mountains. Ah, would that I had died before my Sarya.
Beloved the color of almonds. When they ride on the great plateau they pass feredhai who always stop to look at Tuik. Siski keeps her head high like a feredha girl while her heart beats faster. Coming abreast of the strangers she turns her head. The men nod and she nods. Once she grows frightened and clutches at Tuik's mane, for one of the men wears a mantle dyed red and printed with dark green leaves. She remembers that the man who sold them Tuik wore such a mantle, two years ago in the horse and camel market of Tevlas. Yes, a red mantle with green leaves. A tangled beard, tin rings on his fingers, exhaustion in his strange light-colored eyes. Tired, oppressed by the noise and smells of the market, she stands beside her father with her arms crossed and stares at the muddy ground.
"Siski, what do you think of that horse?"
"He's beautiful," she answers, gazing up at the marvelous golden creature cloaked in a dirty blanket. The young horse moving restlessly, worn out by the noise and ceaseless crowds, like her. His master has not even combed the tras-seeds from his tail. She looks away, yawns, wishes she was at home with her mother. Not to go back to the chill and the boredom of the Ducal Residence. Silent meals with her father, the strain of being alone with him, and then the ghastly bedroom crammed with satin flowers. Suddenly money changes hands and her father says: "He's yours." She stands with her mouth open, gripping the halter in numb fingers. The incomprehensible actions of her father. "Well," says the man in the scarlet mantle, regarding her bitterly. "Thank him, little princess."
Sometimes she dreams that the man in red comes back to claim his horse and she wakes sweating in a crimson universe strangled by huge vines. "What's the matter?" says Dasya as they ride down toward the road. "Nothing, nothing," she tells him breathlessly. "Keep riding." And only when they are on the road with nothing in sight but the lights beginning to flicker in the bildiri villages, only then does she confess her fear of the man in the scarlet cloak. "I've never heard anything so mardh," says Dasya. His ringing laugh on the empty road. "But I was afraid of him," she says, beginning to smile in spite of herself. Tav is shaking her head in disgust and Dasya goes on laughing, trotting on Na Faso, upright in his black coat. "Look where you've brought us to," he crows with a broad sweep of his hand. "Running away from a man because he was wearing red." She laughs, looks about her, exclaims: "Yes, and it's getting dark." They can smell kitchen fires on the fading bluish air.
No time to go back to Sarenha. "Let's go to Uncle Veda's," Siski says. All the way she is happy and even warm in the twilight. The intimate jingle of harness, Dasya riding close to her over the bridge. And at last the yellow windows of Valedhara.
Years later, at a ball, she will speak of her Uncle Veda's house. It seemed enormous to us when we were children. There were so many people coming and going all the time, the strangest people, herdboys and merchants and feredhai. Sometimes there were black tents in the courtyard and children playing around the well, or there would be goats destroying the garden. And the neighbors' bildiri servants used to hide there when they were drunk or got into trouble, and there would be terrible fights about it. Someone even tried to shoot my uncle once, I think, over a maidservant who had been accused of theft. But no one ever stayed angry with him and everyone used to come when there were parties or country dances at Valedhara. No, not proper balls of course, but wonderful dances all the same. They were held in a barn that was never used for anything else. It didn't seem strange to me when I was a child. I used to go with my mother, and later I went with my sister or even alone. Imagine: a barn full of people, with hardly enough room for the orchestra, and everyone stamping and clapping and making noise. You would see landowners dancing beside their servants, and no one cared. It was as if, in that barn, it was always Tanbrivaud Night... There was a dance called the sadh that we used to do—oh, I can't do it anymore, but it was a real Kestenyi dance, a feredha dance. To do it you had to keep your chin high, like this, and look very arrogant and severe. It didn't matter so much what you did with your hands and feet. We used to laugh at Olondrians—pardon me, but we used to laugh when Olondrians tried it, because they would concentrate so hard on getting the steps, and their heads would just hang down and make them look so awkward and funny. My uncle used to say, "Your eyes should be like a pair of arrows." He was wonderful at the sadh himself. I used to feel almost afraid of him when he danced, he looked so magnificent, so proud. And really, you know, he was just a sweet and scatterbrained kind of man, who already seemed elderly when I was a little girl.
Once we found ourselves on the road after dark, and we went to Valedhara without having warned Uncle Veda that we were coming. We found him in the front room—a cramped little parlor with a green carpet and smoke-stained walls—tying up a dog's injured paw. The whole place smelled of dog. There were a few other visitors there, as always, a few old men and a herdboy with a fever. And Uncle Veda jumped up and kissed us and squeezed the breath out of us, so happy to see us, you could see that he was delighted. Right away he began to turn the house upside down to find things for us to eat. He had a servant, a sort of high chamberlain if you will—steward and valet and butler all at once. A lot of Kestenyi gentlemen live that way, dependent on just one servant. This steward of his was a very capable organized sort of man and Uncle Veda used to praise him to everyone, and really it was probably true that he kept my uncle from losing his lands, Uncle Veda was so softhearted and hopeless at business. Of course the steward was always at his wits' end—I still remember his pained expression and how we children used to mimic it. But he was devoted to my uncle, despite the difficulties, and when my uncle moved to Bain, he left Valedhara to his steward.
That night, the night I was telling you about, Uncle Veda patted him on the shoulder and said, There, there, I leave everything to your intelligence. And the steward created a wonderful supper, nuts and cheese on toast and an egg pudding, and we spread out an oilcloth and ate on the parlor floor. You see it was the only room with a fire. And when we had finished Uncle Veda gave us each a tiny glass of Eilami brandy. I was only thirteen or so, it was terribly special to be allowed to drink brandy. It made me feel so warm on that cold night... But it wasn't enough for Uncle Veda to feed us, he began frowning and fidgeting and snapping his fingers, and finally he stood up and exclaimed, No, it's too dull for young people, we must have a dance! It was already very late, but he knew everyone and he sent to the village for several of the young men who could play the diali and the guitar, and he ordered in all the servants, even the herdboys and the gardener and the grooms, and the girls who used to come up and clean the house on feast days. There were twenty or thirty of them. And they rolled the carpet back, and the musicians, winking at each other and looking very amused, began to play so vigorously that you felt like dancing at once. Even the girls, who were terribly shy, took off their shoes...
She is quite drunk when she tells this story but not so drunk that she does not know when to stop. Her listeners have lost interest. She raises the glass to her lips. Looking at the windows white with steam where, among the floating lights, dancers turn like the bodies of the drowned.
The morning after her uncle's dance she slips downstairs in her stockings, into the rustling, sighing sound of communal sleep. She peeps into the parlor where, among the herdboys stretched out on the carpet, dogs lie snuffling against their tails. Some of the dogs have already gone into the kitchen, to be near the stove. A pearly glow falls through the oiled paper pasted over the windows. Uncle Veda turns, holding the handle of the coffeepot. "Ah, my dear. I knew you'd be up before the others."
"What time is it?" she asks.
He glances at the windows. "Nearly noon. Now try this." Pouring coffee into a blue tin cup. "That's fresh milk from our Sinoud."
She laughs, sitting down at the table. "Surely you haven't been milking already."
"And why not?" he cries, as he seats himself before his own battered cup. "She wasn't dancing all night, poor beast. Why should she suffer? Ah, you see, there's nothing like fresh milk. Now, what to have for breakfast?" He frowns, smoothing the few sparse hairs on his ruddy head.
Dear Uncle Veda. No one can help being happy in his presence. Even the smoky and cluttered kitchen seems cheerful when he is beside the stove, in his brown work shirt and a blue scarf fastened about his neck with a pin. His pipe diffuses the comfortable smell of rooms where people have come in from hunting. When Tav and Dasya come down he pours them coffee and hands out sticks of raush. Just to hear him exclaim in triumph when he discovers a cheese in the pantry, to see him put on his vast green hat, is enough to make one laugh out loud. He waves to them from the porch for a long time.
By the red field,
by the black field.
Oh, the impossible distance.
There is no rest, no rest on the road
that leads to Harmavyedh.
By the red field,
by the black field.
Great fields of singing wheat,
pity me where I walk in the silence and bitter solitude
of the tras.
Songs of her heart, Kestenyi songs. Songs of Bron and Tevlas, of the hills. They sing as they ride, following the rhythm of the hoof beats. One night when they hear music they creep out and crawl on their stomachs up the rise to where the feredhai are camped on a plain of stones. Fires in the night. Shadows move to and fro, shadows of women and of horses being led to the big artusa. Shadows of hands clapping. And the tents lit by the lamps inside, taking on the color of the human body. She watches, her eyes as huge as the stars above, hardly breathing, desperate to memorize each line of song as it pierces the cold air. Knowing that she may never hear this song sung in this way again, that the feredhai will carry it away with them into the desert. As they will carry their knowledge, all the secrets of survival in a wilderness of sunlight, wind, and chalk. The map of the wells, the taste of mare's milk. She seizes the song and draws it into her as she would draw that nourishment, that knowledge. She drinks two songs, three songs, entranced. When the camp is silent at last and she and her sister and cousin slip back to the house, she will not speak to them, she can only hum and mutter to herself, helpless as if in the talons of a fever. And lie on her bed with her eyes wide open, lightly touching her fingers together, singing. Perhaps she even sings in her sleep. At dawn she is rewarded by the music she still remembers, notes that have not deserted her in the night.
The windows are pale, the room very cold. She reaches out with her mind, as if groping to lay her hand on a book in the darkness, and is sad because she cannot remember the tune of one of the songs although she tries it with a number of variations. The words, too, some of the words are missing, as if the gold leaf has begun to crumble from an illumination, and the more she struggles with it the more her efforts rub away at the delicate surface, inflicting further destruction. But she is happy with the songs she has and she sings them over and over as she puts on her mantle and slippers and pads downstairs, and as she enters the kitchen where Nenya is already boiling milk for the coffee and Tav is washing her hair beside the stove.
It is not fair, it is not right.
Four gold moons on a branch,
four gold moons.
Oh unhappy spirit,
drink at another well.
"Don't sing that in the morning, it's bad luck. You should sing happy songs."
"But the feredhai don't have any happy songs."
"Then don't sing feredha songs," says Nenya, pouring the thick hot coffee into a glass. Siski takes it outside to drink on the empty terrace. Her breath is white and frost hangs on the trees. She does not believe that feredha songs can ever cause bad luck, not in this place where the words and music seem to be a part of the air, the shadows of the mountains, and the sky. He lay with his face alight, alight. And his hands in the light alight, alight. Alight, alas, and the color of molten silver. In the music she sees the boy struck down and wrapped in his mantle on the sand with an oil lamp burning beside him through the night. Killed in one of the feuds that sweep through the desert, setting everything ablaze. His soul goes walking over the mountains into Oud. Shall we ever see that place, shall we ever find him, our winged stallion? She watches sunlight color the trees.
"I follow you, Iselda." She turns with a cry of delight to see her cousin walking toward her, rubbing his eyes.
"Do you remember all the words?"
"What are we doing up so early?" he says, squinting into the brightening orchard.
"Never mind that, do you know the words?"
He grins, sets his coffee glass on the balustrade, theatrically clears his throat. Then his voice, sad and true, darkens his eyes, which can never retain their mocking light once he has begun to sing.
I follow you, Iselda.
My arms are bleak with love.
Oh silver brooch, clear spring,
wind that brings the rain from the mountains.
I dream of you, Iselda.
My eyes are ringed with love.
Come lift the door of my tent
at the hour of confidences and lamps.
I torment you, Iselda.
My heart is white with love,
and you spit at my shadow as if at an evil thing.
It's growing colder and soon Dasya must go back over the mountains, back to his home on the Isle before the first snow. Tav scratches at the stove with the tip of her Amafeini dagger, unhappy because the autumn is almost over. Because at Ashenlo their tutor awaits with his dreary diagrams, maps of the empire penciled on rough paper. Dinners with seven courses, riding the horses round and round the little yard. And wet woolen stockings. And their father.
"Don't think about it," Siski says, tweaking one of her sister's plaits. The hot stove makes her glow all through her clothes. And Dasya comes in yawning, looking strangely tall from where she sits on the floor. He wears a white tunic with short sleeves.
"Aren't you cold?" she asks him.
"No."
He leans back, propping one heel against the wall. "Where are we going to ride today?"
That's it, she thinks. He doesn't think about it, I try not to think about it but he, he really doesn't think about it.
"Maybe into the village again or around the edge of the Kesuen lands," she says. "Maybe as far as the Well of the Hornets."
"Yes, to the well." By his smiling eyes she knows that it is true, that he is turned toward the future, shining, without regrets.
That night, even Tav and Siski forget their sadness, climbing a rickety footman's ladder to light the lamps in the avla. The old lamps sputtering, black with filth. Above them hangs the ornamental dome, colorless now, showing stars where panes are missing. The children's slippers glide across the floor, their shadows haunt the walls. They are playing londo with bits of broken marble. Flutes. Eight. The South. The sound of the makeshift pieces striking the mosaic floor sends echoes toward the night.
"I don't think I could do it," says Tav.
"You would if you had to," says Dasya.
He casts the West and moves his marble chip forward with his toe. Tav stands with her hands on her hips, sucking her lower lip, observing the floor. "No," she says. "I'd rather starve."
"You don't know, you've never starved," says Siski. She casts a Nine.
"No, but I've been hungry," her sister argues. "You remember when I got lost in the Abravei for a whole day. I was hungry but I'd never have eaten my horse."
Tav squats and casts. Seven. She moves her chip to a square of jasper. Then Dasya casts, his wrist supple in the grimy light of the lamps. He looks up and swears and the sisters glance at one another and giggle. "We ought to make you put your tongue on the stove," says Siski.
"Try it," says Dasya, smiling. And because of the arrogant tilt to his chin the girls chase him, sliding and losing their footing on the floor, and the avla rings with shouts and with a high wild squeal as Siski slips on a londo piece and falls hard on the tiles. "That was mine, you shedyun," her sister shouts. "I was winning!" Dasya is laughing, holding his stomach, leaning against the wall. Siski scrambles up and throws herself toward him, snatching at his belt as he twists away, locking her fingers under the leather.
"Get him, get him!" she gasps at Tav, her arm jerked forward as Dasya whirls about, trying to yank himself out of her grip. He seems to be dancing, the lights spinning about him. Then he falls backward on the hurtling, compact body of Tav, who has seized him about the neck. Siski falls on top of them with a scream and pulls her fingers free of the belt. "Who am I?" she says, her arm on Dasya's throat. He arches his back but Tav has pinned his arms from beneath and he soon lies still. "I don't know," he says in a choked voice.
"Who am I?"
"A twenty-year-old mare."
"Who am I?"
"I don't know."
"Say it."
"A shoemaker."
"Ugh, get up," groans Tav.
Delicately, severely, Siski presses on Dasya's neck. His eyes are bright, his cheeks turning red.
"Say it," she warns.
"No," he laughs.
"Say it or I'll never get up."
He closes his eyes and tries to shake himself free of her hair, which is falling onto his face.
Then he opens his eyes again. "You beshadun," he grins, panting. "All right. You're the Queen of the White Desert."
|
[ And All the Windows Fade ]
The refugee woman stands in front of the house. She has arrived early. She blows on her fingers and stamps in the pale gold light. At last she sees her Nainish friend coming briskly down the street with two others. The refugee already thinks of this stranger as her friend.
They go around to the back door, and the quick-mannered Nainish woman knocks. A small boy opens the door and lets them into the kitchen. After a moment a footman arrives with half an apple in his mouth. At the sight of this apple, saliva floods the refugee's mouth with sweetness.
The footman leads them into a huge, cold storeroom. Mattresses lie tumbled at one end and there are piles of cotton and down and dry leaves everywhere. The refugee's new friend rolls up her sleeves, and one of the others, a tall, plump girl, takes a spool of white thread from between her breasts.
The new friend is called Dai Norla. The tall girl is Dai Kouranu, and the third is Dai Gersina. The refugee gives her name as Dai Fanlei. It is the first thing to come into her head, because of the apple in the footman's mouth. She has named herself after apples, after high summer.
Her new friends are professional menders and turners of mattresses and pillows, they upholster chairs, they hang curtains and lay carpets. Their eyelids are slightly swollen, they all have the same dry cough; up close they smell faintly of red onions and bread. They want to know everything about Dai Fanlei: where she's from, how many brothers and sisters she has, what she puts on her hair to make it grow. They laugh because Dai Kouranu once put egg on her hair and rinsed it with hot water, and then her hair was full of cooked egg!
"An omelet!" she exclaims, shaking the end of her plait with one hand.
Dai Fanlei laughs: a brittle sound. The others exchange glances.
She tells them that she is a schoolmaster's daughter from Barbilnes. When the war came there, the schoolhouse was burnt down and her parents killed.
The others say: "Bastards, bastards." They pat her shoulders and stroke her arms. They say it's all right now, there's a new Telkan on the throne. They ask where she's staying; she says with an aunt, in the country. No, she tells them, it's not too far to walk.
When the mattress is turned and dropped it falls with a thud and dust flies sparkling into the air.
Dai Fanlei helps turn the mattress. She's stronger than she looks. The others approve of this. She makes nice stitches, too. When she pricks her fingers, she sucks them. She doesn't get any blood on the cloth.
Dai Fanlei coughs. She is cold and dizzy. At noon Dai Norla gives her a heel of bread with a scrap of onion pressed into the center. And at the end of the day, after the housekeeper comes and inspects the mattresses, each of the young women is given seven droi.
The streets are dark and frozen. Dai Fanlei bids the others good-bye. She stops at the edge of the town to buy currant buns and raush. She has no bag, so she puts the raush in her stockings and carries the warm bread in her arms, as if nursing a calm, sweet-smelling child.
All the way up the hill, she weeps. The bread will taste of salt.
She is thinking of how her new friends cursed the name of Prince Andasya of Faluidhen. Already, they told her, young children are threatened that if they don't go to bed, Green Dashye will come up the road in his coach of bone and catch them.
Look, there it is: Faluidhen.
That spring they went there together, all three children, but Siski had already been there several times before. She had even been there alone and she knew the inn where they stayed at Noi and how it was proper to leave, on the springy white pillow, a coin or two for the maid. From Noi it is not at all far, it seems so fast when you come down out of the hills and begin to see the orderly Nainish farms and the walls of the gardens, the great black fields where the gusts of wind come wetly bringing a smell of milk and the straight roads crossing each other, bordered by cornflowers. The villages are laid out like games of cards. Passing the Neidhvian you can see the keeper riding in his red cap. Then a gentle curve in the road and look, that gray roof, that's the house. Light gleams in the windows of Grandmother's hothouse.
In the antechamber one always eats bread and salt beneath the portrait of Uncle Virdan, and endures Aunt Karalei's kisses and endearments. Dasya crunches the hard Nainish bread, wipes away the crumbs, and then shakes his handkerchief surreptitiously under the table.
Aunt Karalei advances with painted eyes. "My darling niece." She has thick fingernails, rheumatism, a long necklace of greasy beryls, and heavy hair that keeps its blackness through the arts of a coiffeur who comes from Eiloki once a month, her only extravagance. Her round lips tremble, her fingers are red from being pricked with a needle. She leads Siski upstairs with a handsome silver lamp. Everywhere there are paintings, faetha, chairs ruminating in corners and unnecessary shelves where snuffboxes gleam like beetles. This is Faluidhen, all these cupboards and vases, these high doors. After her bath, wrapped up in a cream-colored towel, Siski unpacks the dressing gown that has come from Ashenlo without being used, folded in muslin and scented with orange water. For Aunt Mardith will certainly come in. And indeed, as Siski stands at the window in antique lace there is a soft knock at the door, and before she has spoken the tall old lady glides forward, reflecting the lilac light of dusk with her silks, her perfect teeth, and her spun-cotton hair.
"So lovely to have you with us my dear." Her kiss delicate, a snowflake's touch. Smoothly she closes the shutters and hides the view of the fields. "Once the lamps are lit one should always have the shutters closed." She touches Siski's hair, her shoulder. "Welcome home."
For this, this great gray house, is home. "The home of your blood," Aunt Mardith says, turning down the lamp. "You don't need so much light to undress. Yes, the home of your blood," she repeats, her figure copper-colored in the mirror that hangs on the door of the tall wardrobe. Her voice is very soft, almost melancholy. "Alas, we women are so seldom granted the joy of living at home. Unless we are very lucky, marriage takes us away, it scatters us. Why, just look what her marriage has done to your mother."
She smiles, her lips pressed tight. "But I don't want to be so grave on your first night." She raises her hand, attempting a light and frivolous gesture. And her six pearl bracelets, fiercely white as if lying in their box and not against flesh, gleam with an almost martial elegance.
Grass in the garden already, transparent buds on the apple trees. And the crocuses, upright and golden, piercing the earth, give off a heat that melts the last of the snow. The wind is fresh and wet clouds race one another across the polished sky. Dasya leans against a tree, grasping a low bough with one hand. His shadow, falling across Siski's red dress, is distinct from the shadows of bud and branch, separate, with its own character and weight. He holds up the book, his thumb across the fluttering page. Emerald skies and a storm in which your name strives for existence, far from the earth, here at the fountainhead of the clouds. That spring they read so much poetry. Tamundien, Karanis of Loi, Damios Beshaidi, verses out of the Vanathul. Dasya has come with books from his father's library on the Isle, Siski with books she ordered from Ur-Amakir. O small bird, the spring rain presses hard on the kernel of your mouth/ and brings forth pastures of lavender, blue with song.
It rains. She lies on her back on a white wicker bench in the conservatory. His voice moves under the cadences of the patter on the glass roof, as he sits on the floor near her head, beneath the potted oleander whose pink blooms have the artificial shimmer of satin. Reading to her. Instead of his face she sees the gray glass above her splashed with rain, instead of his mouth pale crimson flowers. Only the drunken gardener, clashing shears and murmuring out of sight, disturbs the perfection of their solitude. For I am unhappy without you, lakes are dimmed by the absence of your eyes. An old poem, clumsy in rhythm, harsh with longing. She sees the stern poet sitting beside the lake in which a stone, when he throws it, sinks like a man whose beloved has gone away. That's the way I'll feel, she thinks. She says: "That's the way I'll feel when we leave." She turns on her side to look at him, and his eye, unexpectedly close to hers, meets her with its darkness in which her face is reflected as in an obsidian mirror.
In the evenings, when the weather is fine, they walk down to the edge of the lake. Moving through the infinite variations of the twilight, at the maddeningly slow pace dictated by her grandmother's frailty and good breeding, she feels herself part of a holiday procession. Sometimes, across the deep blue sky, a flock of swans is flung like droplets of milk. About the crimson lantern carried by Grandmother's footman, myriad fascinated country moths stumble against each other, singeing their wings when they get inside the glass. The moon gleams high and faint: a tender moon, unlike the hard moon of the desert. Someday Siski will own this house, and she and Tav and Dasya will all come here in the spring when it is too dusty to be comfortable in their true home, Sarenha Haladli. Tav will sell Aunt Mardith's castle of Rediloth when she inherits it and spend the money on horses, weapons, and dogs. "Let's always keep these bushes." Siski spreads her arms and presses herself deep in the dew-laden branches of the honeysuckle. She feels the silk of her frock being stained by moisture, feels the delicate sprays of candle-colored blossoms showering her with their dense perfume. Inside the house again she wears her shawl to cover the marks on her dress, and is seated on the couch with a glass of tea, when Dasya leans and plucks a leaf from her hair, bringing into the lamplight the bitter, humid luxuriance of the garden.
Dear old Nain. Suddenly there are harp notes from the corner where Aunt Karalei plucks the strings with her curved hands. Uncle Fenya, half asleep, grunts and taps his knee with his pipe. A threadbare hound rises and shuffles across the room. The tune is very simple. Grandmother nods her head and motions for the footman to bring her another tiny glass of los. Dasya stands and begins to sing. Siski did not know that he knew any Nainish songs. She does not know the song herself.
Aragu med hauven, hauven
ande linde o.
A song, she thinks, about mist, black geese, and firelight. A song about the smoke that rises from the little thatched houses buried up to the eaves in snow, where peasants are drinking. But no, when she asks Aunt Karalei, she learns that the song is about the musk deer that come to nibble the last of the cabbages in the winter gardens. The young girls set out milk for them in bowls. But one of the girls, as she stands at the window, sees a young man take the bowl of milk from her step and drink. Aragu med hauven, hauven/ ande linde o. Would you steal my milk, my milk/ and leave my deer to starve? The young girl scolds the stranger, but he doesn't answer her, he only stares at her with eyes the color of wheat. And when she runs out to chase him away, he springs off toward the forest, leaving beautiful small hoof prints in the snow.
To bed, everyone must go to bed—for tomorrow is the ball.
"I'll never get to sleep," Siski whispers.
"I know," says Dasya.
They stand in a drafty space between two staircases. Murky portraits glower from the wall.
"It's nothing," Dasya says. "It's just a party."
"It's not, it's a real ball, it's my first ball."
"But I'll be there. I'll take you for the first two dances."
"Will you?"
"Three if you don't mind."
"But why should I mind?" she laughs.
The thought of dancing with Dasya carries her through the hours of preparation, the face painter coming to draw an orange rose on her brow, the battle with the hooks of her gown of apricot-colored silk, the crush in the doorway of the great ballroom of Faluidhen. The orchestra plays soft music; all the walls are hung with flowers. "Congratulations, my dear," says Uncle Fenya, kissing her cheek. Her hand in his is limp and numb as if broken, and she forgets to return the congratulations although it is his birthday. Everything makes her start: a sudden burst of laughter behind her, from across the room the popping of a cork. Every time she moves, her arm brushes against the bouquet of starry clematis fastened in her sash.
Suddenly everyone is bustling, getting into line.
"Where's your partner?" asks a dark-browed older lady.
"There, in red."
"Don't point, my dear. Come now, you're on my left."
Music, bold and lively, fills the room.
Her eyes are foggy with tears of excitement; she can barely make out his scarlet coat and the long gleam of his scabbard. Trying to move in step, she finds with horror that she has grown clumsy during the night. At last she grasps the spar of his hand.
"It's just like Uncle Veda's," he says, smiling.
"No it isn't, how can you say so? Watch my flowers!" she hisses, turning toward the wall. The measure changes smoothly, becoming more vigorous, and as she whirls her body remembers the steps, permitting her to forget them. She begins to look around her, taking pleasure in the music. By the arilantha she hopes it will never end. And during the klugh, when she opens her little fan with the gold tassel, she feels pleasantly dizzy, light-footed, walking on mist. She laughs. There is another girl with a painted rose on her brow and Siski embraces and kisses her, a complete stranger. Everyone must be happy, everyone. It is a ball. Behind the open windows, the tapestry of night.
"Come over here for a moment my child, sit down. Didn't you hear me call? I want to introduce you to our neighbor, Lord Valmion."
A small crimped face, fingers with swollen veins, a beard that looks dirty because of the threads of black remaining in its white.
"This is Firheia's daughter."
Siski squeezes the old gentleman's hand, gazing on him with pity and affection. Everyone must be happy, even this relic in the shiny coat whose face expresses chronic ill-temper and pride. "Yes, it's a sad thing to give up one's daughters," Grandmother sighs, dropping her eyes to conceal their triumphant glitter. "But there! My poor girls married well! It has nothing to do with me anymore, I'm just an old doll to be set up on a shelf."
Slender, erect, dressed in mauve, with recently slaughtered rare orchids in her hair and tiny beads on the hem of her gown, Grandmother is as fresh as a girl of sixteen. Success has kept her that way, her callous spirit, the arrogance of her blood. Every one of the highly bred ladies who snubbed her in her youth now sends her a basket of flowers and fruit on the Feast of Plenty. Each day a heavy plateful of letters, cards, and little presents is carried in to her by a staggering lady-in-waiting. Utterly lazy, devoid of interests, she is never bored. She spends her days in the composition of notes that drip with sweetness and malice, and in the pursuit of the physical pleasure afforded her by heated baths, new varieties of perfume, and elegant clothes. Nothing has disturbed the shallow existence in which she splashes like a duck since her brief marriage, years ago, to a lord who conveniently died of a fever. The lacquer of her prettiness, unmarked by self-reflection, conceals as soul as shrewd as a jackdaw and as rapacious as a caiman.
"May I introduce you to my son?" rasps Lord Valmion. Siski looks up to see a tall man breathing through dilated nostrils. She already knows him; she's seen him at her uncle's hunting parties. Red Guldo of Dhon, a notorious brawler and breaker of furniture.
She rises, flustered, fighting the urge to giggle. He dances badly, hiding his awkwardness under stamps and misplaced shouts, and overwhelming her with the avid brilliance of his close-set eyes and the powerful, heated gusts of his winey breath. Spinning, she sees Dasya in the clutches of a strikingly tall and slender lady with clumps of powder in her hair. "Table," he yells when she passes him again, and she laughs at the desperate strength with which he whips his partner in circles.
They meet at the table with their partners, under the potted orange trees. Wine overflows, staining the tablecloth pink. She laughs up into her partner's face, pretending to be interested in the Bainish tam he has ordered for going to parties.
"Just for balls," he says. "I'll never use her for anything else."
"Oh, how fine."
"She'll have red wheels and gold knobs all along the roof."
"Oh, gold knobs! Did you hear that, Dasya? Gold knobs on the roof!"
"By my heart," says Dasya, "gold knobs on the roof."
Having got rid of Red Guldo, she falls laughing against her cousin's shirt. Stars are falling, lights hang in her hair. People are talking loudly all around them as he takes her hand. "Come," he says. The second arilantha.
How beautiful everything is! It will gleam in her memory afterward, this night, like a pendant flashing at the end of a long chain, after a subtle poison has seeped into everything, a creeping weakness and fog she will recognize, many years later, as shame. Shame seeps into her bones, chilling her limbs, when Aunt Mardith takes her aside at the beginning of summer, in the gray parlor at Faluidhen where priceless porcelain statuettes stand solemn as generals along the mantelpiece. Siski perches on an armchair stuffed so full it seems to be holding its breath. Red plum trees shower scent through the open window. Aunt Mardith, seated upright on a bredis, touches her handkerchief to her lip. "A pleasant spring," she says.
"Oh yes," says Siski.
"I believe you particularly enjoyed the ball."
"Oh, yes!"
Again Aunt Mardith pats her mouth with the handkerchief. Siski swings her foot, then stops. Aunt Mardith clears her throat. Her eyes are bright, unreadable. When she speaks again, her voice vibrates.
"You know, my child, that I have no gift for idle chatter. I am on firmer footing with the essentials. Let us turn to the essentials, then. I have observed—we have all observed, your grandmother, your uncle, and I—your great affection for your cousin."
The room grows quiet. The figures on the mantel seem to be listening.
"Now," says Aunt Mardith, with a chilly attempt at a laugh, "don't look so alarmed, my child! I haven't brought you in here in the middle of the day to give you a scolding—quite the opposite!"
She tucks her hands under the bredis and, with a series of small jerks, draws it closer to Siski's chair. She reaches out to pat Siski's knee—a gesture so out of character that Siski freezes, nails digging into her chair.
"I don't intend to scold you, but to encourage you," her aunt breathes. "You have had a decent enough education—you know that the marriage of first cousins is frowned upon—but you may not be properly familiar with the genealogy of the Telkans! I am sure you know how to recite Hernas the Shepherd, Beloved of Love, but the family tree of the Royal House is more tangled than that, I assure you! Rava, the Opaline Princess, married her cousin—did you know? And so did Thul the Heretic—the one the Laths are always bragging about! His first wife was his cousin through both Houses—exactly the way Andasya is with you. Her name was Arinoe. She died in childbirth, poor creature, and the infant too... but that need not concern us."
Aunt Mardith touches Siski's knee again. She leaves her fingers there. The spot grows colder and colder as she speaks.
"So there is nothing, nothing at all, to prevent you from marrying your cousin. And what it would mean to us—well, a clever girl like you must see that, surely! A Nainish family on the throne! Not for one generation—which is what will happen if they manage to marry some Lath to your cousin—but for untold years."
Siski's heart slows, then speeds up again.
"The dynasty of Faluidhen," her aunt says in a whisper. "Our House bound up with the future of the empire. And you can do it quite simply, quite simply. Without even trying. He's enamored with you, anyone can—"
"Aunt, please stop."
Aunt Mardith removes her hand from Siski's knee. She laughs. "Come, my child, no false modesty! Let us be candid. We women have special burdens, and we must share them. You are fifteen years old; you cannot be married with propriety before seventeen. These next two years, then, are of particular—"
"Aunt, please!"
Siski stands, her breathing difficult and fast. "You're mistaken. I don't know what you're talking about."
"Dear me," Aunt Mardith says. Her eyes are mild, appraising, watchful. "We are very nervous today. Sit down."
Siski obeys.
In the long silence that follows, it is difficult to tell if Aunt Mardith is breathing. Such wonderful, appalling stillness. At last her lips part. She clears her throat. While outside the window the plum tree waves in the breeze, sometimes caressing the windowsill.
"Freshness," Aunt Mardith says, "is a quality much to be desired. The freshness of happy young things. There is no substitute for it; no cream or paint can achieve it. It is a quality more spiritual than physical, yet it overflows the spirit, as it were, and lends its glow to the flesh."
She smiles. "I do not have it, of course. Perhaps I never did. I have always been called too serious, too old. Mature, people used to say. Not an attractive word to a girl, but in time I learned to turn it to my advantage. You, however," she continues, smoothing her skirt over her knee, "you possess that quality of freshness. Your mother did too, as a girl. A kind of interior brightness. It made her very appealing to gentlemen. To arrange her match with your father was really almost too simple—something of a bore! He wanted to marry her when she was only sixteen. He asked for her hand in this very room. I made him wait a year. Irilas of the Hiluen, fruit of a royal House."
Again the smile. The teeth perfectly arranged. The plum tree performs its perfumed dance. Siski's skin tingles. Her face is too warm.
"Firvaud was different," Aunt Mardith says with a sigh. "More like me, perhaps, though less disciplined. Certainly she had ambition. Even when she was very small she had to win every game. She always insisted on taking the largest honith, the prettiest of the apples. A tyrant, even to Fenya, though he was older than she. Now, one would think that such a girl would easily get whatever she wanted, and that Firheia, who was more easily contented, would lag behind her in all things. And I believe this is how matters appear to most people. After all, Firvaud married a king, and your mother married the lord of a miserable highland town; Firvaud dwells among princes and your mother among goats. But this view is too simplistic. Firvaud had to work to get the Telkan. It took effort and patience. While Irilas fell into your mother's lap."
She watches Siski, as if to gauge the effect of her words.
"I don't understand why you're—"
"Of course not. Of course not. That is precisely the point. You do not understand, you do not think. You live, and dance, and laugh, while others understand and think on your behalf. That is the way you have lived until now, and it has been quite successful. Like your mother before you, you are greatly admired. You have grown up without the slightest insecurity or worry, and this has given you a bloom of charming innocence. Very good. I applaud you. I applaud myself. But no woman can afford to keep her innocence forever. We are the doors of the House: we control its borders. We protect. At some point, we all learn how to work a hinge.
"Come now. Why this expression of distaste? I am telling you, you have done well. You have bewitched your cousin, as I hoped. It is only necessary to take care, now that you have begun to go into society, not to encourage another suitor too much. You will have many, despite your mixed blood—dear me!" She laughs. "How easily offended we are! Perfectly crimson! Really, my child, be sensible! Of course your mixed blood is a disadvantage—especially the Kestenyi strain—one wishes it were possible to hide it, as so many others have done—my heart, yes, you'd be surprised what's not written in the Hath, all sorts of brilliant deceptions have been practiced on unsuspecting princes. They say the Duchess of Ethendria has Panji blood. Just imagine! But you, of course, can hide nothing, being the empire's most illustrious mongrel. This will make some people reluctant to associate with you; but not all of them, not by any means. That is why the next two years will be so delicate. You must avoid any sort of attachment that will give a man a claim on you, but you must not reveal that you plan to marry Andasya..."
Siski forces her hands to relax, to release the plush of her chair. A tiny movement. She doesn't want her aunt to notice. She understands now that her body speaks a language of which she is unaware and the thought makes her feel exposed, stripped down to nothing. Aunt Mardith is speaking of parties, of feasts, of balls, she is breaking them down so that they become, not music, not laughter, not the sweet energy of the dance, but functions as carefully organized as military campaigns. She stresses how important it is that Siski keep her love secret. Their enemies—oh yes, they have many enemies!—must not be given the chance to organize themselves in opposition to the match. She says it must be a surprise attack. She says love when Siski has never said it herself. The word seems to cringe, revealed in harsh light.
Afterward Siski will go to her room and curl up on the windowseat. The afternoon outside still pulsing with color. She will pick up the anthology of poetry she has been reading with her cousin and let it fall open on her knee. A poem by Arduen of Suoveni, known as the Gray Lady. Not a poet who has ever interested them. Dull, says Dasya, and Siski agrees. When she reads the Gray Lady's poems she has always felt vaguely tired, prone to distraction, as if listening to a pair of scissors. Hardly surprising, as the Gray Lady never left the estate of Suoveni and wrote about nothing except her singularly routine and eventless life. She was, states the brief introduction in the anthology, "the poet of the cushion and the comb." But now Siski reads her poems, and the words stand out in lonely beauty. Nine crows on a branch, she reads, and seven will not fly. She sees the Gray Lady closing a door, correct, irreproachable, desperate. Twilight has fallen, and all the windows fade.
A fog over everything. At dinner she cannot raise her head. She cannot look at Dasya without blushing. And while the feeling will lessen, becoming bearable, even ordinary, habitual, it will never go away.
The night of the ball is detached from that fog of shame, and so it shines forth even now, when the world is utterly changed and Ashenlo is lost. The way she turns in Dasya's arms, in his odor of cut grass and healthy sweat. Stepping away from him, spinning, arms above her head. Grandmother nodding in the corner, exchanging a roguish look with Uncle Fenya. The best of Nainish society drifting in bright silks. The lights so hot.
She turns to face him again, lowering her arms.
"Do I look all right?" she whispers.
"You," he says.
|
[ Beloved the Color of Almonds ]
Every day, Dai Fanlei meets the others. Every day she turns mattresses, rips out threads, beats, stuffs, sews. Her fingers grow small transparent calluses. Her gums bleed. She does not have the same body anymore.
She is tired. She grows ill. She coughs and spits a pallid sputum on the road. There are flecks of down in it; they blend with the melting snow.
Her feet are bruised, the nails black. Dai Norla teaches her to wrap them in cast-off strips of cloth, to keep them warm and dry.
Every night Dai Fanlei walks up to the abandoned temple. In her mind, she has begun to call it home.
She cares for him. She gathers wood in the forest and builds up the fire. She brings him a drink of snow in her cupped hands. She tears the bread very small in order to push it between his lips, while he gazes at her with his angel eyes.
"Leave me," he says. His voice slurred.
She lays her hand across his eyes. "Sleep now. Sleep."
And when he sleeps, she quietly opens the book. The only book they have, the one they brought because he had hidden it in his shirt, close to his heart, against the skin. A very old copy, rare, adorned with the somber woodcuts of the past. The gilt looks fresh, undisturbed by human touch. The heavy pages give off the sour and melancholy scent of volumes that no one has thought to open for many years. It is a book kept only for show. She can't tell whether even Dasya read it, or whether he merely carried it like an amulet. She holds it tilted toward the fire, the light on the page a pattern of rippling color, harsh in her eyes and red as veins.
712. Three children and one woman forty-five years of age disappeared in the village of Feirhu. A rough man, without horns, and exhibiting wings too small for flight, was netted and beaten to death in the neighboring woods.
713. A pair of twins born with horns near Sinidre. Executed.
725. A cocoon was discovered in a wind tower in the city of Deinivel. The guard lay in wait for the creature, and three died valiantly before it was captured and drowned in a bucket of wax.
726. A knocking was reported in the cellar of the Temple of Heth Kuidva outside Breim. The area was excavated, and a Dreved preparing for its cocoon stage, fortunately very weak, was discovered and destroyed with fire.
727. A woman with black feathers protruding from the flesh of her back was discovered and drowned in melted wax in the Hadmanyi.
731. A child of five years began to show horns in the city of Asarma. Executed by hot wax.
732. A woman with one wing discovered in the Tavroun. Drowned and then burned.
733. A child with no whites to his eyes executed at Elueth.
735. Eiloki. A female reaper, seventeen years old, complained of a headache. Horns developed, and she was executed by fire.
735. An infant with wing marks executed at Yenith.
736. Ur-Fanlei. A child born with blue flesh. Executed.
Tuik died in the autumn. It was cold, too cold to sleep out on the plateau. The chill seeped down from the empty spaces between the stars. The chill of the void, deadening, indomitable. When she wakes the distant hills are black against a ruddy sky.
"Tuik," she calls.
The horse has strayed. It is Siski's fault: she must not have locked the stable door. She sits behind Dasya on Na Faso, Tav following on her pony. "Tuik!" A feathery whiteness leaves her lips and disappears at once in the cold dry air.
"He came down here," says Dasya.
Tav rides silent beside them, her face sinister and strange in the early light. Following the horse's tracks, they descend the ridge and discover, in the rising light, a valley of misar plants.
"No," says Siski.
She slips from the back of the horse. The others sit motionless. She runs. The spines of the misar slash her trousers, cutting her legs. The light becomes harsher, white. Tuik stands very still with his belly bleeding and curving spines protruding from his lips. His gums and eyelids already dark. He looks at her with the same confidence as ever and her heart cracks like a glass held over a flame. Beloved the color of almonds. "When the dew is on the mountains," she sings to him, taking the halter.
A chant of sobs. In the stable at Sarenha he lies down quietly on the floor. Nenya stands in the doorway shaking her head. Carefully Siski pulls the spines from the tender belly and mouth of her darling and rubs him gently and covers him with a blanket. He will not eat or drink. His breath comes jerkily now, in spasms, and it no longer smells of mornings and of the first snows. She lies beside him, her cheek on the floor, and looks toward the others who squat in the doorway. "You've got to come in," says Tav. "It's too cold."
But she is not coming in, not now, not ever. The others go out, leaving the lantern on the floor, and Dasya returns with furs and blankets. He covers her and sits by the wall with a shambus pelt draped over his knees, silent. Outside the doorway the night is blue.
"I don't want you to look at me," she tells him.
"It's not your fault."
"It is my fault, it is."
"Don't say that."
"Stop looking at me."
He looks away. In the morning the grayish discoloration has covered the horse's head and neck and is creeping toward the heart. She looks at Tuik. She weeps. "I dreamt that none of it was true, that it hadn't happened." Shadows of trees are playing outside. She covers the horse's face with her hair, kisses his nose and then recoils from the bloated skin with its repellent hardness. Only his eye recognizable. He has begun to tremble and looks at her as if to beg her pardon for the indiscretion. She feels that she cannot bear this nobility in him but she bears it all that day because the alternative is unthinkable. Her forehead against his neck, her eyes closed. Night falls, the second night. Again her cousin sits silently by the wall. The two of them and the horse awake in the small light of the lantern. Then Dasya says: "You can't go on like this."
"And what do you know about it?" she cries, savage. "You don't love him."
But she knows he is right. She remembers Mun Vidara's mare that took almost two weeks to die of misar poisoning, lying in the yard. And Mun Vidara came to the house and told the story, sniffing into her handkerchief, and there was an immense silence at the table. And at last Uncle Veda said, his voice thick with emotion: "Forgive me, my lady—you have acted monstrously."
"All right," she says. "Quick."
His Amafeini dagger is very sharp. Ah, would that I had died before my Sarya. Would that I were with her again on the wide plateau, on the wide plateau, in the sweet south wind, beneath a flowered sky.
"No, I'll do it," she says.
She takes the knife. She has hunted shambusna on the plains, she knows where to find the heart. But she is not strong enough, and Dasya helps her. His hands closing over hers, the sudden pressure, the black blood soaking her knees. Even now, not a sound from the horse. Only an increase in his trembling, which gradually subsides with his surging blood. She keeps her eyes open until the end. It comes very soon, in the light of the lantern, there in the stable at Sarenha Haladli.
In the morning she learns of the universe without Tuik. And the ringing silence without Tuik. News of their coming has gone before them, carried by herdboys, and her mother comes into the courtyard to meet them, wearing her yellow dress and with anxious eyes.
"Tuik's dead," Siski says. "He got into some misar."
She holds her mother close, prolonging the embrace so as not to see the compassion and sadness clouding the clear brown eyes. She cannot bear to make her mother unhappy, it makes her want to die even if it is unavoidable, not her fault. And this time it is her fault.
"I'm so sorry," her mother says.
"I'm all right," says Siski, drawing back. At the side of the house, in the sand court, girls from the farm are pounding grain in big stone mortars, singing a nonsense song.
"We're late," her mother says, following the direction of her gaze. Her smile makes a weak light in the exhaustion of her face. The preserving is behind as well. A smell of jam hangs about the house, as if spring has come to the autumn.
Later, in the evening, Siski's father enters the drawing room in his scarlet dressing jacket and frayed trousers. A certain elegance in the way he lights his cheroot at a candle. "That horse cost seven thousand droi," he says.
Home. The hook where she hangs her cloak, the threadbare rug in the hall. Light from an inner room, translated light. It is the glow of the library fire reflected in a mirror and flung out here, to this hall with the flaking walls. Walking past, she drags her fingernail along the plaster and a white chip drops. A little bit each day. She does this absently, as she touches the head of the figure of sorrowing Leilin that stands outside her mother's morning room.
Inside, her mother. A cheerful blaze on the hearth, a vast white bearskin on the floor. All the curtains drawn back to admit the morning light. Her mother is seated at the big rosewood desk that came with her from Faluidhen. She sets aside her pen, her cheeks flushed slightly with pleasure.
"Siski. Siskiye. Have you been out already, so early?"
Her gentle, fragrant kiss. "There's coffee in the pot."
Siski pours a glass and sits on the leather stool in front of the fire, crooking a finger inside the heel of each slipper to pull it off.
The fur of the rug so deep. "Are they still harvesting?" she asks. And receives that gift, her mother's half-laughing, half-despairing gesture, the optimism that never seems to desert her, that gives even her most dreadful and disappointing stories a piquant flavor.
"My dear, you wouldn't believe it if I told you." She goes on talking in her easy, simple, inimitable way, telling of stolen oxen, storm-damaged trees, a fence that can't be mended until she finds money to buy posts. As she speaks her hand hovers over the notebook in which she keeps the accounts. It is covered in baize and held together with string. She is not good at sums and always works them out two or three times on the backs of old menus before she enters them in the book.
"Sometimes I'm afraid to open it," she confesses, laughing and wiping her eyes. Tears shed between amusement and grief. Her delicate skin, scrubbed by the air of the desert, shines beneath the dark wing of her hair where a few pale threads are sparkling. And Siski knows by her resolute smile that despite the catalogue of disasters there will be gifts and a ball again this year on the Feast of Lamps. This is not one of those moments of crisis, occurring two or three times a year, when her mother paces the rug, muttering and counting on her fingers.
During those times the house grows dark; they are ordered to save the oil. Nenya goes about with a fierce stiff face, carries trays to the morning room and makes certain grim allusions which the children are too frightened to examine. At night there are strange bumps and scrapings: their mother, in her dressing gown, is emptying cupboards, looking for things to sell. Worst of all are the Tolie mornings in the huntsmen's room when she explains to the servants that she can give them only half their wages. The rough hands, clad in gloves if it is winter, close about the coins, and the herdboys shuffle silently toward the door. Afterward her mother returns to the morning room. Her uncombed hair is fastened with pins, her arms hang by her sides. The children crouch at the edge of the door she has forgotten to close and watch her gesturing, animated by desperation. She insists that their tutor go over her sums. "We must think of something!" she cries. "You will surely see something I have missed."
She makes him sit in the chair and kneels beside him. And the tutor snatches off his skullcap and throws it on the floor, a habit which is comical in the schoolroom but not here, not here. "I am not a steward!" he cries. "You ought to have a steward."
He fumes, kicks at his fallen cap, sometimes even weeps. Their mother rises at last and goes to the window. A strange half-smile on her lips, she rests her forehead against the glass and gazes out at the desolate countryside.
But today, no, today there is no despair, only the usual struggles, and fires burn in the library and the little family parlor. Siski goes into this parlor, where skins cushion the floor and a pair of Savrahili sabers hangs on the wall. There are no flowers now, and the parlor looks plain, even austere, but it is still one of her favorite rooms. Only, in the air, she can detect the chill that follows wherever her father, that stranger, that interloper, has passed.
All morning he sleeps. Siski and Tav and their cousin wander through the south wing of the house, they look at the books in the library in silence. They are examining pieces of armor in their dead grandmother's audience hall when a shield slides off the table and falls with a clang.
They look up, frozen in the light from the window. Slowly the clamor dies away and they hear the beating of three hearts. But there is no other sound until noon, when a creak on the stairs admonishes them to seek the amadesh, the orchard, the hills. Usually they go riding at this hour, but Siski will not ride without Tuik, and the others walk with her under the apricot trees. Dragging branches through the fallen leaves. The house stands over them, aloof, pierced with windows like broken mirrors. The house in which he walks, drinks his coffee, sits in the library alone. They stay away, running wild in the orchard and on the farm, eating raush from their pockets and drinking milk behind sheds where goats are being slaughtered. They run filthy, half-frozen, harassed by dogs.
Dasya looks up at the purple sky. "It's kebma time," he says.
Slowly they return to the darkened house. Certain formalities are preserved. They bathe, they dress for kebma. Siski wears a pair of agate pins in her hair. In the drawing room she stands near the fire, holding her plate, chewing. She does not know or think about what she eats. And all of them stand like that, just eating, silent, unless her mother clears her throat and begins a tentative conversation.
Then all the children help her. "Oh, did you know?" "I think." "I saw him too." Her father stands by the window with crossed arms. His smile is taut, derisive, false. "Is that what you think?" he says. The silence closes. No one looks at him. They eat.
Evenings of candlelight and dread, without innocence, without pleasure. Her high lace collar scratches the back of her neck. In the dining room the candles stand on the table in pallid rows while on the walls the portraits kindle their abstract smiles. Her father eats doggedly, attacking his meat. He mutters: "The meat is tough."
"I'm sorry," her mother says softly. "It was roasting all afternoon."
"That's why it's tough, you let them overcook it."
He beckons and Fodok steps from the shadows with a bottle of dark wine. The liquid curls in the glass with a tinny music. Outside moonlight covers the fields, roads, and canals with a mantle of chalk. Hired men and girls are going home along the roads, singing, stepping vigorously in their rawhide boots. A few herds of cattle and sheep are on the roads as well, being driven home in the dark. The herdboys sing their peculiar oh-ee, oh-ee notes. Light shines from a kitchen with a waxed floor. At the Three Falcons, Durs is easing out corks with his heavy tufted hands. Men sit everywhere, on the steps, at the table under the fig tree, reaching for bottles, coughing, pulling off their gloves. Young Osenor, who plays music in exchange for drinks, sits in his special chair and plucks the diali. With a comb in her hair.
Children run through the yards, chasing each other. Dogs are snapping at bones. And we sit here, immobilized by silence. The house is hushed and empty, it seems as if even the servants have gone away, taking with them all naturalness, light, and color. Life, real life, is banished to the golden, bread-smelling amadesh, where a little window is open to let out the heat, where the cook sits with her feet soaking in a basin and Nenya takes off her kerchief to let the servants' children plait her hair. Life is in the morning room, peeping from under the bearskin rug. It is in the little parlor where, on the day before Tanbrivaud, Siski and Tav and their mother will hang up ribbons and evergreen branches, bursting with laughter, standing on the hard leather chairs. The children cover their mouths when they laugh, they hide behind the curtains. Their mother is purposeful, lively, like anyone's mother. She scolds them, chases them with the branches. Then suddenly she raises her hand. "Shh." On her cheek a pale mark like a star.
In the dining room, the stranger raises his glass. He stares before him at the candles. He is the author of this enervating silence. For them, for his family, silence and contempt. It is for others that he unpacks the jewels of his intellect and charm. She has seen him hold a room full of visitors spellbound with his talk, convulse the most sober listener with his wit. From the old conservatory where he spends his evenings alone or with the doctor, she has often heard his shouts of unnatural laughter. Yes, he laughs until he chokes, he cackles, he pounds on the table. But not here. Here he sets his glass down by his plate. He says something, she doesn't know what, something that makes her mother tilt her head, a public smile crystallizing on her lips.
"Perhaps not necessary," her mother murmurs.
He goes on talking, he is talking now about money, lamp oil, wood. "The earlier you rise, the more wood you consume. You sit in that parlor of yours, a huge room, and heat the whole place for seven hours."
Her mother laughs, a little frown of pain denting her brow. "Oh, never seven hours. Never that long."
Siski looks at the window but she can only see their reflections now, the night is too dark, the dining room too bright. She sees her mother's image motion for Fodok, order more apples, the servants mustn't hear them argue, it wouldn't do.
A familiar despair, as easily recognizable as home itself, comes in from the night and the desert, from all directions. Don't say anything, don't look. For evil is here, among the plates. Afterward everyone will rise, fleeing that high cold room. The children will go to the parlor, running, bumping into the walls, shoving each other, giggling, behaving as they think other children do. In the parlor Dasya will throw himself on the floor in front of the fire. "Alas my heart, I've eaten enough for fifty men." Tav will string the little bow she carved that afternoon and pursue them until bedtime with her toy arrows. "Stop it!" Siski shrieks, flinging herself behind the couch. "I don't want to play, I mean it, kad shedyamud." But she does want to play. The restlessness, the need for movement and light, is terrible. She rolls on the skin rug, laughing, clutching her ribs.
Sing more, play more, make more noise. Father is in the conservatory cutting up cakes of bolma, he won't hear. Subdued at last, exhausted, they go upstairs where they can hear their mother playing the limike in her dressing room.
Oh joyful the morning, the fairest is walking
on field and on hillside her blossoms to shed.
Every night the same tune, a very beautiful tune by Hailar the Blind, that master of rhythm, harmony, and mathematics. She plays it every night, again and again. Sometimes she sings. The children fall asleep to those complex and ordered tones. She is not talented; music is difficult for her, she makes mistakes, goes back to repeat the most intricate measures. She plays it quickly, as if she would feel how fast her fingers are able to move, and then slowly as if to drain each note of its essence. Sitting cross-legged on the low flat couch, not looking in the mirror. About her the light of the porcelain Nainish lamp. She plays. On the wall hangs a portrait of her father in an ebony frame, below it a painting of Faluidhen she made herself, long ago.
Dim gray walls relieved by clusters of roses. No one knows why she plays the same air every night, that song and no other. Perhaps, on the wave of music, she returns to the fresh, cold climate of the north, to the vast pink orchards, to the pines. Or perhaps the challenge of Hailar's composition enables her to forget, for an hour, the relentlessness of her life. Or perhaps the music she loves so dearly compensates her for the hardships, the losses coming one after the other. The struggle to maintain the house, to keep from having to sell the carriage, give up the tutor for the children, cut down the woods. For the battle to keep dishonor at bay, the necessity to smile, to lie, every day. And for her husband, always for him. Yes, perhaps those liquid notes and the pleasure of creating them each night is a recompense for his disappearances to Tevlas, for the money he spends which he will never explain. For her suspicions, her secret tears, the sobs she smothers with her pillow. For the humiliation she suffers when one of the servants knocks at her door because the master is lying unconscious in a hallway, and she must give permission for him to be carried upstairs, undressed, rolled into bed, so that the children will not discover him in the morning. For the night she glanced from the window, having heard a noise below, and saw him urinating drunkenly in the garden. For his coldness, his rebuffs. The way he mocks her for praying, calls her a fool, sneers at all her interests and amusements. And the way that the children, as an extension of her, meet with the same repulsion and scorn. The way they shrink from him with their huge despairing eyes—her children who are so eager to please, so sensitive that the least unpleasant word brings out great bruises on their hearts. For the way that the house has become a place of sighs, a trackless wasteland in which happiness is kept hidden like a crime. On holidays the children cluster whispering in her dressing room, unwrapping their little presents with cold fingers.
And then there are the sudden changes, his violence, his caprices. The gifts that overwhelm with their strange brilliance. The Bainish gown he purchased for her, its skirt encrusted with Nissian rubies, or, for Siski, an astonishing, princely horse. And the outings, abruptly decided upon, the excursions to Solfian in an open wagon. The wind pulls furiously at the children's flying hair. Seated on bales of straw, frightened, disheveled, they cling to one another, jolting over the roads in an ashen twilight. It takes too long to get to the wood; they are hungry, thirsty, desperate. Their father's face grows harder as it becomes clear his plan has failed. By the time the little rush lights are lit, those lights which are meant to give them so much pleasure, Siski is weeping softly and Tav has fallen asleep.
Oh joyful the morning, the fairest is walking
on field and on hillside her blossoms to shed.
Siski looks at her father. She looks at him. She hears his voice. "I'm only trying to make a bit of conversation." A flash of movement, the quiver of a whip. He has thrown his napkin down. "That's what you wanted, isn't it? Conversation over dinner."
He reaches for a candle, and the light drawn close picks out the gray in his beard and illuminates his handsome, hawk-like, deep-lined face. A face that seems almost petrified, except for the roving and fiery eyes. He lights his cheroot, dripping wax on the tablecloth.
"Careful," her mother says, very quickly, not thinking.
"What did you say to me?"
He stares.
Her mother's eyes are downcast, her fingers fluttering. "It's nothing, it's only—the tablecloth, you're dripping—"
"And isn't this my own house? And can't I spill whatever I like on the tablecloth?"
The same, every night, the same weariness and oppression. No one eats.
Siski looks at him, the world about her beginning to dissolve. No, it is not the same every night. Tonight it is not the same.
"It's because Mother has to clean the linen," she says.
Silence. He looks at her in stupefaction before the eyes with their discolored whites and scarlet veins begin to gather their fury. She hurries, afraid she won't be able to finish.
"It's because she has to clean the tablecloths, that's why she doesn't like them to get stained."
Already her eyes are full of tears. He sits back in his chair, cold, sarcastic. "I suppose she doesn't have servants to wash the tablecloths. Or perhaps she makes you wash them, is that it?"
She hears herself stammering. "She. She has to ask Nenya. It makes extra work, she doesn't like it— "
And with shame, rage, loathing, she feels herself beginning to sob, because it's horrible, this existence, ignoble, demeaning. And because, by weeping, she has already lost.
"You dare to open your mouth. You killed that horse. You've cost me more money than your mother with her firewood."
She cannot see him anymore; the table slips and blends with the wall, swirling about her, melting in the light. She imagines the others staring at her in horror, at this violent display, this scene. But she has gone too far to stop. "Mother gets up early in the morning to do the accounts," she cries, weeping and shaking, her hands clenched on the table. "She needs the wood, she needs it. She always saves, she never wastes anything. Let her have the firewood from my bedroom, I don't want it."
"Siski," her mother says.
"No," her father interrupts, his smile malicious and triumphant. "She says she doesn't want it. Very well, you won't have a fire, but you won't give the wood to your mother because it is not yours to give. It is mine."
Pressing. Pressing. "Pressing and pressing," she sobs. "Pressing on everything all the time." She kneels at the edge of the sunken garden, her face on the low stone wall that is dusted with snow. She turns her head, rubbing her cheeks and forehead on the rugged stone. Her hand tight over her heart where she feels it pressing. Why is it? Why? Why all the time? Stars burst and glitter behind her eyes, the steadying pain of her forehead stung by snow. Still it keeps pressing and it is possible to die here in the dark, deserted garden.
To die of it. To die. She shivers, snow is on her neck, her knees are wet, her feet numb in the embroidered slippers. She turns her head again. Snow on her eyelids. Someone comes and stands beside her and she feels that it is Dasya.
He does not speak. She raises her head. Lights in the house behind him and she knows that he can see her upturned face. She cannot speak of it, she would rather die. "Tuik is dead," she chokes. "I killed him. And you're not happy here anymore."
He crouches beside her, jacketless in the cold. "I am happy."
She shakes her head. "You're not."
She wonders if Aunt Mardith took him aside at Faluidhen. If he, too, is under the fog of shame. Is that why he is so strange with her, so distant?
"Siski," he says. "Look, stand up. You can't stay there."
He pulls her up. Suddenly she feels quiet, remote. As if all the world has fallen away from them. He holds her hand as they walk to the end of the garden and stand looking out at the snow-dark night. Two figures in a shapeless landscape.
All winter her room remains cold. She tells herself she'll grow used to it. Nenya brings her heated bricks in secret. "Here, sudaidi." Her guilty face, the bricks wrapped in a sheet, her glance down the corridor as she thrusts the bundle into Siski's arms. And before there is time to thank her she has hurried off toward the stairs, her kerchief shining in the dark and then winking out. Silence. The lamp on the desk seems smaller, pale. And Siski understands that it was really the glow of the fire that lit the room in the past.
It takes a long time for the bricks to heat the bed. Her book shakes in her hands. She tells herself that everything is the same, just the same. But she cannot read the beloved words. The forget-me-nots in the margins quiver and turn to clouds in the dazzle of her tears. She wipes her eyes on her wrist and tries again. The green green wood. She bites her lip. At last she lays down the book and sobs in her crossed arms. But in the morning she is pale, defiant. No one must speak of it. She snaps when her mother tries to comfort her.
And very soon no one speaks of it, as if nothing ever happened. In that cheerless chamber she goes to bed each night. Here she retires to be alone, to weep, to nurse her flayed heart when she learns that Uncle Fenya has bought all but a tiny strip of the farm. Lying under the blankets in the dark. Once, in the little parlor, her father himself attempts to speak to her. "How was your night?" he asks gruffly. "Fine," she says, and leaves the room. That night his hard eyes flash as he mocks her across the table.
But still there are the conventional gestures, the meals, the celebrations, at the end of the year the colored lights in the avla. She stands at the window, behind her the scraping of the Tevlasi orchestra, the stamping of spurred and booted feet. Someone takes her arm and she turns, the lamplight in her eyes. Mun Vidara wears black and has black eyebrows. Her face is tense and eager and her creaking dress smells sharply of ammonia, dried sweat, and eau de cologne. She drags a young man forward by the elbow. "It's our Tadi!" she shrieks, beaming with her long dun-colored teeth. "You'd never have known him, would you?"
Siski smiles and shakes her head, regarding the tall soft-bodied youth with the curling hair. Behind him a blur of dancers, colored skirts unfurling in light. She hears her father's wheezing, delighted laugh, his special laugh for responding to flattery, and sees him leaning heavily on Em Makov's shoulder. "That's it!" he shouts. "Exactly what he said. And I said to him, we'll have another bottle, these ladies are still thirsty!" Evergreen boughs hang limply on the walls. It is the Feast of Lamps, the annual holiday ball at Ashenlo.
Tadi does not dance badly. He talks of Eilam, the shops, the carriages, "Vai, it makes our Tevlas look like a 'Rouni farm." She answers vaguely, looking over his shoulder. She sees her mother beside the table of drinks, discussing something with Nenya. Nenya wears a small crown of satin flowers for the occasion and an apron embroidered with heraldic greyhounds. Her mother wears the same gown she wore last year, a crimson silk refurbished with black lace borders at neck and hem.
Someone is laughing loudly: it is the darwad, already drunk. His pigtail bobs behind him, thick with grease like the tail of a shambus. The orchestra plays as if they will never stop, thrashing their feet to ring the clusters of bells about their booted ankles. There are no bouquets. Only Mun Miraleth wears some lank lilies in the powdered confection of her hair, touching them every few minutes. She has coaxed them to stay alive in her conservatory, warmed by pots of hot coals.
Instead of flowers, Siski wears a great diamond and ruby brooch pinned to her shoulder. Tadi ogles it. "Are those imperial jewels?"
"Yes, it was my grandmother's brooch."
"My heart, they're as big as cherries." His hand, slick with perspiration, tightens on hers.
Suddenly tired and sad, she looks for Dasya and sees him dancing with Mun Miraleth. He too looks unhappy. His coat is loose about his thin flanks, his hair pulled back, and his face in the lamplight looks so drawn and strange that she is afraid.
Earlier in the evening they set lights to float on the Oun; they had to break the ice. "Are you quite well?" says Tadi anxiously. "You seem a little—"
"Oh, I'm fine," she laughs, but still the young man takes her arm and leads her to the table. She wants to drink wine but her mother is watching and so she has tea instead. "Mm," she says, nodding at her partner. Hairs rise on her skin: her father is near. She sees him take a glass of wine, holding it loosely near the base. Despite the noise she hears him say to her mother as he passes her: "Humiliating. You look like a schoolteacher's wife." He turns away abruptly, welcoming someone in loud, genial tones. Her mother's hand taps jerkily on her knee.
The air of the avla is murky and golden, obscured by a haze near the ceiling, where the windows are beaded with moisture like chilled tears. It is a place of bitterness, inconsolable. The orchestra shatters one's thoughts with the clamor of its unending lamentations. A crowd has gathered about her father, who dances now with Mun Miraleth, his small beard pointing, one broad arm flung out. His face glistens with heat, its expression set. He dances flamboyantly, with such fierce energy that she is afraid he will fall. Every few moments, an outburst of applause. She looks for Dasya and sees him standing near the entryway with Tav. "Dance with me." He gazes over her shoulder, never into her eyes, as they turn together, far away from the group that surrounds her father.
Here the floor seems empty, as if the ball is already over.
"Why do you want to break my heart?" she says.
He does not answer. His hand on the small of her back. She hides her face against his shoulder. "Why, why won't you tell me what's wrong?"
The music races ahead of them; they are not moving in time. When the dance is over she dries her eyes on her handkerchief. "I must look a fright."
"No," he says in a harsh and alien voice that leaves her stunned. He turns his back on her and walks away.
Em Makov appears with his officer's moustache and cranberry-colored hair. "Oh no," she laughs, "it's only the smoke from the lamps." They dance, she laughs at a story about his vineyard, afterward she asks him to bring her a glass of Karsavi from the table. She drinks it sitting on a bench by the wall and later she drinks another glass at the table, careful not to look in her mother's direction. She hears her own bright laughter. Tadi tells a humorous story and then Em Makov is there again with his wry and mournful horse's profile. Mun Vidara admires Siski's dress and Siski straightens her shoulders, her brooch catching the light. Someone beside her says: "A real Kestenyi beauty." The lamps are dim, the musicians are cooling their fingers on lumps of snow. In the silence a succession of terrible echoes.
"A thousand blessings." "Good night." "Good night." The guests go out to the hall to collect their furs. She takes a candle and walks along a narrow passage, finding her way to the stairs, touching the wall unsteadily with one hand. Suddenly Dasya steps from a darkened room.
He steps out straight in front of her, his hand on her wrist to keep her from dropping the candle. "Come with me to the hills tomorrow. Come alone. We'll meet at the north door, without Tav."
"Why?" She tries to pull out of his grip and wax drips on his knuckles.
He does not flinch, but stares as if fascinated at the hardening drops. Then his eyes, raised slowly, dark, searching, unfathomable.
"Please," he says.
"You're hurting me," she hisses, and he releases her wrist. Footsteps and voices are coming down the hall.
"All right, I'll come," she whispers hurriedly. He steps away from her, backward into the chasm of the doorway. Upstairs in the piercing cold of her room, trying to warm her hands at the lamp, she falls asleep with her head on the writing table.
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[ The Clearing ]
A calm descends. Dai Fanlei is quiet. The world is waking up, the snow dissolving, but Dai Fanlei is going to sleep.
She works without pause, slowly. Just motion, arms going up and down. A small smile hangs a finger's breadth in front of her face. She hears them talk, Dai Norla, Dai Kouranu, and Dai Gersina. They say "in the Valley." They say "the Duke of Bain." In this way Dai Fanlei learns that Veda of Bain, called "Uncle Veda" in another life, is to be Telkan of Olondria. And the old Telkan, once called "Telkan Uncle," is dead. His body, first interred in a park, has been exhumed and placed in the graveyard of the kings.
Dai Fanlei's smile hovers. It never fades.
The streets are clearer now. The temples have opened their doors to the refugees. Charities have sprung up: you can see country noblemen, even the darwad and his daughters, serving soup and distributing bales of cloth. They are so happy to have escaped the chaos with their possessions intact that they give with both hands, laughing, full of love. A holiday air reigns in the town square where a wealthy old landowner, famous as a cruel taskmaster, dispenses orange cake from the back of his horse.
Nothing has changed, except that Kestenya is lawless now, broken off from the empire. All the good families there have fled into the Valley. Dai Fanlei does not ask about Lord Irilas, Duke of Tevlas, and Lady Firheia of Ashenlo. She will not.
Wet earth everywhere blackening. She walks through mud now, mud instead of snow. Sometimes storms come, streaking swiftly over the hills, soaking her clothes, chilling her as she walks, until her skin reaches the exact temperature of the rain.
In the abandoned temple, a small red light.
She has had to move his couch away from the fire. He suffers from the light and warmth. He suffers. He no longer eats. He can hardly open his mouth. He winces when she dribbles water over his lips.
His voice, crushed. He grunts and groans. He forms her name: a sound like branches breaking. He says it again, again, again. She thinks he is trying to warn her, perhaps, to urge her to desperate action. She thinks that he is trying to tell her: Now.
She shakes her head. She wants to hold him, to comfort him, but it would give him too much pain.
Deep night again, and she opens the book. She reads: Their beauty, designed to inspire pity in their victims. She reads: In seven days it will be too late.
At that time of year the world was breathless, immaculate, immobile, the standing trees decked with garlands of snow. The sky dark gray above the hills, drifting into twilight. A crow flying across it: the center of movement and life. The crow draws away, diminishes and is lost. She sees Dasya walking from the orchard, his hands in the pockets of his coat. He has been out, perhaps for hours. His face is pale to the lips. He meets her under the dripping eaves. "Let's go."
She walks. She follows him to the back gate and out onto the snowy horse-track. Stolid crunch of footsteps breaking the frost. Her head lowered, she watches her boots and in front of her, his boots. She moves with some difficulty, avoiding his footprints.
They go on walking. The track leads upward. They pass the shepherds' hut, its roof caved in, charred marks on the earth around the door. A preternatural silence haunts the wood. She hears her breath, so loud. The snow creates a radiance under the trees.
After an hour she begins to lag behind. "Wait," she says.
He turns to her with a face transformed beneath the darkness of his hood, a face so thin, so haggard, so much older that she cannot speak. She stands with her mouth open.
"What is it?" he says.
"I—I'm getting tired."
He looks away, then looks at her again. "Let's go a little farther. To the clearing."
When she does not answer, he says: "I can't breathe here."
She nods and follows him again, cold, stumbling in the snow.
A brightness through the trees. As if a blue lamp shines among them. The branches are growing thin. It is the clearing. She pauses, panting, clinging to a sapling with one hand. The darkening sky is visible now, the peaks. Everything lit as if from behind by a somber, wintry glow. She looks at Dasya, her cousin, her beloved. He stands almost in the center of the clearing and raises his eyes to meet her gaze. She says: "Are you going to tell me?"
"Yes."
He says it, he says, "Yes." He almost smiles. A look so pitiful she cries out in spite of herself: "Oh, what is it?"
He looks away. The smile grows rigid on his lips, unnatural. "Siski—do you think a person can be cursed?"
"Cursed?" she says. "Well. I suppose so. Some people ought to be, certainly."
"Don't laugh." His fists are clenched, the knuckles blue.
"I don't mean to laugh, but you're not making sense. What do you mean, cursed? Is it Tuik? Because that was an accident, that was—"
"No."
He stands. His face so still. He's smiling again, but the smile is otherworldly, distant. His lips move. "I'm so tired."
He sinks to his knees. When she sits beside him he lies down with his head in her lap. The snow falls thickly. Darkness over the trees.
Trembling she strokes his face, his snow-damp hair. She weeps. "What is it?"
"Don't make me move," he protests sluggishly. "I want to go to sleep."
"You can't go to sleep. You'll freeze."
"Siski, I'm happy." His eyes are closed. "I'm happy here. Please don't make me get up. Not yet."
She lets him lie there, motionless. His legs stretched out in the snow. He sighs, she feels his breath go into the dark. The warmth of his body. She cradles him, rocks him. "I think I'm under a curse," he says. "Because of my father. Because of his work with the Stone."
"That's ridiculous."
"I've thought about it," he murmurs. "Perhaps Ayalei is cursing him through me. Perhaps I should dedicate myself to her. Or perhaps I should run even farther from her, toward the Stone... I have to do something. I'll only be able to hide it for a few years."
"To hide? Hide what?"
He reaches for her hand, grips it. His fingers strangely warm. "I'm frightened," he whispers.
She bows over him, hiding him in her cloak, making a circle heated by their breath. A little tent.
"Don't be frightened. Let me help you. Tell me what's wrong."
Silence. He has begun to shiver.
Then he sits up and slowly gets to his feet. She stands too. A stretch of muddy snow between them. She begs him to tell her, she says she doesn't care if he's cursed, she'll never abandon him. She believes it is the truth.
"Now," he murmurs.
She nods.
His face is bloodless, drained of color. In that unearthly surface, the dark orbs of his eyes. He lifts his hands, he pushes back his hood. The snow falls on his hair. He unbuttons his coat. He is not trembling now. No, it is in a new tranquility and a poignant solitude that he moves toward this, the dreaded, the longed-for moment. His coat drops on the snow, his leather jerkin. His hands are in the strings of his shirt, its whiteness a lamp against his flesh. Then the shirt, too, falls to the ground. It catches the air for a moment, billows, sinks. He turns, a boy in snow. His body glowing in the blue of the twilight is more beautiful than a statue. It is the end of everything.
He stands with his back to her, his arms spread wide.
His arms, as lovely as two flames.
His back, half-veiled by the glittering sequins of the snow.
She sees. She puts her hand to her lips but cannot stifle her sudden cry.
It is the end of everything that has been.
On his shoulder blades, two ridges: the dark forms of incipient wings.
They look hard, reddish, like scars where infection has set in. He turns and gazes at her over his shoulder, in the pose of one of the monsters in the Dreved Histories.
For a moment she stares. Then she starts as if burned. She staggers backward.
"Siski," he says. His arm outstretched.
The sound, her name, is the last word she hears him say. She turns and runs. She crashes among the trees, sliding on the snowy path, branches tearing her clothes and hair. The moon lights her way on the terrible descent. She reaches Ashenlo with bleeding cheeks, her clothes in disarray. Unable to speak of anything. She pounds at the door of the amadesh and falls on the warm swept floor in front of the fire. Shaking uncontrollably, with a frozen and staring face. She does not understand what people are saying to her. They set her on a stool and rub her hands and feet with teiva. The doctor is sent for; he orders a lukewarm bath. All the time she makes no response to the questions of those around her. Only when she hears them mention her cousin's name, when they ask her where he is, does a feeble ray shine from her eyes, a spark of terror that makes them hush one another with meaningful glances. This reaction to his name, her stubborn or helpless refusal to tell what has happened, the disordered condition of her clothes and hair, are taken as evidence of guilt, as proof that a premature and shameful union has taken place among the young people in the woods. Dasya is sent away at once: he finds his belongings packed and a coach awaiting him when he comes down from the hills. It is considered too dangerous to wait until the dawn for his removal from the presence of his cousin.
They wash her face, her hair, they bandage her cheeks. They dress her as if she were a child. She remains docile until they lead her into her room. Then, when they try to start a fire in the grate, she becomes violent, swearing that she would rather die than have a fire in her bedroom again. "Take her into my room," her mother orders hurriedly. They make a bed for her on the big soft couch the color of beeswax. Firelight dances in her eyes. She is warm, safe, beneath a quilted coverlet with white tassels, in the fragrance of her mother.
She closes her eyes. Such warmth, such comfort, and yet she cannot sleep. A memory comes to her, vivid as a dream. She remembers waking in the stable at Sarenha with the dying Tuik, toward morning when all was very dark and still. Only a spark in the failing lantern. "No, don't move," her cousin said. It was the stinging sensation that had awakened her. Dasya had rolled her trousers up to the thigh and he was washing the misar cuts on her legs with water from a jar.
|
[ Seven Years in the West ]
Here is what will happen.
He will grow more and more sensitive. It will become impossible for him to wear clothes. He will grow thin, his body hot to the touch. The unnatural heat will be most intense in his back, where the wings are sprouting.
He will have to lie on his stomach because of the pain.
This is when he is at his most vulnerable. It might even be possible to kill him with hot wax. "During this phase, which is known as skadri," the book advises, "the hot wax method ought to be attempted, if at all possible."
Kernis writes: "The wax melted the flesh as if it had been fat upon the fire; in an instant we saw the creature's bones."
She further advises that those who administer wax should wear some sort of protection, perhaps armor, to guard against the creature's saliva. "For the monster writhed most hideously, and spat great gobs of the thickened spittle called urum, which is produced in preparation for the state of thaus. This heavy white stuff, of the consistency of heated gum, fell upon the leg of our scribe Eivani, who broke out in painful pustules."
More and more urum will fill his mouth. His lips will be gummed shut. They will turn dark blue. The state of skadri lasts seven days.
Then comes thaus, "cocoon" in the ancient tongue. He will be able to open his mouth again, in order to pour forth urum.
"Thus, like the silk moth, the creature prepares its nest."
After thaus he will be a full Dreved. His wings will burst the cocoon, indigo-dark, almost black. His eyes will be dark, without whites. "Nevertheless the creature's expression is one of abominable pathos."
A Dreved. He will no longer have teeth. Instead, his open mouth will reveal long vertical lines of blue, like the baleen of a whale. These are called surudin. Pressed against flesh, they cause the blood to flow with a marvelous and fatal copiousness.
"The Dreved's first victim is usually the first human being in sight."
He lies on his stomach. He can no longer speak. He weeps. His own tears cause him pain, they scald his flesh. He is an angel pinned to his couch and weeping.
"Hush," she tells him. "Hush."
She still can't think about the future: this terror soaring toward her on dark wings.
Instead she descends in memory. All that time, and so much of it wasted!
Time, she thinks. And the mysteries of the body.
Winter in the Balinfeil. The carriage moves at a crawl on the snowy road. At Noi, it is necessary to change from a wheeled coach to a sleigh. The coachman lifts Siski's trunk into the back. "A rough time of year for travel, my lady." He sings as they glide down the road, his voice muffled in his scarf.
We got lost seven times on the way to Noi.
The icy winter was combing its beard.
We asked the way at an old footbridge,
and the drunk said, "Stars are falling."
Stars are falling along the road
that leads seventy times to Noi.
Alas my heart, it's snowing in Mendas,
great flakes of silver droi.
The carriage creaks as it goes down into the fog. It rumbles past Faluidhen and continues to the great, gloomy castle of Rediloth. This is Aunt Mardith's private house. One day it will be Siski's. Rooks skim the towers in the wintry air.
She has come here for her health, everyone says.
The coachman gets out to unlatch the gate. Icicles burst as it opens. In the courtyard, he takes down the trunk. "Come now!" he cries, glancing at Siski, who shivers by the door. "You're young, my lady. It can't be as bad as all that."
The little maidservant opens the door, her worn hands red and dripping from wringing out sheets. Straining, she maneuvers Siski's trunk into the hall. Weeping stones, an odor of soured potatoes, on the wall a single taper glowering in an iron bracket. The cold is elemental, penetrating, persistent as a curse. And here is Aunt Mardith, gliding out of the darkness in pale gray. Pearls on her fingers and at her throat, a pearly radiance in her hair. Her face quiescent, timeless, beyond age.
"Welcome, my dear."
She leads the way to the central hall, which she calls her parlor. Untenanted chairs face one another in the dark. The exertions of the maid raise a blaze on the massive, blackened hearth, calling four soft-padding dogs out of the corners. Aunt Mardith keeps dogs because they eat leftover food, and she does not like spoiling her servants. And so these imprisoned greyhounds, these Nualeithi hunters, serve no purpose but to prevent little Anilon with her bark-shod feet from taking home a gnawed joint in her pinafore.
"Thank you, Anilon, that is all. Siski, give her your cloak." But Siski shakes her head, refusing to give up her mantle. The maidservant scurries out, and Siski and her aunt sit on two of the straight-backed chairs before the fire.
"You're shivering, dear. You may draw closer."
But even if she hurls herself into the blazing logs it will not warm her; she will burn alive before she finds any comfort in this house. Already her cheeks are scorched by the heat but her bones are cold, cold, her teeth chattering, while Aunt Mardith sits in a portrait-like repose. Her pearls reflect the firelight. "It's your Kestenyi blood," she says. "I'm sure you'll grow accustomed to Nainish weather in time." In the darkness of the invisible walls the bolted shutters emit soft groans beneath the incessant punishment of the wind.
When tea is brought in they move to the table. The porcelain lamp is lit. Siski resists the urge to warm her hands at its glow. Aunt Mardith does not speak until the servant is gone and the great doors have boomed shut. Then she says: "You may pour."
The cinnamon-colored tea trembles in the glasses. There are diced hazelnuts and miserly biscuits dusted with icing sugar. "I have lived for this House," Aunt Mardith says. "I have been vigilant and tireless on its behalf. How have I failed?
"The fact that you do not answer," she continues after a moment, "means, I suppose, that you are not unaware of my meaning. You know that your sister is lost to us. Lost. Her name has been published in the newspapers. To us, she is in the tomb."
She lifts a biscuit to her lips and sets it down again without taking a bite. Her expression is so mild, so controlled, that Siski thinks she must have imagined the quivering of her fingertips. "In your place I should be thinking of the future. There is no need to sneer—yes, I can read your face quite easily. Perhaps you see what Tavis has done as a sort of prank, a game. You think it will all be forgotten in a year or two. You are wrong. It will affect you terribly. You will carry this scandal about with you like an anvil on your back."
"Why are you telling me this?"
"Because of the rebellious spirit that provokes you to ask that question, my dear niece."
Aunt Mardith smiles, stirring her tea, which she drinks black and unsweetened, with a silver teaspoon embossed with greyhounds. "Because you are young and frivolous, you do not have a serious nature. Your mother was much more serious as a girl. Though she, alas, was not saved from making a most disastrous marriage." She raises her glass to her lips, shaking her head. "I pray that better things are in store for you—you through whom the dignity of our House may one day be restored. Because, make no mistake, that dignity has suffered a dreadful blow. You stare—perhaps you don't understand my meaning."
Her small fist on the tablecloth, her black and motionless eyes. "You don't understand what it means for the heirs of this House to degrade themselves. To throw away the efforts of their predecessors. To expose themselves to pity and scorn, after everything that has been done to advance our position. No. You don't understand. What it means for a woman like the Duchess of Duema, a nobody whose great-grandfather traded in tea and spices, to be able to shower us with her disgusting compassion. She wrote to me. I will show you the letter. Perhaps then you will know what I mean."
"I don't want to read your letters."
"Look at me," says Aunt Mardith.
Siski lifts her head. Her face throbs with heat in the lamplight.
"We are Nains," Aunt Mardith says. "You take your position for granted, you and your sister. You think it was easy to forge a link with the royal House. Your cousin was born at Velvalinhu!" She opens one frail hand in the air, incredulous. "Nainish blood has been mingled with that of the Telkans! But it doesn't mean anything to you. You care for nothing but riding, parties, and defiance."
"You don't know me," Siski says.
"Apparently not. But I intend to."
Aunt Mardith raises a wand and strikes the little copper gong on the table.
"Anilon will show you your room. I have given you the white room, upstairs. In the afternoon it receives some natural light."
White, the color of mourning. White settees and footstools of hetha wood. A high bed with white curtains like a bier. Oh narrow casement, show me a village square. But there are only the gardens of Rediloth, neglected at any season, now covered with snow. Only a woman who never looks out of the window, or who draws some satisfaction from the destruction of harmless things, could leave the little fountain in such a state: the stone nymph broken and her head lying upside down against her plinth. Under a growing burden of snow this nymph becomes ever more shapeless and unreal. Soon she will be unrecognizable, and stand isolated, deprived of all significance, in that frozen waste where the evening deepens her almost unbearable solitude. The wall is too high to see over; its crenellations outreach the pines. And what would one see there? Nothing but snow and mist, the occasional tree. Perhaps, for a moment, the footprints of Anilon where she trudged home after serving kebma. And in the distance the white-capped ruin of the Garahu.
But when storms come even Gara's fortress disappears in the howling snow that batters the shutters and strains at the latch with hands of ice. Siski lies with the door of the high bed open, the long funereal curtains tied back to admit the firelight, and listens to the wind. Its sound as it screams about the ramparts is terrible, and she wakes toward morning jerked from sleep by an avalanche of hail. But almost more dreadful than the noise is the absolute silence that follows, a watchful stillness tinted blue by the snow. In that strange, unearthly light she feels herself in the kingdom of Aunt Mardith. Not, as at Faluidhen, in the empire she controls, but in her original home, a glacial haven of perpetual night where she retires like a she-wolf to its den. Aunt Mardith was born at Faluidhen. But here at Rediloth, which she inherited from her aunt the Princess Ailmali, in this cavernous fortress which had stood abandoned for fifty years, here she has made her true, her immutable home. At Rediloth, which in the Nainish tongue is the Castle of Giants. What giants lived here Siski does not know. But somewhere in one of these rooms Aunt Mardith, as powerful as any giantess, restores the white architecture of her hair. Somewhere she raises her fingers to the lobes of her slender ears, leaving in each a pearl as fair as a narwhal's tusk. The little maid fastens the hooks of her gown. As Aunt Mardith rises, her bones, more sensitive than her ivory heart, utter a creak like a sigh of distress. Siski imagines with superstitious dread the lace-edged nightgown the maid puts away in a cabinet under the bed. No, Aunt Mardith must never undress, for under her gleaming clothes there can be nothing but whalebone, plaster dust, and string. No, she must never undress and never sleep. In the morning she has only to wind the little key cleverly concealed beneath her arm. And here she comes down the hall, the impeccable chatelaine of Rediloth and the monstrous puppet of her own desire.
"Go out for a walk, my dear," Aunt Mardith says. And Siski wanders among the morning-glory vines embalmed in frost. Why is it impossible to see beyond this whiteness, into life? Into the dawn of another life. She walks in the gardens, muffled in furs. Her lashes emerge from the softness, starred with cold or tears. Her footprints follow her everywhere she goes. Down the path between the lilac bushes, past the decimated tulip garden. To the high wall. To the wall. She cannot even reach it because of the snowdrifts, could never climb it. Perhaps, on the other side, life begins. A life that would allow her to abandon the past, as her sister has abandoned hers, running away to the north. Tav with her toy arrows. And Dasya with his. Dasya with. Her mind stops at him, like the heart of that dead robin in the snow. Two months have passed since that day in the hills and still she cannot cross the line he flung across her vision like a bolt across the sky. Instead she walks, for her health. She must grow stronger, Aunt Mardith says. She must not let herself down; too much depends on her body, on her womb. Aunt Mardith is not coarse enough to speak this way. Instead she says: "Society. You must prepare yourself to go back into society." The idea, of course, is to marry well. Siski bends and scoops up a handful of snow. She touches it with her tongue. She rubs it into her cheeks. The chill, the taste of death. Later, when she enters the house, Aunt Mardith will comment approvingly on her glowing skin.
For this is fate, this flesh. Spring comes, even to Rediloth. One morning Siski finds a stack of magazines beside her plate. The Starling, the Watcher, the Waxing Moon. Aunt Mardith smiles at her across the table. "Open them, dear. It doesn't do to be out of touch." Sunlight on the coffeepot, on a plate a smear of jelly. Siski turns the pages. She hears Aunt Mardith talking with the maid. Racing stories, fashion designs. And then his name, Andasya Lanfirvaud Faluidhen. Dasya, in letters of lightning.
Her hand tightens on the magazine. His name appears twice, three times, then everywhere. He is staying with their uncle the Duke of Bain. He travels in his own carriage. At the theater he wore green. He spoke with Aunt Sini, with their cousin Afiana. She goes on reading, without hope. She knows she will read the whole page. He rode on the Ban Vanai; he has "the weightless carriage of a nymph." He wears Amafeini boots with scarlet heels. They are new boots, she has never seen them. Nor has she seen the "summer jacket of pale tussore." Her fingers ache, she is crushing the page. To think that he is elsewhere, without her. She did not know it would be like this. This pain, this horror, the fear that his condition will be discovered, and then the rage, for she has been ill while he goes riding in the park! She reads the page, then reads it again more closely, determined to suffer and not to yield. His name has a power that never weakens. Every time she reads it the same jolt of anguish shocks her heart, undiminished by repetition.
When she looks up, the maid has gone. Only Aunt Mardith's calm dark eyes. She knew, of course. Siski hears the click of that ivory heart. Aunt Mardith touches her napkin to the corners of her lips. "You will spend the summer at Faluidhen," she says.
Siski's cousin Latha, Uncle Fenya's daughter, has come from Nauve, in the Valley, where she lives with her new husband. She has not brought her husband, however; he is tied up with the estate, some sort of lawsuit, so boring, Latha laughs, it's not worth trying to understand it. She would rather stay at Faluidhen for the season. She is accompanied by a group of merry young people, all of noble Valley families, insouciant ladies and gentlemen who travel with servants and heavy trunks and take pleasure in calling themselves "old-fashioned types." This attempt to appear old-fashioned, the newest fashion in certain circles, involves a laughing disdain for intellectual pursuits, an emphasis on the healthful benefits of riding, dancing, and wine, and a cavalier attitude toward money matters. Lady Latha's friends are all in debt, and she herself, early one morning in the small blue parlor adjoining the breakfast room, begs her mother, Siski's Aunt Karalei, for six thousand droi: "Just six thousand. You can spare it easily, you'll make that much from the little vineyard alone!"
Coming in from the garden Siski passes the open door and sees Aunt Karalei's normally tawny face disfigured by sudden pallor. "I'll have to ask your Aunt Mardith," she says faintly. "I don't know if we have that much—such an amount—here in the house."
"Ask her then, if you have to get her permission," says Latha. Turning, she notices Siski in the hall, but far from being angry she gives a roguish little smile as she pushes the door closed with her fingertips.
Latha is beautiful in a hard, expensive way, and popular, especially with the gentlemen of the party, but the obvious favorite is her husband's young cousin, Kethina, who, though only Siski's age, has been to seven balls and is well known in society. Lady Kethina has golden-brown eyes that sparkle as if the sun is shining in them. They are close-set and ringed with faint blue shadows, but rather than destroying their charm these flaws increase their attraction by making them seem more intense, intelligent, and sly. She has the sublime, polished, sun-touched skin of Valley women, and already she guards it carefully with unguents and heavy creams. Her talent in matters of dress, astonishing in one so young, has made her the darling of journalists from Duema to Yenith. On her first night she dashes up to Siski. "There you are! I've been dying to meet you. You must protect me," she goes on, leaning close and whispering: "Lord Feren won't stop following me and I cannot, I simply cannot bear his cow eyes any longer! Come have a drink."
It happens like that: so easily. Kethina keeps Siski up late, scolds her, fixes her hair, tells her she's very pretty, she mustn't be so shy. She rubs expensive cream into Siski's cheeks with her bony fingers, makes her go to bed with her head wrapped in waxed paper. New styles of make-up are tried out at Kethina's dressing table. Kethina stands back, frowning critically at her subject, her head on one side. "No," she announces, "blue is wrong for you, we'll have to try pink." She dabs her brush in a jar of antimony with quick, expert little jabs.
Afterward, in defiance of Aunt Karalei, they smoke cigarettes on the balcony. Curls of smoke drift slowly toward the moon. They sit with their knees drawn up in the pale balloons of their long nightgowns, looking over the garden, the hedges, and the fields. Siski throws herself into the brilliance exuded by her new friend, the atmosphere of intrigue and whispering closeness. She will not stop to think. She will live, as others live, as Tav is living, and even Dasya, far away.
Faluidhen begins to seem like a house in a novel: a thin romance full of elegant heartache and jasmine perfume. At dinner Siski drinks wine and Uncle Fenya asks her seriously if anyone in Tevlas is selling old porcelain. "I don't know," she says with a laugh, and whispers to Kethina: "How should I?" In her hair she wears a great fleshy lily from the conservatory. Her dress, pale pink, seems to be breathing heavily, having just escaped with its life in the afternoon when she and Kethina tore off its sleeves. Surreptitiously she smells the wine: its bouquet is light and sweet, buoyant, they call it the Wine of the White Bees. Wearing borrowed pearls and her amethyst ring, she begins to feel warm, then incandescent, drinking in light and heat.
A house in a novel. Morhon is seated across from her, his beard and spectacles wreathed in a sparkling fog of adoration. Beside her sits Halor of Ur-Amakir, and farther down the table Ermali of Eilam: Kestenyi gentlemen invited for her sake. "We thought we ought to have some more eastern influence," Grandmother bubbled at kebma, introducing them over a plate of lamb jelly. And at first Siski was nervous, unsmiling, almost unwilling to talk to them, afraid of what they might know about her family. The debts, the land sold, and then the humiliating new scandal—her sister's running off to join the army. But later, flushed with wine, she hears herself laughing about these very troubles, and everyone laughs with her, full of admiration. "This fiery Kestenyi," they say as she speaks callously of everyone she loves. She beckons for more wine, ignoring her grandmother's frown. "A desert thorn," they say. And she knows by the looks of the men in the room that she could not have planned better had she intended from the beginning to seduce them.
Seduce. Certain that she has done well, rejoicing in her success, she feels the death of something inside her radiant body, a death at which she rejoices further, lifting her glass, watching through the window the shadows deepening in the garden. Death, this death, is sweet. Her cutlery glitters in her hands, the anxious breath of the footman warms the back of her neck. She feels the opening of a thousand doors, laughs, touches a young man's fingers as he hands her a plate of olives. Quick language of the eye. His face a blur, it does not matter who he is. She and Kethina, seated at opposite ends of the table, keep up a scintillating flow of chatter. After dinner, everyone runs out into the garden.
Night, moonlight, distance, nightingales, everywhere this tremor in the darkness. And they follow the nightingales, laughing from tree to tree. Over the wall now, stumbling. Someone shrieks, it must be Latha, she is frightened of the ram with the yellow face. "He's somewhere here," she cries. Ermali of Eilam carries the lantern for a joke, because he comes from the city of lamps. But where is the ram? "There," says Ermali, holding Siski's elbow. And she pretends not to see the gleam on the slope of the hill. Because it is pleasant to feel herself alone in the darkness with an unknown youth, she turns, she asks him, "Where?" Her cheek strikes gently against his shoulder, against the delightful creamy cotton shirt, subtly heated by his skin.
Ermali, Ermali of Eilam, the Lamplit City. A younger son, without prospects, spoilt, indolent, in debt with every shopkeeper in Nauve. Proud of his horses, his skill as a rider, his boots stamped with the maker's name, the breadth of his shoulders, the insolence of his wit. Surely beneath his brash demeanor some marvelous creature slumbers: when he raises the lamp it brings out a mineral glow in the depths of his eyes. Then he lowers the lamp and takes her arm. The light abandons his eyes, leaving them blank as the beads on a curtain. Then the kiss.
He sets down the lamp: it's a signal, she thinks wildly, someone will see them. Oh, if only Kethina would see them, how amusing it would be! These are the thoughts she entertains while a pair of hands with eager fingers wanders over the pink terrain of her bodice. At last he surfaces, tormented by the intricacy of the hooks. "Let's go to the summer house, it's just behind those trees." And she feels herself becoming, with triumph, with glee, with a kind of delirium, the dangerous girl of a novel, the one who loves no one.
Certainly he adores her. And then it's warm, there's so much light from the moon and stars, she feels so pretty in her pink gown. At the summer house—a phrase, like "midnight supper," that breathes romance—she finds it delightful that he has to force the latch.
"Shh," she hisses, glancing about as the old wood cracks like fireworks, "someone will hear you, do you want to cause a scandal?" A breath of leaf mold, dust, the door ajar. Stepping inside they stumble over the scattered limbs of dismembered chairs.
He catches her wrist. But now she does not laugh. In the old round building there is a coolness, a mysterious distillation of the past, that pricks the hairs on the back of her neck. They have lost the lantern, but the moonlight is so bright she can make out the lichen on the windows. "No, I don't want to sit down," she says. Her body tingles with gooseflesh. Surely now he should speak, should tell her mellifluously of herself. No, he removes his coat, he throws it over the torn cretonne of the bench, he turns and helps her through the mess on the floor. A moment so charged with misery that she hurries to get it over with, embracing him, seeking the mushroom flavor of flesh. Oh love, love, happiness. And the clanging of an inaudible bell. And now the struggle, the irritation, the fatigue.
Seven years, seven years in the west. She remembers them now, in the ruined temple, with the Dreved Histories open on her knee. It began that summer at Faluidhen and it lasted seven years and she never saw Dasya, she never met him even once. She never went back to Faluidhen either, she spent all her time in the Valley, despite Aunt Mardith's letters that followed her everywhere smelling of lilac powder, letters hinting that this or that lordship was coming to stay at Faluidhen and wouldn't Siski like to visit her grandmother? No, she would not go back. She drowned herself in the homes of the west. The sumptuous fragrances, the exotic flowers, the wines. Gambling at omi to buy new clothes and borrowing when she lost and selling her jewelry and replacing it with stylish baubles of glass. Always afraid that the secret would be discovered, that someone would whisper, "Her jewels are paste." Entering ballrooms brazenly, smiling in worthless gems. And promising herself, next time I win I'll buy the emeralds back, but she never bought them and now they are gone forever. The gowns too, and the beautiful shoes, all sold to pay her debts, for she was always in debt despite the generosity of her lovers, the one who introduced her to bolma and bought it for her in pearl-edged boxes, the one who acquired a suite for her at the Jonquil. Remember those lovers, the one who ate bolma, she thinks of him, remembers him, he was from the south, she met him on holiday after she left Berevias, in the city of Ur-Brome where the glazed canals lapped at the steps with a sensuous lassitude and the bridges were cloaked in mist. They danced every night, the music was wonderful, she and Kethina drank teiva in pineapple juice, afterward they almost fell asleep going home in the boat, in the slow, sweet, soundless, miraculous movement of the boat on the lamplit canal, they could still hear music for the Evmeni never sleep. Never, never. And she tried never to sleep, except in the long afternoons. And she had gowns made from the bright pink and orange fabrics of the south. And as if to complete the experience of that charming sojourn she kissed the Evmeni prince with the shapely, close-cropped head and soft-gazing bloodshot eyes. And really, he was so kind. He called her waloe, a funny-sounding word; it meant sweetheart. At his mother's house when she went to explore the library he called her gently, "Waloe," and coming back to the parlor she heard the old lady say testily: "Doesn't she have a name?" That was the sort of thing she would laugh over later with Kethina and with her cousin Afiana who had also come down for the winter, the three of them at a café with wine and cigarettes and egg sandwiches and the endless coffee they drank to keep up their strength. Afiana dark-cheeked and splendid in a gown of white taffeta with dots of black velvet; she made everyone look at them. She too had a trophy, he drove a fine carriage and wore a silk cravat and they traded salacious stories of the bedroom. Kethina's brittle laugh. She was faithful to her fiancé, afraid of losing him, and pretended to amuse herself with the study of architecture. "Your oily prince," she said, crinkling her nose. And that was unkind of her, for he treated her graciously and sent bolma wrapped in banana leaves to her hotel. Bolma, the whole city smelled of it, the old men in the cafés used to put a few grains of it in their tobacco and the pink smoke would drift over the water, redolent of coastal flowers, of sweat, of the prince's estate where Siski gazed through the wrought-iron fence at the distant forest. That was where it began to end, that trip to his country estate: the place was neglected, overgrown, he hadn't told her there was no plumbing. No servants either, and they were alone. There was one half-wild horse which he tried to ride to impress her, jerking the reins and trampling the long grass. He waxed sentimental about the crumbling house, the home of his people, he said, it was stupid, he wanted to marry her and she almost laughed out loud. She promised to write but she never did and his letter stamped with gilt dolphins made her giggle when she read it in Bain, in bed with another man.
In Bain, yes, for Dasya had gone to the Lelevai and that left the city open to her with its theaters, shops, gardens, and promenades. And how grand it was, almost overwhelming, everything of the highest quality, clothes, carriages, music, even the conversation at dinner. And so expensive, it made her feel faint when she bought her first gown and shawl. And Lord Danros was friendly, good-humored, and drove a smart tam with a roof of fox-colored leather. In his circle he was the dependable one, he arranged all the parties and races, he had a charming laugh, she envied another girl who was dancing with him. And then, he was staying for only three weeks, what harm was there in a brief romance?—but he didn't travel as planned to join his friends at Sinidre, he stayed, she lived with him at his hotel, when her aunts visited she pretended she lived there alone, she hid his clothes and shaving things at the back of the wardrobe. A rainy winter, and tears. And Kethina said with a patronizing air, "We're no longer young, you'd do better to make it official." For she herself was married now, to a peaked young man with seventy thousand droi whom she bullied into wearing fashionable clothes. To make it official, to marry him. Why not, thought Siski, lying on the enormous couch upholstered in mink in the style of Farnus the Bold. They were a public couple, everyone thought they looked charming together, she so slender, he broad-shouldered, short and stocky as a quarryman. It was said the family had Kalak blood. But it was a very old family, very distinguished, the mother wore jewels that dated back to Ideiri times. In their mansion near the Kelevain this grand lady moved through the faded galleries, walking stiffly with her rheumatic hip. "I'd like to introduce you to her," Danros told Siski firmly, almost trembling because of the terror that filled him at the thought of his family. When it came to the family name, the estate, he lost all his lightheartedness, became craven, serious, combing his hair at the mirror. "What are you doing?" she laughed. For he always left his hair in curls. And he snapped, "For the love of peace get dressed, we're going to be late." The evening was not a success, though he had inspected her costume, removed her big lily, insisted she change into a more modest gown. The house was full of people, everyone knew each other, she stood in a corner and watched them brush past, glancing at her and exchanging knowing grimaces. None of the ladies spoke to her. She met her hostess for just a moment and suffered, her head upright, the intolerable scorn of those black eyes. "You will excuse me my dear," the pale old lady said sarcastically, "I find it very taxing to meet new people." She was eating a sugared biscuit and there was powdered sugar caked on her lips and scattered in the generous folds of her gown. Afterward in the carriage Siski's lover wore a false smile and patted her hand. "I thought you did very well, you managed Mother beautifully. She doesn't see many people," he went on, laughing nervously, "especially foreigners, it was strange to her to have a Nain in the house." To make it official, to marry him. His racing papers, his caution, his mediocrity. All the old Valley families whose snobbery was almost inconceivable, who considered her grandparents' marriage the greatest catastrophe since the marriage of Princess Talomi to a Brogyar, welcomed her for his sake. She was not comfortable in those great old houses full of gilt ornaments and mirrors, but she was proud. She thought: I am here, even I. Spreading her skirts on some knobbed, contorted, extremely precious couch, fanning an air that smelled of roses and old lace. And smiling, always smiling. For she had forgotten how to discover what she felt. It was enough to sit in these rooms, talk to old ladies, in the evening to stand on a terrace so ancient the tiles were cracking and then to dance, to dance with her lover in a ballroom. For he danced well, and they looked very well together. And when it grew too much, this life, there was music and wine and cards being played in a back parlor. She always presumed on her beauty, her wit, the fact that he must be delighted to possess her, a man so ordinary despite his glorious name. And when she had drunk enough she would think with a quiver of energy, a flick of her fan, why I can do anything I like. But their quarrels were dreadful. They quarreled in antechambers, in the carriage, all over their hotel suite. He said that people were laughing at him. He was proud, it was his weakness, it made him cringe when people sneered at her because of her mixed blood. And when she would not behave herself, as he put it, when she gambled, he became incensed, livid, he swore, he was an entirely different man. In the Garden of Plums he said: "Perhaps we should stop." He said it to frighten her and she suddenly saw with great clarity the birds, the trees, the sky. "Yes," she said. And afterward she went out to the Isle of Ban where the trees were putting out sticky reddish buds like watermelon sweets. How delightful to walk alone in the park in spring, to feel the soft fluttering of her scarf, the whispering undulations of her organza frock. She wore a little jacket of lavender tweed, it was still cool, she nodded gracefully to acquaintances beneath the acacia trees. Open to everything: breezes, perfumes, desire. The lure of the possible. She met an acquaintance at the gate of the park and he took her to a café. When he mentioned Lord Danros she couldn't resist, she murmured: "I'm afraid that's over." And saw the tropical green of his eyes.
That was how they came, one after the other. And how she loved the beginning, the overture, the rustling moment before the curtain rose. For one never knew what was coming next, she might fall in love after all, it had happened to others. She woke with a sigh, she had been smiling in her sleep. Moving toward the mirror in green light. She would not summon the maid, not yet. To be alone with this hazy, dim, still-drowsy wonder, this shape in the mirror, herself. And then to dress, the exquisite and sensuous touch of gauze against her skin, the way her flesh breathed against her imitation pearls. With her last, tenderest lover she walked in the square, and when they came to the fountain they walked straight through the great basin in their shoes. Leaving wet footprints on the stones, her heels slipping in her sandals. She would be happy, live very simply, never tell lies. She allowed him to say he loved her, thanked him, walked with him on the Grand Promenade, counted the stars from the deck of a pleasure boat. He wanted to take her everywhere, to every opening night at the Royal Theater, to eat oysters in the quarter of the spice markets, he waited for her while she shopped for books behind the university, admired her, scandalized her Aunt Sini by sending bouquets every day. Every day fresh flowers, fresh delights. Even her sadness was pleasurable when she looked at him and felt that she would never love him. But Kethina was sharp with her, looked at him critically with cold tea-colored eyes, said he was dull, provincial, not our sort. Kethina bristling with sapphires, the choker from her wealthy husband. She wore black velvet, it's proper for married ladies. Now she squinted slightly, affected nearsightedness when she met Siski's lover at a ball, at last said, "Oh, it's you," with a formal smile. And Siski felt cast adrift, abandoned, as if in a foreign city. The strangeness of the white towers and the parks. Her lover took her to Hama, to his estate, he had inherited it already, his uncle dead at fifty of a cancer. And everyone was so kind, only his younger sister snickered when Siski fell ill because she had drunk too much at dinner. "Let me take you to Miravel," begged her lover. "We took our holidays there as children, you can be quiet there and rest." At Miravel, a landscape of pale lakes and forests of beech trees, the season was already over, for it was autumn. There she could be away from the parties that tired her, he would take care of her, she would read—for he did not read himself but respected her passion for it. So much so that he sometimes grew worried, asking if she had had time to read that morning. And he would coax her to eat an egg, lie down after luncheon. He loved her. And in the carriage going to Miravel she could only look out of the window and weep, recalling the words of the summer's most popular song. Remember me, my darling. When you are free, my darling... It was beautiful, silent, all the houses painted white. They walked, met deer in the forests, on an old wooden lookout tower he carved their names. And wearing thick woolen coats they watched a squall over the lake. I see you sinking gently, and all my days are empty. There was marvelous coffee, the cheerful landlady thickened it with fresh cream. Siski sat huddled in her coat while her lover rowed on the lake, there were leaves on the water and the sunset created an incandescent sky. "I love you," she said, the first time she had ever lied to him. That night, reading Princess Mia's new book, she came across the words: For the lover, according to nature, is always nobler and less happy than the beloved. "Do you think that's true?" she asked, quoting it to him. He laughed. He always made jokes when she asked such questions, he was shy, afraid to make a fool of himself, he knew he was no philosopher. But looking at him where he lay on the couch pretending to whittle something and watching her read she knew that his happiness was as remote from her as childhood. At last they returned to the city. And it was over, she knew it was over as soon as she saw the enchanted streetlamps through the rain. He did not understand why she grew sadder every day, she seemed to have no strength, wept over dead leaves, playbills, ridiculous songs. Please let me see you in the winter. He bought her a box of emerald-colored candy tied with ribbon, his last attempt. She sat looking down at it, struck to the heart. The gulf between them. At once she left him to go back to the highlands, back to Kestenya, home.
And there, at Ashenlo, to walk in the hills again, to breathe the scent of mountain pines, to feel the air, was almost too much. She breathes in sharply, here in the ruined temple, and tastes the brusque, invigorating air of the great plateau. She sees herself walking again in the Abravei, a strange figure in a peasant dress and heavy boots and the smart little pumpkin-colored coat. Now she reaches the place where the trees draw apart and enters the clearing where, long ago, Dasya showed her his budding back. And look, a change, a surprise, for the clearing is full of delicate saplings striped with gold by the sun. The sky is the solemn, deep gray-blue of autumn. A garden has bloomed in the desert. She touches the plants with trembling fingers. Here, here is where he lay down in the snow. Here he threw down his shirt. She kneels, snagging her coat on branches, to touch the earth. Here he lay down and put his dear head in her lap. Here he sat up and called her name. With eagerness, with anguish, with rapture, she surrenders to the past. Her body feels hollow, her brow glows like a lamp. I must have come up the path too quickly, thinks that part of her which retains its grasp of logic. It's the altitude that makes me feel so strange. She closes her eyes on a wave of sickness and euphoria, the curse of the high plateau. And opens them, dazzled, crushed, reduced to nothing by this passion of grief that has lain over her whole life like a stain on glass, coloring everything, darkening her perceptions, and that now, with the sun behind it, pierces her with its invincible splendor. At times, usually at the moment when she was on the point of leaving one of her lovers, the flame of a candle would seem to illuminate its design. But always the night came, clouds, all of her daily life obscuring it so that she was aware of it only as a dullness over the world. A tired, faded quality, a fatigue that made her feel as if she could not lift her earring when she was dressing for a ball. But now in the light of this terrible glade her sorrow is clear, magnificent, profound. "Dasya," she sobs in the stillness. "Dasya."
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[ The Prince of Snows ]
Dai Fanlei. Dai Fanlei is a lie. Everything now is a lie. Only what is coming is true.
Horrible, horrible sympathy of the body. In the quick firelight he pulses and snaps. He draws up into himself, then stretches out, pulled taut. A snake, if you strike its head against a tree, stretches out like that at the moment of death, rigid in death, a stick. Everything in the body undone, rushing to the edge. He falls on the floor. Now he is gathered together, curled up in a knot. On hands and knees he heaves. And it pours out of his mouth, white and thick, a river of silk. It pools about his hands.
And she, where is she? Running about the edge of the room, clutching her hair, an immemorial gesture now become a refuge. Gesture of women whose homes are on fire. She has no breath to scream, she babbles and whimpers, crashes against the walls, poor moth caught in a lamp. Drawn to the light and singed. She rushes toward him and then away. He crouches in whiteness, his hands invisible, plunged in cloud. The cloud is rising. It covers his wrists, his feet, he is disappearing in fog, he is weaving a bed of winter and of mist.
It goes on and on. So much. So much. A sea. A sea of milk.
His body falls into rhythm. The ribs, so narrow, rippling, whiplike. An almost impossible movement, exaggerated, like a dance. Punishing dance of whiteness. Up and up it comes.
She sinks to the floor. She heaves. Two dancers now.
But only one is buried.
She leaves a poor spatter on the marble floor.
But he: he is far beyond her. Slowly it gathers him. He turns, eyes closed, he sinks in it, submerged. The prince of snows.
Afterward she sits on the floor with her back against the wall.
The room is dark, freezing. She crawls to the pile of wood. Her hands almost useless with horror and cold, she bats the wood toward the fire, shoves the pile together, leans down and blows into it. The spark in the center glows. The fire crackles. She kneels, dizzy with breathing out, until her face tightens in the heat. Then sits back on her heels. And sees in the light the great white bulge against the wall, gleaming dully like an egg.
Threads of dried ulum hold it fast, clinging to wall and floor. They glisten like glass, but are as strong as tempered steel. "Once the cocoon has dried," she has read, "it becomes utterly impervious to violence. Only dragon fire has not been tried."
Now is the time of waiting.
"And they rolled the cocoon down the hill to the sea. And the waves bore it away like a chunk of ice. And in twenty days the Dreved Oline came winging across the water, her jaws turned upward in a mocking smile."
Oline. The Dreved of Dolomesse. She remembers playing that Dreved herself, with her sister and cousin in the woods at home. With Dasya and with Tav. To be a Dreved you spread your arms like wings and grunt through your teeth. Sometimes she would put twigs in her hair to make horns. The atmosphere was one of relief, of violence and heady joy. On the day her grandmother Beilan was buried in the park behind Ashenlo, and the house was unbearably sad, all draped in white, they played Drevedi in the Orsan wood, and in the heat of the game they tried to fly over a gorge. Of course, she has always thought, they knew that they could not really fly. They were frightened and unhappy, because of the funeral. There was a self-destructive quality to the game, a desire to tear down everything. This is what she has always told herself. Or—as she has sometimes thought—there was simply a desire for bruises, for the uncomplicated sensation of physical pain, for a pain that could be solved, unlike the suffering in the house, the servants whispering, her father sitting with his face in his hands. And so they ran to the edge of the hill and crashed over, fierce and reckless. But now she wonders if, in fact, they believed that they could fly. They held hands, screaming, until they hit the slope and were jolted apart. The sky seemed to burst above her like a crystal lamp. For a moment she lay in the brambles with her heart knocking at her ribs. Then she sat up groggily. Tav crouched nearby, her knee gushing blood. "Dinner!" cried Siski at the sight of the cut, smacking her lips, still in the character of a Dreved. Far from the house, in Orsanie, in the wood.
Oh, Tav.
She remembers her last days on the Isle. She had gone to her Teldaire Aunt's party on the Feast of Lamps. She did not think that Dasya would be there; if he was, she told herself, she would face him, she would speak with him at last. But she was late to the ball. She stood at the mirror, unrecognizable to herself: the narrow face, the great dark chambers of the eyes. A subtle greenness in the skin, as if it were copper exposed to the weather. The worn filigree of the lace on her expensive, overwashed gown. A torn shift clings to the fence in the little field. Arduen of Suoveni, the Gray Lady. And all the windows fade. The scene etched in the bowl of the lamp—Felhami of Beal, lying in the tomb—was reproduced in shadow on the side of her bodice. Is this my life? Is it? The heroine of The Romance of the Valley, perhaps the most celebrated character in all of Olondrian literature, lying on her back on a stone slab. A lily in her hands. Her image thrown across Siski's ribs, stirring with every breath.
She stood at the mirror too long. In the hall, the thudding of footsteps. A cry.
She ran to open the door, then hesitated and turned the lock instead. She pressed her ear against the wood. She listened for a moment and then hurried to the lamp and blew it out.
A time of flame and darkness. At Ashenlo, when she was a child, they had had to hide during a minor uprising of the feredhai. A shuttered lamp in the hall, her mother standing at the foot of the stairs in her cloak, directing the servants in a whisper. Footmen rushed about with blankets and chests. Siski jumped up and down and laughed because she was wearing her best beaded frock on top of her nightdress. Everyone hushed her at once and they went down to hide in the pantry in the dark among the big cool jars of olive oil. Crouching in the dark. When Fulmia passed with a lantern up in the amadesh, the light stole under the pantry door and then faded out. The feredhai circled the house, once, again, galloping wildly like wild horses in the dark outside the walls.
At Velvalinhu, those days came back to her. The sense of danger. She put on her traveling clothes and cloak. No jewelry, not even a ring. With her pretty, curved, ivory-handled nail file, a gift from her grandmother, she pried the intaglio heels from her boots. When hunger forced her out of the room, she darted through the halls, low to the ground. She found a group of chambermaids drinking wine in a music room. She told them she was a governess, and they told her what had happened. One gave her a piece of chocolate wrapped in stale kebma.
Ashes blew and settled like her thoughts in the strange gray light. In the ravaged gardens she dug up the bulbs of the asphodels. At last, one night, she went out with a stump of candle and faced a drunken soldier swathed in a figured bed sheet.
"I am Siski of Ashenlo. Take me to the captain."
And Tav, the captain, sat on a rooftop. A brazier beside her hissing in the rain. Nearby, under a makeshift canopy, Dasya lay stretched out on the stones.
"You," said Tav. "You're here."
Siski knelt, and they were in each other's arms, there at Velvalinhu, at the end.
"I don't know what to do," said Tav. "I don't know what's wrong with Dasya, he won't wake up, I've had a letter from Uncle Veda, he says he's coming, he says everything is finished, we have to surrender, he's coming soon and I don't know..."
Oh, Tav. Oh, Tav.
Tav in the rain. Tav in her room, the summer they spent at Ashenlo together. Tav on a pillow, recovering from her wound. That cold Tav with her bitterness and her cane. And the earlier Tav, the child, wrestling, running, laughing, falling, bleeding. "Poor Taviye!" said Siski that day in the gorge, dropping her Dreved mask. "Poor knee!" She took off her linen sash and bound up the wound. Dusk was falling and it was, it was paradise. She and Dasya limping with Tav between them, all the way back to the house.
"The end is coming, dark butterfly."
The final, mysterious words of Oulef, one of the last contributors to the Dreved Histories. Oulef of Weile, who wrote with such careful detail of the stages of Dreved life and died, it is thought, in the clutches of the Dreved of Ur-Brome. Her body was never discovered. "We must assume that even her bones were devoured—though this is not usual with the Drevedi—or burnt upon a fire." Those pages of scientific discourse and then this sentence opening like a door. "The end is coming, dark butterfly."
This is not the end. Not yet.
Dai Fanlei still goes in to town to meet the others. But she is becoming more remote. The others look at her sadly. They ask her questions, is she all right, they pressure her gently for several days. Then they stop.
One day, in a tall house at the edge of town, Dai Fanlei sits in a streak of light. And suddenly she is breaking. It might be the way the light falls between the high shutters, the brown brocade in her hands, the dust, she doesn't know, but she comes apart. Shaking, her head knocking back against the wall. Tears everywhere. The others get up, they seize her, Dai Kouranu keeps a housemaid from coming in. When Dai Fanlei can see again, she finds herself encircled. Dai Norla is weeping. Beautiful sympathy of the body.
They murmur. They stroke her hands. They say: "I know."
She wants to say no. She wants to say, you don't know, you don't know us. She wants to say: my sister and cousin made this war. You don't know how we have harnessed you and murdered you and made you refugees. She thinks: For this the gods cursed you with monsters.
These women should strip her and take her apart like an old piece of furniture. Throw her down, slice her open with Dai Kouranu's curved knife. Tear out everything inside. She begs them in her mind: Make me new. But they are not her servants.
So she succumbs. She allows herself to be led. In the kitchen, they make her tea.
Afterward she walks up the dark hill alone. Dragging herself through the mud toward the temple where the great white shadow sleeps. She sings through numb lips: My heart is white with love.
At the temple she sits in the glow of the fire and takes a letter from between the pages of the Dreved Histories. The letter Tav gave her at Velvalinhu, on the roof, because she had sworn to deliver it. The letter from Dasya.
His hand. The shape of the letters, instantly recognizable. The way the ink thickens at the top of certain strokes. Her chest throbs painfully at the sight of these blobs of ink, although she has read the letter many times.
I give you no greeting. I will not write your name. When you receive this I shall be dead, I hope, and everything discovered. I suppose I shall be hanged—the traitor's death. Or, if they cannot hang me, they will drown me in hot wax.
A bath of wax. There's something elegant about that. As if one were being prepared for a particularly arcane and taxing ceremony. To be made into a statue, perhaps. The idea doesn't repulse me. I find it pleasing. After all I have been a statue for many years.
If they do hang me, I hope it works. I confess to you—not because you're worthy of it, but because I can't help it—that I have nightmares about failed hangings. I see myself writhing on the gallows. For hours. For days. Unable to live. Unable to die.
A perfect image of what I have endured for the past decade. Terrifying.
Does this strike you as self-pitying? A bit maudlin? Where are you? The last I heard, you were at Ashenlo, but I doubt you're still there, as Kestenya has shaken herself awake at last. I, yes, I have ripped the highlands out from beneath your feet like a carpet; you will trample it no more. I imagine you have fled to your friends in the Valley, or to Nain. Perhaps to Aunt Mardith's—how fitting that would be! Yes, you're at Rediloth, licking your wounds, and everyone's lamenting, the soldiers are coming down from the mountains, the separatists are burning the barns, and you're reading this letter and frowning, tightening your lips (dear gods, they haunt me still) and thinking: "How unlike Dasya—this whining, self-pitying tone!" And I curse you for daring to think it, Siski, I curse you. I said I would not write your name but I will write it in a curse. Oh, Siski. May Leilin smite you, may Ayalei turn your veins to fire, as she has mine, for daring to begrudge me my self-pity! May all the gods scourge you for leaving me alone. Without one word. For years. When you were the only one in the world I trusted. Would it have killed you, would it have been too much for your delicate sensibilities, to write me a single word in all those years? One word, to let me know that there was, somewhere, a human being who knew what I was and did not want me dead. Can you imagine what it would have meant? But you would not. You would not pity me; don't dare to blame me for pitying myself.
I am tired. I sleep for the better part of every day. It's not an ordinary sleep. It's like a trance. Sometimes I fall from the trance into a real sleep, the kind with nightmares. I'm hot. I'm sick. I am preparing for the end.
Our uncle will save me. Dear Uncle Veda! He'll have me executed. I won't have mercy on him, I won't kill myself, why should I? I'll make him give the order. He'll watch the execution, too. His principles will demand it. Are you disgusted? Good.
At any rate, I have been king! And so Aunt Mardith has what she wanted, if not precisely in the way she wanted it! Tell her she's welcome to come to my execution. I'll give her my hair to make a wig; she can wear it at the next Tanbrivaud.
(I often thought of writing to ask you for a lock of hair.)
Do not think that I am proud of what I have done. What have I to be proud of? I am a coward. I would have done anything to save myself, bowed down before any god. I tried them all, I think, before the end. I studied with the Priest of the Stone and the Priestess of Ayalei, I tried the taubel, geomancy, milim, fasting, books, and at last this war, a final blow for the goddess, to crush her enemies, in the hope that she would give me back my life. I am not like Tav. Tav truly fought for Kestenya, while I have fought for nothing and no one but myself. Perhaps for this reason, Ayalei has not seen fit to remove my curse, though for her sake I have steeped Olondria in blood.
Blood. In this land of almonds. This land where ladies like you put up their hair and gentlemen bow to them in the arilantha. The most beloved book in Olondria is The Romance of the Valley, because Olondria is the servant of romance. Sweet, sweet land, like honey with bees still in it! I hope I have made them feel the sting of it—Aunt Mardith and Uncle Fenya and the rest! I hope I have made you weep. I hope I have made you think of me for one moment. Just one moment. I dream sometimes of your wrist. Your shoe.
"Like blue leaves of a murderous autumn," Hailoth says.
Siski I am so afraid.
The world is growing smaller. There is so little time. I struggle to lift my eyelids. It's like peering from under an awning, into bright sun. Small people are moving far away.
So little time, and in the short time we had we lost everything. You took it from us. Your cloak disappearing between the trees. Why, Siski? By all the gods, had you turned into a dragon in front of me, I would have perished in fire before I ran away.
Your cloak disappearing between the trees. So swift. And the sky darkening. And the snow.
I take some comfort in Kestenya's independence. The only real success of this war. Everything else is ashes. Your wretched, outworn, unfashionable gray cloak.
Oh Siski. To see you once more, if only to curse you to your face.
I'm half asleep. We are such frail creatures, we—I still can't write the word. How did we conquer anyone? How did we terrorize the world? We, with our burdens. Our pain. Our fear. Our woe. Our wings.
She folds the letter and slips it between the pages of the book. She takes a stolen stub of pencil from the pocket of her dress. Then she tears out the pages at the end of the Dreved Histories, inches close to the fire to catch the light, and writes.
Dasya. My dear.
I have read the Dreved Histories and I know that when you wake again you will not be able to speak. But I think you may be able to read. So I'm leaving you this, in case. I don't know if I'll get the chance to speak to you myself.
I know you didn't want me to stay. I stayed because I love you and because
She stops. Then she begins again.
I've been thinking about what's happened to you. I know what you think—at least, I know what you told me that day in the clearing. You thought that perhaps your father had angered Ayalei, and that you must find a way to placate her, or defeat her. I used to think this was true. That you were cursed, and that I was cursed through my love for you. I believed it for a long time, and I lived as if I were dead. Truly, as if I were dead. And I fooled everyone, you know. I was so lively, they nicknamed me "the Diali."
I don't believe it now. I don't believe that Ayalei was angry with anybody or that you were her instrument to kill the Priest of the Stone, which is what they say, what some people say, or that the gods sent you to break up the empire the way the first Drevedi almost did, which is also what they say. If the gods send us signs—and perhaps they do—I do not believe that we can read them. For, as it is said, the gods do not speak as we speak. Interpretation seems worthless to me. Perhaps I say that because I'm afraid—but not even the Priest of the Stone could translate the language of paradise.
When I went back to Ashenlo last year, I walked to the clearing and I prayed. You know I have never been particularly devout. I couldn't even remember any prayers. I was saying your name, again and again, and then I realized I was praying. I called upon Ayalei because my life was a plain of stones and I could not see any way out of what was coming: a marriage to some nobleman, a house, children, feast days, jewelry, gowns, and you lost, and Tav lost, and our autumns lost. Those autumns at Sarenha Haladli, the only times in my life I have been alive. I prayed to Ayalei to save me, to set me free. I prayed for a door, and I saw that the door was open. It had been open all along. I only needed to step through.
Not easy, no. But simple. And so I am not sorry for anything that has happened, except that I have wasted so much time. I think of all those years and how you didn't tell anyone and you were alone. And I had run away from you. For that I am so sorry, Dasya. You trusted me and I betrayed your trust. I have not been a person who can be trusted. So many nights I dream of the stable door at Sarenha Haladli, and it's unlocked, and Tuik is in the misar.
If only I could go back. But I can't. I can't.
Time, they say, is a stream. Do you remember where it has its source? You studied with the Priest of the Stone; he must have made you read about Nieb, who created Time and all the gods. I missed all of that; I had a very different sort of education. I've had to go back on my own and fill in the gaps. So many gaps still, Dasya! Why is Nieb a group of gods and also a single goddess, the mother and bride of Time? And if Nieb's daughter Heth created the world, and Time was before Heth—why did Time not enter the world from the beginning? For there was no Time, at first—there was what the Book calls "the Time before Time." There was paradise.
Then the Dead King trapped Ayalei and turned her into a deer, and there were seasons on earth, and it was the Time of Time. That's where we live. With time and death and betrayal and disease and in the forest, as you know, the Drevedi.
How I wish we could speak together of these things.
But the Drevedi don't speak. Only people barely touched by their influence can talk. That's what I read in the Histories, anyway. In all those thousands of pages, there's only one recorded line by a Dreved. He said: "I am a Lath."
What would they say, if they could speak?
Do they speak?
These are the things I ask myself now. We are told that the Drevedi are portents. Bream goes so far as to call them "absolute language." But to themselves, surely, they are something other than words.
Where are the Dreved books, and what is written in them? Dasya, I want to read the true Dreved Histories.
And then I think that the Drevedi have no history, because they belong to the Time before Time. Perhaps, in some terrifying, mysterious way, our most fearsome dreams belong to paradise.
For me, paradise was reading with you at Faluidhen. The words between us. Even the shadows were luminous. Do you remember? The way those words, those signs, seemed to burn through everything, the leaves, the lace at your collar, the light, the book itself. The book and the heavy, humid air and the spray from the gardener's hose and the little bone buttons on the cushions of the couch, and the carpets hanging outside to dry and the faetha in the hall and Grandmother's silver tea service and Faluidhen, and Faluidhen. Grandfather's medal on the wall in the parlor they called the gray room, and the scrollwork on the dining room chairs—all gone. Everything transmuted into fire. History is useless to me, Dasya. I'm living on memory instead.
(And I remember everything and I have been remembering it for years. Do you think I never wished for a lock of your hair? Is that what you think? How dare you. When you were at war in the Lelevai, I almost asked my sister to steal your shirt. I would have done it, only I couldn't think of a way that would not sound strange. "One of his shirts, recently worn, not washed." The stupidity of longing. And what would your shirt have done for me? I see myself wrapped in it, biting it, suffocating, undone.)
Do you remember what Oulef wrote? That the Drevedi exist in the same relation to human beings as the future.
I am ready for the future. I am saying yes. Dasya, let's go through the door. Let's go together.
I remember when Tav landed on the rooftop with her ilok. I was sitting beside you, and you were asleep, as you had been for days. How terrifying it was—those great dark wings, the smell of death, and Tav's face, refusing to weep, more frightening than anything else. I thought we would die, we'd fall, and I did not care, or rather I felt happy at the thought: to die with you and Tav. To die in flight, with you and my sister, the hero—it seemed marvelous. But of course Tav would never let us fall. You didn't wake when we tied you fast, and you didn't wake when we landed here, at this temple, because I told Tav we must find a place to hide, we couldn't go with her to Kestenya, as she wanted. We can't go, I told her, that's all. I couldn't bear to tell her why. You didn't wake when she said good-bye, when she kissed your hands and face. It was only when she had gone that you opened your eyes. No, you said, the moment you saw me. No. Siski, no.
Dasya, the next time you open your eyes—say yes.
|
[ Dark Butterfly ]
It is happening now dark butterfly sweet butterfly.
A morning in springtime. Everything green. For the first time, real green between the pillars of the ruined temple. She is ready to walk down to town again, her hair rolled in a knot, her old boots tied, and then there's a sound from the back of the room.
She turns.
For several days she has almost forgotten to look there, at that vast pale form. The curve of it, the slight sheen, like the luster of spun sugar. But now, she looks. There's a sound. A scraping. A knock. She stands poised as if for flight, as if she could still save herself. Somebody's there.
By the time the first stirrings are heard, it will be too late.
Too late. Too late. She thanks Ayalei for this lateness, this absolute lack of choice. Thank you, bless you, Ripener of the Grain! She could weep for this blessing, this gift. She does not trust her body not to run.
There is no time to run. Only time to think: If I hadn't been here. If I'd been away. What would have happened to him, where would he have gone? A spark, a momentary burst of gratitude for this: that she is here. Because they have had so little time.
A scrape, a knock, a crack, the white curve bursting, a great dark wing flung up, the two halves of the shell falling back, falling empty, empty on the floor, a second wing unfolding and Dasya standing, Dasya there, alive: Dasya Dasya Dasya in green light.
A sob breaks from her throat.
He looks at her. Black eyes. All black. His expression like that of the faces carved in the temple wall. An expression not human, not animal. Midnight gaze, depthless, unreadable. Small horns on his brow, dark with a delicate fur, like willow buds.
His hair falls on his shoulders. Exactly the same as before. Heartbreak.
She speaks the only word she has. Quickly—so little time! Her hands on the buttons of her worn dress, fighting the buttons, slipping, then tearing, the dress torn away, her breasts now in green light. She drops the dress and steps away. She stands in her underskirt and boots. Somewhere, perhaps, his memory is alive. This is her hope: that he will understand the language of gesture, this word pulled out of memory, this sign.
In the desert there are empty places. Places of utter stillness, utter silence. The sky meets the rim of the world with no window, no escape. There is only sunlight, desolation, wind. The heart grows brittle. These are the regions known as the fires, or the seas of glass.
He folds his wings behind him. His elegant symmetry makes her gasp. Now he moves toward her, lightly, barefoot on the floor. His body strong again, flawless, cloaked in night, he is like a rich woman in an opera cloak, in opulence, in gems. Eyes of jet and the lips dark blue like ribbon. His sex an ornament of amethyst, his body all of silk. She turns. She turns her back to him, repeating his gesture of long ago, in the clearing, when he showed her the marks of wings.
Now it is happening sweet butterfly. Sweet.
Between the pillars, she sees the green hill. She will die like this, she thinks, with her eyes on the green of spring. Like this she will feel the surudin strike where her shoulder meets her neck. The mouth sticks fast to the flesh and the monster drinks until satisfied. It will happen like this, if she is to die. He is moving behind her now, unfurling his wings, she can tell by the sudden gust, the wind that lifts her hair. His letter, and hers to him, all those sheets of paper, fly out between the pillars, taking wing over the grass.
Then a sound, unexpected. Snapping twigs. Two syllables. "Siski."
He is saying her name in his broken Dreved's voice.
He has not bitten her. He has not touched her at all. "Siski. Siski." Repeating her name through the surudin, strumming them like harp strings.
She turns. It is she who touches him. She puts her hand to his cheek. He is warm, familiar, his hair smelling of the mountains. He closes his burning, alien eyes, and now he is almost Dasya, his smooth cheek a perfect fragment of the past. She sees him in his desert, his excruciating solitude. The burden of his sorrow and of his wings. His secret, all along, all through the war he planned with Tav, the private knowledge that he had so little time. She seems to see him in gardens, dim rooms, forests, always alone. But we were never alone, when we were together then. Never, not even when reading or playing music, or asleep. By the dead fountain we stood whispering hand in hand. The fountain was white, like a swan. He opens his eyes. She is shocked again by their smooth darkness, darkness all the way to the skin. She trembles. He has not touched her yet and everything is lost, the world is made of fire, the seas are molten glass.
"Dasya. Dasya. Love..."
Will it be like this? Is there now, in his carven face, the mark of a terrible tenderness? A human emotion returning to him, stealthy as a frost. A passion, a sadness, something the gods have never known.
"Siski." But he cannot speak. He lacks the structure now to form clear words, to say more than the poorest, most truncated things. "Siski." She says it with him, repeats her own name, her mouth in time with his. Beautiful, horrible sympathy of the body.
His face. His dear face, here beneath her hand. The same face, only now with the budding horns, the deep indigo lips. Sigil of the gods. Tattoo. The color has bled slightly, under the skin, tiny threads about his mouth.
She strokes his cheek. Reckless now, she moves closer to the heat of his body. He closes his eyes again. He's trapped there, pinned, as if afraid to move, to lose one instant of her dazzling caress.
The fires. The seas of glass.
But there were lamps hung on the houses, shadows of trees. There was a library. There was snow.
She sees him in his blue jacket. He reaches to pull a book from the shelf. Evening light on his face. Outside the window, hawks.
In the desert there are empty places, but once we were not afraid. We rode through noon. You sang, My heart is white with love. And at last when we reached the shade of the trees you opened your book, your finger against the grains of sand whispering over the page.
Open. Read this book. Here is your Dreved history. Here is the history of the time before time. She leans on his chest, her cheek against his skin. His hands are in her hair. Hot kisses falling, horses, lamplight, pearls. "Siski. Siskiye." She can no longer tell the direction of the sky. She thinks, We are falling toward the clouds. But once we were in a desert, we rode horses. There was a lamp on the stable door. In another dusk a light like pearls. "Swans," she whispers. Swans were flying. There was a beautiful river of broken ice. She hears, very far away, the voice of her cousin, her love. She cannot understand the words. He is not trying to form her language now. He is speaking the language of paradise.
There is still time. She raises her face. If now I am to die it will be here, in this place, here where I belong. He gathers her close, and a kiss delayed for years blooms like a candle's flame, throbbing among the walls of the ruined temple. The surudin withdraw: there is no knife, but only flesh. And holding her tight he sweeps from the room, he bursts between the pillars, up now, up, her boots torn off, a laugh torn from her throat, and there is green about them, and sky and sky.
|
[ What Is Magical Girl Raising Project? ]
-Simple and fun for beginners, yet deep enough to keep experts addicted!
-Beautiful card art from world-renowned artists!
-Highly animated characters like you'd find in an action game!
-Five hundred character types and two thousand items! The combinations are infinite!
-Completely free to play! No purchase required—ever!
Welcome to a world of dreams and magic!
This is Magical Girl Raising Project, an RPG where you can become the ultimate magical girl! The Magical Kingdom has appointed you as Earth's guardian—a cute, fashionable, and powerful heroine, who must use her powers to fight against the forces of darkness! But don't forget the magical pals, costumes, magic items, and catchphrases you also have at your disposal. Defeat enemies to gain magical candies and become the magical girl of your dreams! The world is always in dire need of more of you, so be brave and take the first step! Your dreams will surely come true.
|
That night, Ako Hatoda was in a bind.
Having gone straight to her part-time job after school, it wasn't until she'd arrived at her front door, after walking home along the road with the lone bus stop, that she realized she'd lost her key. The small bit of metal would take forever to find under the best of circumstances, not to mention it was night out. It was fall, meaning the sun set earlier. Her only aids would be the weak light of the streetlamps and the moon.
Of course, she could just wait until her aunt and uncle came home to unlock the door. But that wouldn't change the fact that she'd lost the key... They'd have to change the locks in case someone picked it up and decided to use it. The last thing she wanted to be was an inconvenience.
Three months ago, her father had been arrested for stabbing her mother to death, and Ako's uncle, her mother's younger brother, took her in. She knew how much of a burden she was... She got to attend the same school, received an allowance, and wanted for nothing, but she was a constant nuisance.
She'd once visited her father in jail, but he'd turned her away, saying "Don't ever come back." At school, no one talked to Ako. For some reason, everyone knew about the argument between her parents that had turned deadly, and they whispered rumors about her incessantly. But no one talked to her. Ako was just a plague, a source of endless trouble for others.
So she decided to kill herself. Her mother had once complained tiredly, "You're as stubborn as your father," but the decision she'd reached seemed wholly reasonable to Ako. Better this than to remain a nuisance. She had slowly begun preparations for her suicide. She'd disposed of all her personal effects, had written her will, and had been steadily stealing her uncle's sleeping pills here and there so they wouldn't be missed, hiding them in her desk drawer. She only needed a little more to do the deed.
But now she'd gone and lost the key. The whole point of killing herself was to keep from causing trouble, yet here she was causing even more. Disgusted with herself for being stupid enough to lose her key at such a critical juncture, she sank down on the doorstep, hugging her knees. In her mind, the missing key became a symbol of everything bad in her life. It was all she could think about, and tears started pouring from her eyes.
"Are you okay?"
The voice was out of place. Maybe not so much around a middle schooler like Ako, but not one you were likely to hear in a residential neighborhood at night, and especially not one this adorable.
"If something's wrong, please tell me. Like... being locked out of the house because you lost your key?"
Ako looked up to see a girl so beautiful her heart raced just looking at her. Her white skin was almost translucent against the darkness of the night, her features all flawlessly arranged on her perfect face. Her smile was slightly awkward, and the contrast with her striking appearance made it that much lovelier.
Her outfit, however, was quite strange. At first glance, it seemed like a school uniform, but the style was way too garish. In fact, it was more like cosplay. She had a scarf fringed with frills and a skirt adorned with white flowers. Her armbands were emblazoned with some kind of school insignia, but it wasn't local. The same crest decorated her knee-high socks—no, they were actually white boots. The moonlight illuminated her platinum-blond hair, which was done up with a ribbon and flowers of purest white.
The words "magical girl" popped into Ako's head. Stunned, she somehow managed to convey that she had, in fact, lost her key. The girl nodded and said, "I'll be right back," then vanished with a gust of wind, a fruity scent tickling Ako's nose.
She had met a real magical girl.
Five minutes later, the girl returned, breathing heavily.
"Is this your key?"
It was indeed hers.
"Don't go losing it again, now."
The girl smiled, and Ako, captivated, stood to thank her. Somehow, even though they looked nothing alike, her expression reminded Ako of her mother, back when she still loved her father. It was a cheerful smile that made others happy to see it.
She bowed and thanked the girl, but when she looked up, no one was there. Her benefactor just had to have been a magical girl. Ako's spirits soared, and her heart felt warm. She didn't feel like dying anymore, now that she knew magical girls were real. She'd been saved. Ako wondered if she could become one, too—if she did, would people need her? The prospect was exciting. Did someone out there need Ako?
|
After the government merged several municipalities four years ago, the harbor metropolis of N City became the largest city in the area. It encompassed the futuristic business sector, where uniquely designed buildings jutted up around city hall; mountainous villages, abandoned and left to rot; a great hospital, equipped with the latest medical technology; and a massive factory that had gone bankrupt and had to be demolished. Altogether, this formed a uniquely twisted city forced into being by the government.
And six months ago, reports of "magical girls" started flooding in from this N City.
As a car raced down the highway at blistering speeds well above the speed limit, the driver heard a knock on the window. He turned to look, thinking it was a rock, and discovered a smiling witch riding a broomstick. "You should slow down," she warned.
As a truck bore down on a child chasing a ball into the street, a girl clad in armor appeared between them and stopped the truck with her bare hands, then disappeared without a word.
As a guy hit on some young women and refused to take no for an answer, a girl with doglike ears ran up on all fours and dragged him away.
The only thing witnesses could agree on was that the girls were "too beautiful to be human." Yet their appearances, their clothes, and the situations in which they appeared were all scattered and unrelated. No one could tell the story the same way twice.
At first, people laughed it off as overactive imaginations, tall tales, and general BS. But the sightings continued pouring in, and a video of "Two Angels In Flight Holding Hands" was even uploaded to a video-sharing website, causing the rumors to spread like wildfire.
"It's real!" "No, it's gotta be a fake." In the workplace, in schools, on the Net—people everywhere were talking. Sometimes self-professed recipients of their help stepped forward and shared their stories, fanning the debate over the believability of the videos and the existence of these girls.
One witness swore that upon asking one, "Who are you?" the girl had answered, "I am a magical girl." It was at this point the "mystery girls" became "magical girls." Fan sites and research blogs cropped up one after another online, and aggregate sites updated daily with news about the sightings. One of the latest was particularly thrilling: A gunslinger girl like something straight out of a Western had raided the apartment of a triad gangster in the red-light district, beat up the bodyguards, and stolen all the money and guns inside.
"Hey, doesn't this sound like it actually happened?"
Three middle school girls sat waiting at a bus stop, one showing the other two the screen of her smartphone. On it was an aggregate site with the latest magical-girl reports.
"You really like that crap, don't you? No way it's real."
"What? It seems totally real, don't you think?"
"This article's too believable. It's like whoever wrote it was actually there."
"Yocchan, you always shut me down. Fine, so what if it does sound like they were there?"
"I shut you down because what you're saying is stupid, Sumi. If whoever posted it was actually involved, one of the gangsters or the mystery girl herself would have to have written an article, and they aren't gonna do that. Plus, aren't you too old for this?"
"Wouldn't it be cool if they did exist, though?"
The third girl, watching her friends' discussion, could no longer keep quiet.
"Yocchan, Sumi, you're both wrong. If magical girls were real, they wouldn't do stuff like that. They care about justice and helping people in need."
"Thanks for the flowery opinion."
"Yuki, your world is all, like, rainbows and unicorns, huh? It's almost delusional."
Behind the bus stop where the middle school girls argued over the rumors was a seven-story office building, the Seventh Sankou building. Atop its roof, a lone girl was considering the same article. She wore a Japanese kimono, but one showing enough skin to be a swimsuit. On her feet were extra-tall geta wooden slippers, a shuriken pin in her hair—all in all, more of a costume than an outfit. Only a magical girl would go out in public with such a getup in N City.
"Is this for real...?" she asked, pointing at the article on her magical phone. The heart-shaped screen shut off for a moment. Then, a light shone forth to form the holographic image of a sphere, hard and smooth like tile, floating in front of a lake background. Its right half was black, the left white, in an unsettling design. From its body sprouted one wing that fluttered like a butterfly's, scattering glittering scales into the air with every beat. Its face was an emoji-like smile, frozen in place and never changing, from which came a high, childlike voice.
This creature was Fav, a mascot character.
"It could be a fake, pon. Or it could be real, pon." The sphere did a flip and finished with a burst of sparkling scales. Blinded, the girl averted her eyes. "Calamity Mary could do something like this, pon. That silly girl loves to play the outlaw, so she tends to pull crazy stunts, pon."
Calamity Mary had laid claim to N City's Jounan district. Magical girls would often call the area under their protection their "land" or "home," but she more fittingly called it her "territory." Her actions warranted unkind descriptors such as "vulgar," "crude," "savage," and more. Even the mascot had belittled her with "outlaw."
"So it's true...?"
"Fav can't possibly tell you that, pon. If Fav spilled the beans every time someone asked what another magical girl was up to, Fav would be a tattletale, pon. And fairies hate tattletales, pon."
"Then what about this...?" She swiped a finger across the screen to a new page. Sightings of the "girl in white" vastly outnumbered those of all the other magical girls combined. She even had her own special section of the site dedicated to her. "I think that's too many sightings."
"Oh, Snow White's page? She works the hardest of all, pon. That's just the tip of the iceberg, pon. She works double, even triple what you see there for the good of the people, pon." The clearly inorganic black-and-white sphere with its organic-looking wing did two more flips and landed on a flower. "Ripple, weren't you looking at that site before, pon?"
"Was I...?"
"Is a rivalry brewing, pon?"
"No... I'm just surprised she works so hard."
"Rivalries are good in Fav's opinion, pon. It's a wonderful thing to have everyone competing, pon."
"Hmm..."
The girl, Ripple, looked away from her device, brought her dangling legs together, and dived from the edge of the roof she'd been sitting on, landing easily on the ground sixty feet below.
"Why'd you suddenly jump down, pon?"
"A pest is coming, so I just wanted to get out of the way..."
"A pest, pon?"
Ripple looked up from the valley between office buildings, and Fav followed her line of sight. A point in the sky grew steadily larger until it was recognizable as a person. Seeing who it was, Fav called out, "Top Speed!"
Top Speed, a witch riding a broom, descended into the concrete forest and peered at the other girl's face.
"How ya been, Ripple?" Ripple clicked her tongue loudly in response, and Top Speed smiled wanly. "Prickly as ever."
"I should have hidden faster..."
"We're both magical girls—we should get along more!"
"Shut up..."
"Well, anyway."
Ripple tsked in frustration again, but Top Speed paid her no heed. She was a stubborn sort—one of the reasons Ripple disliked her. That very stubbornness probably prevented Top Speed from noticing, too.
"Have you seen this article?" Top Speed held out her magical phone to show the news site she had been browsing. The gist of it was that the costumes of the rumored altruists in N City, aka "magical girls," resembled the ones in the popular mobile game Magical Girl Raising Project.
"A lot of people are connecting the dots. This could be bad, don't ya think?"
"It's not a problem at all, pon."
"Oh yeah?"
"If a magical girl was leaking information, that would be against the rules and a big problem indeed, but Fav knows none of you are so naughty, pon. News stories about us from regular people are just free advertisement, pon. It's wonderful, pon."
The little sphere had a tendency to talk like a salesman. When Ripple had first transformed, she'd pointed this out. Fav had unabashedly responded, "It's more like HR than sales."
About two months ago, Kano Sazanami had gained her costume and powers.
She'd heard the local legend that one in tens of thousands of Magical Girl Raising Project players had become real magical girls, but had never taken it seriously. From kindergarten through middle school, people had insulted her for no reason at all, and she'd always handled it by hurting them until they squealed and submitted. But when she started high school, various obstacles made it difficult to solve problems with violence.
The fifth would-be stepfather her mother brought home had touched her butt, a disgrace she had replied to with her fist before she packed her bags and left home. She found an empty apartment to live in by herself, and as long as she stayed there, she couldn't afford to get fired from her part-time job. As she fought through the mounting expenses, she also made sure to attend high school so she could have a future.
In order to keep herself employed and in school, she needed a hobby to relieve stress when things went sour. She also firmly believed that those who spent money on their hobbies were idiots, which made Magical Girl Raising Project a perfect match. So she added the game to her two other hobbies: reading manga in bookshops (without buying) and reading at libraries.
When one company succeeded in lowering prices on their smartphones, competing companies joined in on the price war. Three years ago, smartphones had expanded to 90 percent of the cell phone market, according to some reports. In the years to follow, demand continued to rise until they controlled the entire cell phone market.
And with the increase in smartphones came an upsurge in mobile games designed for them. Most of these followed the model of being free to download but requiring real money to progress smoothly. But Magical Girl Raising Project was completely free-to-play.
Kano had always scoffed at the immature boys at school talking about their games, but once she tried it herself, she was hooked. She'd designed her own avatar, the in-game representation of her player, then jumped right into the game. By clearing quests to help people and fight enemies, she could collect cards for magic and items, strengthen her character, and take on more difficult quests and adversaries.
Sticking religiously to sessions of thirty minutes a day, she progressed at a snail's pace. But she still enjoyed gathering the cards for her perfect strategies and combos, combining them, and winning battles. With its perfect balance of hard work and reward, the game brought her pleasure, and to a newbie like Kano, everything was fresh and original. She didn't care much for magical girls, but she remembered how, back when she still had a TV, she used to smile along with the girls on-screen—and realized she had in fact used to love them. Strangely, she found herself reveling in her memories. Multiplayer battles and co-ops she found troublesome and irritating, so she opted to play against the AI and clear quests in the story mode. Progress was slow but steady. And a week after she'd started the game, something changed.
Fav, the mascot character floating inside the screen, began talking to her.
"Congratulations, pon! You've been selected to become a true magical girl, pon!"
Thinking it was some kind of new event, Kano rapidly skipped through the dialogue. Suddenly, the screen shone brightly, and the blinding light enveloped her. The next moment, she had transformed—she had become her game avatar, Ripple.
Kano took three deep breaths, looked at her hands and feet, then checked her entire body in the mirror. Then repeated the process four more times. She wasn't imagining things. She pinched her cheek and felt the sharp pain—she wasn't dreaming. Searching for a realistic explanation, she decided she must have been exhausted from school and work.
"This is going to be a problem," she thought, and the next time she looked in the mirror, she had detransformed. As a test, she willed herself to change again, and she transformed in the light. The same happened when she willed the costume away. She repeated both processes over and over, and still she saw Ripple in the mirror. Her face, body—everything about her was different from Kano, especially the salacious outfit she would never be caught dead wearing. The transformation was so real and vivid that she couldn't possibly consider it a dream or hallucination.
She flexed her right hand repeatedly, then drove her fist into her left hand. The sound wave and impact caused the windows to shudder and the ceiling light's pull cord to swing. Her fingers were like beautiful works of art—finer, longer, and more graceful than Kano's—yet held great strength within. She kicked at the floor lightly and almost hit her head on the ceiling. If she had cracked it, the landlord would yell at her again. Her physical power had increased by leaps and bounds, clearly no longer a normal human's.
Next, she examined her limbs and couldn't find any scars, bruises, or hairs—not even a mole or patch of dry skin. Her skin was smooth and soft, and firm as ripe fruit. Inside her body, energy coursed through her like never before. Outside, throwing knives and shuriken were sewn into her collar and sleeves. One unlucky slip and she could really hurt herself.
The rumors were true. The Magical Girl Raising Project game created magical girls.
She regarded the beautiful, perfect face in the mirror one more time. What was she, a model or an actress or something?
"Hmm..." Even her voice was different, higher and clearer than normal. She struck a few poses in the mirror—smiled brightly, blew a kiss. Everything she tried just looked right. Yet it was still a bit off from her idea of a true magical heroine. At the very least, it didn't feel orthodox.
"Something on your mind, pon?" the mascot asked from her phone's screen. Kano almost jumped, but somehow managed to keep her shock from showing. She couldn't do anything about the blush on her cheeks after getting caught striking poses and smiling in the mirror, though.
"Who are you...?" she asked, as calmly as possible.
"Fav is Fav, pon. If you played the game you should know who Fav is, pon."
"That's not what I mean... What is your goal?"
"Fav provides support to girls who show potential, pon. If you have any questions, don't hesitate to ask, pon."
He didn't seem to be listening. Ripple clicked her tongue and returned to the mirror. Staring back at her was, no matter how you sliced it, a magical girl. That fact was unmistakable.
"People described them as 'too beautiful to be human.' Is this really..."
"The ones you help will remember a little differently, pon. An average face will suddenly become 'too beautiful for this world,' pon. Is this unacceptable, pon?"
"No..."
Kano's avatar, Ripple, was based on a ninja—black hair, almond eyes, and thin eyebrows. She'd chosen her accessories in an attempt to compliment the half-kimono, half-swimsuit costume, yet seeing herself in full now, she looked rather plain for a magical girl. She sported a red scarf, the ninja cliché, and a giant shuriken hair clip that glinted silver. All else was a coordinated black, from head to toe. The name "Ripple" she'd come up with by translating her last name, Sazanami, into English, but in real life the Japanese outfit and Western name simply clashed.
"Is it possible to change your avatar's outfit?"
"Not at this stage, pon."
"Oh, I see..."
"What's the matter, pon? Something bothering you, pon?"
"No..."
Fav continued his explanation. Now that she had been chosen, she was expected to help people in need. Kano had no interest in helping others, but she couldn't resist the allure of beauty, superhuman strength, and the unrestricted use of magic.
More than anything, she was bored with her life.
"Fav will be sure to give you all the support you need, pon. For starters, take this magical phone, pon."
"What kind of support?"
"Fav is friends with every magical girl, so if you ever want to communicate, Fav can connect you, pon. Fav can also answer any of your questions, pon."
"What is a magical girl, anyway?"
"A magical girl is a magical girl, pon. Don't you watch TV, pon?"
"But what exactly does that mean?"
"The Magical Kingdom has granted you powers in order to help people, pon."
"For what reason? What is the Magical Kingdom's goal?"
"Don't you watch TV, pon?"
"Like I said..."
"You're a magical girl now, and that's final, pon. That is an irreversible truth, pon. No matter what you ask, no matter what the answer is, you are Ripple, pon."
"What?" It was all incredibly fishy, but she couldn't deny the extraordinary phenomenon she was now a part of. With enough effort, Kano could get into a good university, but effort alone couldn't make her into a magical girl. For that, she had needed a fair amount of luck and latent talent. If she let this chance pass her by, she'd most likely never get another one. So, after weighing her options, she made the calculated decision to accept.
Kano reflected on her objective pro-and-con calculations. As a self-professed realist, she was impressed at how calmly and collectedly she had accepted such an unusual situation.
Fav spoke up, possibly sensing her thoughts. "If you cannot accept that magical girls exist, you wouldn't have been chosen as one in the first place, pon."
She wasn't allowed free rein right off the bat, though. When Fav informed her she would need lessons from a more experienced mentor, Kano became moody. Just imagining it rubbed her the wrong way.
"Fav, you said you would be my support..."
"Fav would love to help as much as possible, but there is only one of Fav, pon. Fav cannot do everything, pon."
Kano remembered the game's forced tutorials and how slow and frustrating they were—simple button-clicking over and over, clearly made for idiots with no imagination. She shut off her new magical phone and clicked her tongue angrily. She could barely stand to look at the heart-shaped screen.
Talking to others had never been Kano's strong suit. To be honest, others in general had never been her strong suit. She had a deep dislike for people who herded together and thought they were tougher for it. This was one of the reasons she'd started playing Magical Girl Raising Project in the first place, so the looming prospect of obnoxious human relationships upset her.
Her first impression of Top Speed, her mentor, was that she seemed like an idiot. She wore a triangular witch's hat and a witchy dress and carried a magic broom. She was your generic spellcaster, and even her face appeared more Western than Ripple's. Her big blue eyes, a classic magical-girl trait, darted about busily as she tossed her flaxen braids. Only her long purple cape and the charm hanging from her neck broke the witch archetype in any way. The back of the cape, Ripple noticed, was embroidered with the words "No Gratuitous Opinions."
Oh, she's an idiot, Kano thought to herself, and her appraisal dropped even more. They'd agreed to meet on the roof of the Seventh Sankou building, and as Top Speed landed she gave a big smile and jabbed her right hand out in a thumbs-up.
"Nice to meet ya! I'm Top Speed. Good to have ya on board!"
"... Nice to meet you."
"Where's your energy, man? You eating right? Ha-ha-ha!"
She spoke like a guy and cackled like a fool. Ripple's assessment slipped down another level.
With a flourish, Top Speed spun and parked herself on the guardrail and beckoned Ripple to sit beside her. Not wanting to sit next to her, yet also not wanting to stand under her gaze, the ninja chose the simplest option and leaned against the wall.
Top Speed then proceeded to explain all that being a magical girl entailed. In essence, they used magic to help normal people, and doing good deeds earned them magical candies.
"Good deeds...?"
"In the game, you'd defeat enemies and stuff, but in the real world there ain't much in the way of enemies to defeat, ya know? I know it's not glamorous, but honest work like this is best." Top Speed spoke with an air of experience, but Ripple just scoffed silently.
Top Speed also taught her functions of the magical phone that only they could use—although it was nearly identical to a regular smartphone. The way Top Speed talked it up only added to Ripple's exasperation. She did not show this, of course, but silently scoffed again.
Following instructions, Ripple used the device to bring up a page with her personal data. Height, weight, and measurements—it was all there. As Kano, she was an inch taller than the average boy and solidly built, but when she transformed into Ripple, everything about her became feminine. Under "Personality" was written "Violent and unsociable," and the fact that she agreed with this just irritated her more. Under "Magic" was written "Throws shuriken that always hit their target," and this time she audibly clicked her tongue.
"Hmm? What's up?"
"I only have one kind of magic..."
It was so plain. Throwing shuriken was more of a ninja technique than a power. She could think of so many other ninja-like things to do, like creating clone illusions or breathing fireballs.
"Magical girls only get one kind of magic, see. It was way easier in the game when you could use lotsa magic, but them's the breaks."
That wasn't the only depressing piece of information Top Speed had to share, though. There were also two rules that all magical girls had to follow: Never reveal yourself to a regular human, and never talk about the rules or your powers to a regular human. Those who broke these rules had their right to be magical girls rescinded.
Once a week, they had an online meeting. While attendance was not mandatory, it was a good idea to attend so as not to miss some major announcement.
Certain members of their ranks were very territorial. The two places to avoid in the city were Calamity Mary's Jounan district and Ruler's Nishimonzen. The former loved to pick fights, and the latter was just aggravating to listen to. Both were an equal pain in the butt.
Top Speed regaled Ripple with stories. For instance, Sister Nana had once stumbled into Calamity Mary's territory and was nearly killed for it. There was also the time a video of the Peaky Angels had made its way to the Internet and caused a stir. The more she talked, the more Ripple checked out. When her mentor had finally finished, hopped onto her broom, and disappeared into the night sky, Ripple clicked her tongue.
"Hey..."
"Yes, pon?"
"Who made her a mentor?"
"Friendly magical girls volunteer for the job, pon. Top Speed's explanation might have taken three times longer than normal, but that just shows how thorough she was being, pon."
So not only had she been the victim of an overzealous busybody, but she had also suffered through a longer-than-necessary introduction. Ripple clicked her tongue louder than she had in years. To her, Top Speed had gone from "idiotic mentor" to "idiot trying to act like a mentor."
For some reason, Top Speed kept coming back to visit Ripple. Not even subtle sounds of dismay or saying to her face, "You don't have to come back" could stop her. She simply waved it away with a, "You're such a prickly pear."
Realizing words wouldn't reach her, Ripple decided to ignore Top Speed. In the end, the witch would talk without interruption until she'd had her fill, then leave for the day. One time she brought a plastic container of boiled sweet potatoes, which Ripple grudgingly tried and found delicious.
In summer, Kubegahama practically teemed with tourists, but by fall it was a ghost town. When the sun set, not a soul could be found wandering the streets. A very tall steel tower stood on a hill overlooking the beach, and on this tower sat two girls in costume. One of them wore a white school-uniform-esque outfit, and the other looked at first glance like a knight from the Middle Ages, but with a long tail. The two of them huddled close around a magical phone and spoke with the mascot character, Fav.
Magical girls preferred constructs like office buildings and steel towers. These tall, deserted areas were good resting spots where their outrageous outfits could go unnoticed. Few of them could truly fly, but they all had the ability to run up building walls as if they were flat ground.
"Be extra sure to come to the next chat meeting, pon."
"Why?"
"There's going to be an important announcement, pon."
"I heard a new girl was joining. Is it that?"
"That, and a big event as a result, pon."
"What kind of event?"
"You'll have to show up to find out, pon."
"Hmm."
Snow White turned off her phone and rotated a little to the side. She drew her knees close to La Pucelle's, making it easier to converse.
"Sou, Sou. Did you hear that?" she chirped.
"I did."
In contrast with Snow White's ill-fitting nonchalance, La Pucelle's response had a tinge of melancholy to it.
"What do you think?"
"Chat attendance has been low lately, so maybe Fav is doing this to get people to show up."
"It's low?"
"Yes. Yesterday only seven people showed up: you, me, Nemurin, Cranberry, Top Speed, Sister Nana, and Winterprison."
"But that's higher than before."
"It's still low. Can you recall even one time when everyone showed up?"
Attendance at the once-a-week chat meeting was recommended but not mandatory, which was causing a drop in attendees, a situation Fav was always trying to remedy. He constantly insisted that everyone should exchange information more, and that they should be friendlier toward one another. Hardly anyone listened.
Snow White and La Pucelle both had a high attendance rate. They were huge fans of magical girls and jumped on every chance to associate with others like them. Thanks to the chat meetings, they had developed many friendships, so to them, at least, the meetings had not been for nothing.
"That chat room is so tiny. I think it'd be really hard to squeeze lots of people in."
The weekly chat took place in an imaginary meeting room, with each girl entering as a simplified version of her avatar.
"It's not like we'll be literally squeezed, so what's the problem?"
"Still, Sou..."
"Also!"
La Pucelle jabbed her pointer finger at Snow White, who stared blankly back.
"Don't call me Sou when I'm transformed!"
"Oh! Sorry, So—" Snow White started to apologize but made the same mistake again, so she laughed to try to cover it up. Her infectious laugh caused La Pucelle, finger still extended, to start giggling as well.
Koyuki Himekawa had always admired magical girls. As a child, watching the adorable Hiyoko in the Hiyoko series had been an emotional roller coaster. From there, she had moved on to the Star Queen series and the Cutie Healer series. Watching these brave girls fight against evil enthralled her. Her childhood friend and fellow magic fan would also borrow older series from a cousin for them to watch, which introduced her to girls like Merry, Riccabel, and Miko. They used their powers to bring people happiness and never faltered, no matter what the danger. Koyuki even declared that when she grew up, she'd become a magical girl just like them, which made her friend jealous, since he could only hope to become a sorcerer.
As the years went on, more and more of her classmates began to consider magical girls childish, but even in high school Koyuki stubbornly stuck to her beliefs. To her, they weren't just fiction—they had become an irreplaceable part of her being. But she knew people would only mock her wish to become one and help people if she ever voiced it, and so she kept it to herself. But she just couldn't bring herself to abandon her dream.
It was in middle school that Koyuki first came across Magical Girl Raising Project. It was inevitable that a girl who'd wished all her life to become a magical do-gooder would learn of a game rumored to grant that wish. Still, she didn't start the game convinced it would actually happen. Her reasoning was something like, "It's just a rumor that people actually transform, right? Yeah, they're just rumors. But it's okay to just wish that they're true, right? I still like magical girl–themed games, anyway. Besides, it's free!" Twenty-eight days after starting the game, Koyuki Himekawa became Snow White.
When she looked in the mirror, she could see the figure she'd dreamed of since she was a child. She hadn't just dreamed, but had drawn it out on paper. She'd based the outfit on the school uniform from the most popular manga at the time and, as the name "Snow White" indicated, made her outfit entirely white and decorated it with white flowers. While Koyuki had rarely been called lovely, let alone beautiful, the girl in the mirror was truly beautiful. Her skin was a translucent white, her eyelashes long. Snow White was an entirely different person from Koyuki, but it didn't seem odd that they were one and the same.
She didn't think she was dreaming, either. The experience was surreal, for sure, but also overwhelmingly authentic. She jumped and squealed with joy, smacking her head on the ceiling and then falling on her butt. Her mother, surprised by the noise, came to her room to investigate. Fortunately, Koyuki managed to change back in the nick of time and convince her mother she had simply tripped. As a normal human once more, she started to think that maybe it all had been a dream, but then she transformed again.
And there stood the magical girl Snow White.
"Yes... Yes... Yesss!"
"Congratulations, pon."
"Yes! Yes! Yesss! Thank you, Fav! I'm so excited to start!"
She spent the rest of that day smiling so widely her mother began to worry she'd hit her head. That night she snuck out to school, careful not to get caught by her parents. Late at night in the empty school yard, she hopped, leaped, kicked, punched, flipped, and somersaulted, slowly unleashing more and more of the power welling within her, discovering new moves she could never have done before. She had really become the heroine from her imagination. When the realization finally hit her, joy and excitement overwhelmed her without giving her a moment to breathe.
She did a somersault again, and her skirt flipped up. Perhaps she should have made it a little longer—compared to her school uniform, it was extremely short. She made a mental note to keep her actions more restrained in front of others.
"Oh, can I use any magic?"
"You should check the personal data on your magical phone for that, pon."
She turned on her new gadget and consulted the page listing various details on Snow White.
"Hey, Fav."
"Yes, pon?"
"Under personality it says 'clumsy' and 'strong sense of justice,' which is fine, but what's this 'tendency to daydream'?"
"Humans find it difficult to view themselves objectively, pon."
"Really...?"
Under "Magic" was written, "Can hear the thoughts of those in need," the perfect ability for Koyuki's ideal, the champion of the people. She was so grateful to the ones who made this possible. Thank you, Magical Kingdom. Thank you for giving me this wonderful power.
That day marked Snow White's debut. Every night she'd sneak out her window to look for people to help: a middle schooler who'd lost her house key, a university student who'd had their car stolen, and a businessman under pressure for money, to name a few. There were also many troubles she couldn't do anything about, like concealing adultery, a boy unsure of whether or not to confess to the girl he had a crush on, or a retiree desperate for their pension.
Hearing the thoughts of those in need was the only special ability she possessed, so the only way she could help was to roll up her sleeves and join the fray with her magically enhanced arms, legs, eyes, and ears. However, the problems that could be solved this way were endless, and so work was never in short supply. Only two days after her first transformation, she was earning magical candies left and right, and the candy warehouse in her phone was filled with bottles—and she hadn't even met her mentor yet.
At her first chat session, the girls welcomed her with open arms. There was Top Speed, her avatar dressed like a witch; Sister Nana, clad like a nun; Weiss Winterprison, dressed in a long scarf; Nemurin, wearing pajamas; Musician of the Forest, Cranberry, draped in flowers; and La Pucelle in knight's armor. Top Speed shared her experiences, cracking jokes the whole time, while every now and again Sister Nana would interject with her own. Nemurin hardly spoke, saying she preferred to listen to what others had done. The silent Winterprison simply stood at Sister Nana's side as Cranberry played music from her chair in the corner.
Just as the meeting was about to adjourn, La Pucelle approached Snow White. As it turned out, she was in charge of the area just next to Snow White's and had volunteered to be her mentor. They agreed to meet at midnight the next day at the tallest steel tower by the Kubegahama beach.
Koyuki had never met another magical girl in real life before, and the excitement caused her to space out even more during class. She received three warnings from her teacher that day, and even her friends worried something was wrong. Becoming a magical girl hadn't changed Koyuki's passion for them in the slightest, and now she was going to meet and talk to one face-to-face. And not as a fan and celebrity, but as fellow heroes. It was impossible to calm her racing heart.
That night, she made sure not to be late by arriving fifteen minutes early, but when she climbed the steel tower she found La Pucelle already there. Magical girls possessed great night vision, so even on that moonless night, she could see clear as day the lone knight standing at the top of the tower. Her armor consisted of wrist guards, a breast guard, and shin guards, with a giant sword more than a foot wide and a yard long slung across her back. An image of a fiercely roaring dragon decorated the sheath. Hornlike hair decorations and a tail accessory extending from her waist completed the dragon imagery.
Her magical girliness—her femininity—however, was still quite apparent even under all that armor. Where some might cover up, she left her cleavage and thighs clearly visible. Her hair was done up just so, barely touching her shoulders, with a few strands dangling from each side of her head. La Pucelle heard Snow White arrive and shifted her gaze from the ocean to Snow White. Her expression was regal, but she also seemed uncomfortable. Snow White panicked, thinking she'd shown up late.
"U-um, it's nice to meet you... Well, we've talked before, via chat, so it's nice to meet you in person? Is that okay? Anyway, it's nice to meet you!"
It wasn't a very good greeting. In fact, it was fair to call it terrible. And Snow White, head bowed deeply, knew that more than anyone.
She glanced at La Pucelle. Arms crossed, the other girl gave three deep nods. "I knew it," she said with a husky voice. "Koyuki?"
Question marks flickered in Snow White's mind at hearing her name from this person she'd never met.
"H-how do you know my real name?"
"I knew it was you. It's me, Souta."
"Huh?"
"Souta Kishibe. We went to the same school until two years ago. Don't tell me you've forgotten me."
"Wh-wh-whaaaaaaaaat?!"
The reason Souta Kishibe had realized Snow White's true identity was simple—she closely resembled the drawing of a magical girl Koyuki had labeled her "grown-up self." Souta, her childhood friend, had seen her draw it—even memorized it. The first time he saw Snow White's avatar, he had suspected it might be her. Meeting her in person just confirmed it.
The reason Koyuki Himekawa hadn't realized La Pucelle's real identity was equally simple. She never could have imagined that tan, energetic, soccer-loving boy as a regal female knight. Even knowing the transformation could change one's body, clothes, age, and physical prowess, she had never guessed it could also change one's gender. The two of them sat next to each other on the steel tower and chatted until the sun was nearly risen, rekindling their old friendship.
"So was it Magical Girl Raising Project for you, too, Koyuki?"
"Yeah. One day Fav just started talking to me. I thought it was some sort of event, and the next thing I knew I was a magical girl. How long have you had powers, Sou?"
"About a month, I think. Man, I'm so surprised you ended up one."
"Hey, I've always loved them! I'm more surprised at you."
"I've always loved them, too, you know. I just didn't tell anyone," Souta said. There was a world of difference between boys and girls liking this sort of thing. In middle school, a girl would be considered odd, while a boy would be considered a pervert. He'd had to walk a town over to get his fix at the DVD rental shop where no one knew him and conceal his manga and light novels inside his school desk, hiding like a Christian in the Edo period.
"Sou, I thought you forgot all about magical girls and went for soccer instead."
They'd been forced to go to different middle schools because they lived in different districts, but Koyuki had seen Souta running during early-morning practice many times.
"Soccer's fun, but it can't scratch the same itch."
"I wonder if there are any other boy magical girls."
"According to Fav, I'm the only one in the area, and even globally it's pretty rare."
"Are you really a girl now?"
"When I transform, I'm completely female. Yeah, no doubt about that."
For some reason, La Pucelle's cheeks reddened slightly with embarrassment.
They made two rules: to work together, and to always stay in character, even when they were alone. And so the Snow White–La Pucelle duo was formed. Voices from those in trouble reached Snow White's ears, no matter how big or small the problem. Using her magic, she roamed the city searching for people to help. La Pucelle became her partner, but her magic was not as peaceful as Snow White's. It was much more violent. La Pucelle appointed herself the role of bodyguard, insisting she would protect Snow White if something ever happened. Not that anything could threaten a magical girl.
|
[ CHAT #1 ]
The goal of Magical Girl Raising Project's chat function was to allow the players to communicate through their avatars. Thus, the weekly chats also made use of this function. The chat room, modeled after a conference room, opened its doors, and one after another, the little characters made their way inside.
> Cranberry has entered the Magical Kingdom.
> Magicaloid 44 has entered the Magical Kingdom.
> Swim Swim has entered the Magical Kingdom.
> Top Speed has entered the Magical Kingdom.
> Magicaloid 44: Greetings
> Top Speed: Sup
> Cranberry:
> Snow White has entered the Magical Kingdom.
> Tama has entered the Magical Kingdom.
> Nemurin has entered the Magical Kingdom.
> Snow White: Good evening! Nice to see you all!
> Swim Swim: Yo
> Tama: Arf!
> Ripple has entered the Magical Kingdom.
> Top Speed: Wow, look who finally decided to show!
> La Pucelle has entered the Magical Kingdom.
> Nemurin: Hi
> Ruler has entered the Magical Kingdom.
> La Pucelle: Good evening, ladies
> Calamity Mary has entered the Magical Kingdom.
> Ruler: Evening.
> Sister Nana has entered the Magical Kingdom.
> Winterprison has entered the Magical Kingdom.
> Sister Nana: Good evening, everyone. Blessings to you all.
> Winterprison: Hey
> Minael has entered the Magical Kingdom.
> Yunael has entered the Magical Kingdom.
> Calamity Mary: This message cannot be displayed due to bad language.
> Yunael: Hiya!
> Minael: Yay!
> Fav has entered the Magical Kingdom.
The chat room was crammed with avatars.
Musician of the Forest, Cranberry flopped back onto the bed she'd been sitting on, magical phone in hand, and rolled over the old sheets onto her stomach. Her hair, fixed with a flower-shaped clip, flipped up softly and brushed against her waist.
If the top of a tall building was the perfect resting spot for magical girls, then an abandoned cabin in the middle of the mountains was the perfect residence for them. Someone like Cranberry, who had no life in the human world, needed only solitude and a roof over her head. The resort hotel near the peak of Mount Takanami, abandoned halfway through construction, had fit her needs for over half a year. No one knew she was there.
Thanks to Fav's insistence that there would be an important announcement, no one had attempted to skip out on that week's chat. Some, like Ripple, were clearly there against their will and remained sullenly silent without even an attempt at a greeting, but still, every magical girl active in N City was accounted for. This had never happened once since the weekly chats had begun, and the small room was packed like a can of sardines.
> Top Speed: Hey, weren't we getting a new girl?
> Oh, that's next week, pon
> Although, this conversation does involve her...
In total, there were fifteen magical girls active in N City, which meant adding a new one the following week would bring the total to sixteen. That was too much, even for a metropolis like N City. The mana that powered their magic depended on the land and was, consequently, a limited resource. The addition of another would drain mana from the land even faster and deplete it in no time.
After summing up the current situation, Fav eagerly made his big announcement.
> And so, we'll be cutting down on the number of magical girls, pon. Half—eight—is our goal, pon
The room was silent as the girls processed what Fav had just said. A moment later, a storm of criticism, a tide of complaints, and an endless stream of questions and concerns followed. The size of a rock is most understandable from the splash it makes. Speech bubbles from the avatars covered the screen, filled with everything from all caps to colored text, and it became nearly impossible to see anything in the already tiny chat room. Fav bowed and apologized over and over. He even seemed to be shedding fewer scales than normal.
Exactly what method would they use to cut down the numbers?
> This magical girl chat is held once every week, pon
> so once a week we will announce who has been cut here
> for eight weeks until eight of you have been let go, pon
> The one with the fewest magical candies
> will be the one to go, pon
Cranberry was well aware that nobody was about to say, "Who do you think you are, pretending like nothing's wrong when we're in this thanks to your incompetence? If that's how it is, I quit!" They had all joyously accepted their new status as magical girls. Tasting such great power and then losing it would upset anyone. The higher they rose, the harder they fell, and the deeper they despaired.
> To repeat:
> Once a week, the girl with the fewest magical candies will be cut, pon
> So please work your hardest to gather lots of candies, pon
> Fav is very, very sorry for the inconvenience, pon
> Oh, and
> there has been an update to your phones, so please be sure to check that out, pon
> That's all, pon
> See you here in one week
|
Cranberry logged out from the chat, turned off her device, and threw it at her pillow.
In the week after the chat, magical-girl sightings spread like wildfire. The Internet was blowing up.
A princess chased away a scary dog.
Twin angels flew through the sky to recover a lost balloon.
A girl in a white school uniform helped push a car out of a ditch.
The farther they spread their activities, the more chances there were for them to be seen. They were desperate to gather as much magical candy as possible to increase their chances of ending up in the final eight, which drove up reckless exposure, traffic for news sites, and public awareness.
"Whatcha lookin' at, Ripple?"
Ripple, sitting on the roof of an office building, heard a voice from above. She continued to stare at her magical phone, neither answering nor turning toward the sound.
"Oh, is that the news? Everyone's working so hard now, huh?"
Top Speed alighted next to her, and Ripple finally turned her head.
"Snow White's really working her butt off. Geez, save some for the rest of us, right?"
Sightings of the white magical girl were leaps and bounds ahead of sightings of the others. She wasn't even doing anything spectacular. Her assistance came in small, everyday actions like picking up dropped change, ferrying forgotten lunches, and reminding people to zip up their flies. Was helping with mundane difficulties a magical girl's true purpose? Or was she simply not capable of undertaking greater issues? According to the Internet, at least, it appeared to be the former.
Snow White was the pure and righteous heroine little girls dreamed of becoming—the exact opposite of Ripple, who brushed off praise for her work by saying she was simply "in it for the candy." It wasn't that Ripple didn't want to serve the community, but she was too embarrassed to say otherwise. However, maybe boldly declaring, "I want to help others!" and actually doing so was the correct way to be a magical girl, she mused.
"Ripple, you're really focused on Snow White, ain't ya? She your rival?"
Ripple clicked her tongue sharply. The voice felt like cold water jolting her out of her reverie.
"I thought you considered Calamity Mary your rival."
Another disapproving click. And who exactly was responsible for that mess in the first place?
A few days after Ripple had first transformed, Calamity Mary had come knocking on the roof of the Seventh Sankou building, Ripple's and Top Speed's de facto meeting point. Light as a butterfly, she had leaped to them from a neighboring building. As she landed on the roof, Ripple noticed she looked exactly as the rumors stated: like a cowgirl. Not really magical girl–esque, she thought, though she didn't have any room to judge.
Calamity Mary's business with them was quite simple.
"You, little girl. Ripple, was it?"
She appeared to be in her second or third year of high school, and she was much more well-endowed than either Ripple or Top Speed. Her breasts and butt were huge. Ripple looked like she was in middle school, which made the "little girl" comment somewhat understandable, she reasoned. So, while it did irk her a bit, she kept her cool and give a small nod.
Calamity Mary flicked her cowboy hat.
"I told Fav I'd be mentoring the next newbie."
"Oh, y'see, I made Fav promise me a long time ago that if a new girl was assigned to a neighborhood near me, I'd get to mentor her. Good neighbors and all that, right?"
Ripple had been assigned to Nakayado, the center of an area once famous as a castle town, while Top Speed's area was the northern section of Kitayado. Naturally, they were next to each other.
"It was a really long time ago, so that must be why Fav came to me first. I had no idea you two had an agreement. I'm so, so sorry."
"Oh?"
Calamity Mary continued to stare at Ripple, sparing no concern for Top Speed groveling with her hat in her hands. Ripple glared back. The uncivilized staring was upsetting enough without Top Speed kowtowing to someone who was ignoring her entirely.
In a flash, Calamity Mary's gun left its holster and fired at Ripple, who whipped out the sword from the sheath on her back and deflected the incoming bullet. Not a tenth of a second had passed before it was over. Flustered, Top Speed raised her head.
"What're you two doing?"
"Ain't it obvious? Huh, little lady?"
Ripple glared hard at the pistol in Calamity Mary's right hand. Red smoke rose from the long black barrel. It was clearly no ordinary gun. Magic, maybe? Her sword-wielding hand was still numb.
Top Speed inserted herself between the two and spread her hands to both sides.
"Please, sis! Peace! Newbies always need to be taught respect! I'll scold her later, so please put down that gun. I'm begging ya!" she shouted in Mary's direction, then whispered to Ripple, "And you, put that away. Someone could get hurt!"
Calamity Mary spun her pistol before dropping it into its holster, and Ripple returned her sword to her back. Top Speed gave a sigh of relief.
"Peace, girls. Peace. We're all magical girls here, right? Comrades?"
Ripple didn't know what Calamity Mary was thinking, but she doubted she'd holstered her gun because they were comrades like Top Speed had suggested. She didn't consider Mary a comrade, and most likely the feeling was mutual.
"Well, all right. I'll yell at Fav later." And with that, Calamity Mary grabbed on to the guardrail and flipped over it with ease. At that moment, Ripple's heart pounded again—in the other girl's hand was a pistol, aimed at her. She'd totally missed the draw.
Multiple shots rang out. One bullet flew toward Top Speed while two flew toward her. Ripple grabbed her mentor by the collar and forced her down, simultaneously drawing her sword again and deflecting the bullets from a crouch. She came back up ready to retaliate with the throwing knives hidden in her sheath, but Calamity Mary was already gone.
"You two, I swear."
Top Speed stood herself up, rubbing her nose and forehead like she'd hit them.
"Why're ya so quick to pull the trigger? Have some damn restraint! Ever heard of it?"
"If someone picks a fight... you have to retaliate..."
"Well, learn to choose your battles! If you go starting shit every time she gets on your nerves, you won't live long!"
Ripple clicked her tongue. She was rattled and upset—first, with Top Speed for doing nothing the entire time. Second, with Calamity Mary and her bizarre willingness to fire at others without hesitation. And third, with herself for her terror at facing a gun, despite her tough act. She couldn't stand, her heart raced, and her sweat flowed like rivers, but somehow she barely managed not to cry.
Her right hand tingled from the impact of deflecting the bullets. When she'd become a magical girl and realized how strong she'd become, she had been so sure she couldn't be killed. Turns out she'd been wrong. Normal humans couldn't kill her. Most likely not even a disease or traffic accident could. But no matter how sturdy and resilient she was, another one like her could injure her. All of this made her angry.
"You're a sword with no sheath, like I used to be. Things could get bad if I left you alone. You could get up to some serious danger," Top Speed said, exasperated. That know-it-all look, those crossed arms, the lecturing—Ripple angrily clicked her tongue again.
Every evening after five o'clock, students packed into the hamburger shop in front of the train station and filled it with a thousand different conversations. The air bubbled with excitement and laughter, but the everyday chaos always stayed under control. The employees and customers were all used to it. Amid the hustle and bustle, three middle school girls occupying the three window seats near the door carried on their conversation like normal. One of them gestured at her smartphone and talked excitedly.
"The sightings are pouring in like crazy! See? Magical girls just have to exist!"
"Sumi... are you still going on about this?"
"Not even you can deny it when there are so many witness reports, Yocchan! They totally exist! So totally exist!"
"Of course I'll deny it. There's no freaking way."
"H-hey, Yocchan, why don't you believe in them?"
"You tell her, Koyuki! You speak for all the dreamers out there!"
"I dunno how to explain it. It's just plain embarrassing."
"Why is it embarrassing?"
"Wow, Koyuki, why're you so curious?"
"I just am!"
"Like, in anime and stuff, when a girl transforms there's a second where she's completely naked, right? It's like, are you an exhibitionist or something?"
"That doesn't happen! The media's lying to you!"
"Calm down, now. We're only talking about cartoons here, right?"
"Why are you two talking about anime, anyway? This stuff is happening in real life. There are eyewitnesses and everything."
"There's no way people can grow wings and fly or get hit by a dump truck and just walk it off."
"C'mon, Yocchan, dream a little. If something may or may not be real, it's just more fun to think it's real."
"Sumi, you need to come back to Earth. Reality is important."
"I'm not delusional, okay? I just think it would be cool if they existed, even if I know how reality works. Yocchan, you're missing out with that attitude. The Internet's going nuts! There's info on magical girls everywhere! My favorite's this one, the one in white. She seems real down-to-earth. I'd be relieved if she came to my rescue. She's, like, chicken soup for the soul."
"Koyuki, why are you grinning?"
"I-I'm not! I'm not grinning at all!"
A week later—only seven days, and yet the anticipation had made them feel so long to Cranberry. A glance at any aggregate site revealed just how hard the other girls had been working. None of them wanted to be cut. Cranberry navigated to the chat on her magical phone and logged in.
Attendance was unusually high, similar to last time. Right away, Nemurin was unceremoniously named as the one among them with the least magical candy. She didn't seem particularly tortured or regretful about the results, just a little embarrassed. While the vast majority of the girls wanted to wield the great power they'd been given, she preferred to listen to their tales of adventure. Cranberry couldn't recall a week where Nemurin hadn't been there, and she was always easy to talk to.
But through her perfect attendance, her relationships with the others ran deep. Unlike Cranberry, simply there to be there, she had never missed an opportunity to chat or listen. Everyone knew her. Snow White, Top Speed, and Sister Nana were the most torn up about saying good-bye.
"I'll be watching you guys on the Internet. I'll always be cheering for you!"
To which Fav responded, "Well, good-bye, pon." And the pajama-wearing avatar was gone.
Then the top earner was also announced, which ended up being Snow White by a landslide.
"Everyone, try to emulate Snow White, pon," Fav said, ending the chat. One by one the girls left, until it was just Fav and Cranberry. She had a question she wanted answered.
Cranberry: I have one question, if you don't mind
> What is it, pon?
Cranberry: What exactly happens when one loses the right to be a magical girl?
> Girls who have been cut die, pon
Cranberry: Do you mean that figuratively? As in, they die as magical girls?
> It's a biological death, pon
A franker answer there wasn't. Cranberry logged out without responding and tossed her magical phone at her pillow, just as she had a week ago. Chat logs were available even to those not present, which meant soon all the magical girls would learn what she and Fav had discussed. This would fundamentally change the implication of "getting the ax," not to mention the meaning of the game they were playing. Cranberry crossed her hands behind her head and rolled onto the bed, staring up at the ceiling.
|
Magical girls weren't so different from normal humans, in terms of their species. They were human, and humans could become magical girls. But the ones who made that leap could no longer be compared with normal people. Magic allowed them to draw forth exponentially more power.
"To lose the right to become a magical girl is to lose one's essence as a living being. In other words, death, pon."
"But that's exactly the problem! I'd rather go back to being normal than die!"
"Complain all you like, there's nothing that can be done now, pon."
"Nothing that can be done?!"
"Magical girls are natural-born warriors—their destiny is to fight, pon. Unflinching in the face of danger, they use brains, courage, and magic to overcome any crisis. The stronger the foe, the greater the joy—"
Snow White shut off her magical phone, abruptly ending her conversation with Fav. A few days ago she'd read through the logs and found the conversation between Cranberry and the mascot, which had led to a never-ending argument that only spun its wheels. When she said she'd rather quit than die, Fav revealed that if she quit she'd die anyway.
"You should have warned us!"
"No one forced you to pick up the game."
On and on the argument stretched. They were like two parallel lines, never meeting in the middle.
Snow White sighed. She couldn't tell anyone what she was. Doing so would mean she'd forfeit her powers and die. She couldn't even tell her parents or friends her life would end, or she'd perish on the spot.
Two days after the chat, a small blurb in the obituary section of the local newspaper revealed that a twenty-four-year-old female, one Nemu Sanjou, had passed. Her time of death was the time the chat had ended, and the cause of death was a sudden heart attack despite no history of illness. All these factors led to one conclusion. It had to have been Nemurin.
We're really... gonna die.
Snow White sighed again, then gazed out at the horizon. With her magically improved eyesight, she could see every detail of the ocean, even from atop the steel tower. Dozens of fishing boats were setting out for the open ocean. They get to be so carefree, and I have to deal with this. She felt an unreasonable anger inside, but knowing it was irrational just made her depressed.
I've just been worrying about myself. I'm putting my own life above Nemurin's death. We talked so much, and we were such good friends, but after some crying and a night's sleep all I can think about is myself. I feel guilty. I'm scared to die. My stomach hurts. I wanna throw up. But I don't wanna die. I don't wanna die. I don't wanna die. I don't wanna die. I'm scared to die.
An electronic beeping brought her back to reality. Next to her was La Pucelle, fiddling with her magical device.
"What are you doing?"
She heard a noise like a level-up chime from an RPG.
"Mind checking your magical phone for me?"
"Sure, but... what are you doing?"
She turned on her phone and checked the screen. Displayed were the time, humidity, temperature, her magical candy total...
"Huh?"
Assuming her memory wasn't off, she'd had more candy the previous night. Yet somehow her total had been cut in half.
"Wait, what the heck happened? Oh my gosh!"
"Calm down. I'll send them back."
Again came the level-up sound, and Snow White's candy total was the same as she remembered.
"What is this?"
"Fav told us there'd been an update to the magical phones. They added the ability to share magical candy. You can do it even if the other phone is off. It takes a little while to complete the transfer, though."
"Oh... So?"
"It's probably Fav's way of telling us to work together to get more candy, considering the timing of the update."
Snow White studied the knight sitting next to her. Even with the cold and cloudy night sky as a background, her face was noble and beautiful—and just a little bit excited.
"Sou, are you gonna go get candy?"
"Stop calling me Sou. And if I don't gather candy I'm gonna get the ax, literally. So it's better than nothing."
"You're not scared or anything?"
"Are you scared, Snow White?"
"Sure I am. I don't want to let anyone else die, or die myself. Then I wouldn't be able to see my parents, my friends, I wouldn't be able to watch magical-girl anime, eat good food, see cool stuff, laugh..."
"I know it's scary. I'm scared, too. Who wouldn't be?"
La Pucelle's expression hardened. Startled, Snow White tried to distance herself, but La Pucelle placed a hand on hers. Snow White swallowed, finding herself unable to reject her.
"But if we let the fear paralyze us, it'll be us on the chopping block next. You don't want that, do you? So let's work hard together."
She would have been right at home with the girls on TV she'd cheered for all those years—ready to challenge even the strongest enemy with a heart determined to protect those important to her. Were the others thinking the same thing? Were they steeling their resolves, just as La Pucelle had? Snow White felt like the odd one out for being so scared. Was she the strange one? What would Nemurin say? Snow White recalled her smiling face, all ears to yet another story of adventure. She wiped her eyes with her sleeve.
"Don't cry, Snow White."
La Pucelle drew her sword from its sheath, offered the handle to her, and took a knee. The blade was nearly two feet long, its steel sparkling.
"My sworn friend Snow White, I vow to be your sword, no matter what befalls me."
Her words and actions seemed rehearsed, but her eyes were sincere. Despite being told not to cry, Snow White couldn't suppress the great big tears spilling forth. She hugged La Pucelle tightly and put her lips to her ear.
"Thank you..."
Sensing the warmth of La Pucelle's body, her face began to burn. She glanced at her friend, whose cheeks also seemed to burn a deep shade of red.
Ripple had no idea what Top Speed liked about her, but she was acutely aware of her new title—partner. In chat, the witch went on about "my partner this" and "my partner that" and then made sure to let Ripple know, even though she never asked. It annoyed her. The only sounds from her mouth were tongue clicks. But the ninja never turned her away or yelled at, abused, or hit her, instead choosing to let her talk. Top Speed, taking Ripple's silence as approval, showed up almost daily to pick her up for a night of candy gathering. But Ripple hadn't simply caved. She wouldn't be putting herself through hell for no good reason.
Ripple's pinpoint accurate shuriken only helped those in need if they were in a very dangerous situation, and those didn't happen every day. Ripple's only recourse was to use her enhanced physical abilities, something any other magical girl could do. She had no special advantage.
Top Speed, on the other hand, had the unique ability of flight, thanks to her magic broomstick, Rapid Swallow. This was far more useful than Ripple's ability to throw things. It wasn't a matter of helping people more easily—it was much easier to search from the skies for chances to lend a hand.
When she heard about Nemurin's death, Top Speed raged and cried. Ripple, however, calmly considered what actions to take in the future. Of course, she couldn't deny she was angry at the mysterious force putting her life in danger, and the fear of death was so painful she wanted to clutch at her chest to suppress it. But still, she did her best to remain calm. She had to gather candy like her life depended on it, because it literally did. Everything that could be used, should be used. If Top Speed provided a unique advantage, she had no choice but to put up with the irritation in silence.
From Rapid Swallow's rear seat, she zoomed around her designated area earning points. Top Speed's dedication to survival was greater than expected. "I can't die," she'd declared to Ripple with an oddly serious expression. The silence she got in response had prompted an addendum. "I just need at least another six months," she'd whispered. Ripple questioned this oddly specific amount of time, but Top Speed simply smiled wryly and didn't answer. She wrote it off as more babbling.
"So today we'll be flying along the national highway, okay?"
"Roger..."
"I wish there was a place we could earn a little more points, though."
Ripple had suggested the red-light district would be more profitable, but the largest one in the city was in the Jounan district. That was Calamity Mary's territory, and Top Speed had firmly rejected the idea. Ripple had questioned her lack of dedication, considering they could die if they failed, but Top Speed insisted it made no sense to put themselves in danger when the goal was to live longer. In the end, they settled on making do with the districts they'd been assigned.
Nakayado and Kitayado had respectable populations, but the militaristic air of their castle-town days was long gone. Truthfully, the people were quite mellow. This was not a bad thing—in fact, she preferred this—but that naturally came with a lower number of opportunities to assist.
The two of them stayed up all night searching for problems to solve, even skipping meals, and generally kept quite busy. Of course, once a magical girl was transformed, hunger and fatigue became nonfactors. But above all, they didn't want to die.
While "annoying but useful, thus worth putting up with" was Ripple's appraisal of Top Speed, something she'd obviously never say out loud, she couldn't help but raise that evaluation a little every time they landed on the roof of the Seventh Sankou building after a ride on her magic broomstick.
Since each girl had her own unique ability, forming a team with trustworthy people was the best way to gather candy efficiently. But for Ripple, who preferred to be alone and had always avoided contact with her colleagues other than Top Speed, this was no easy task.
For this reason, Top Speed flew in two more of their number. With her wide network of connections as a regular chat attendee, it was no surprise she knew a few who could be trusted not to stab them in the back, at least.
The two introduced themselves as Sister Nana and Weiss Winterprison. Sister Nana's appearance was obviously that of a nun. Her costume resembled the traditional habit, especially the veil and long skirt, and her face had an air of kindness to it. Yet a real nun would never allow a thigh-high slit on her skirt or wear a garter belt on top of white stockings. Ripple wondered if it was just magical-girl style to inspire lust with normally impossible combinations.
On first glance, Weiss Winterprison seemed to be a man. Her brown hair was trimmed short, and she was a head taller than Ripple. A coat covered in belts, almost like a straitjacket, draped over her body. The scarf around her neck was so long it dangled by her feet, and she used it to hide her mouth. Her austere garb was colored black from head to foot, and while her face was beautiful, as befitting a magical heroine, it was an androgynous beauty. The coat around her hid all signs of feminine lines. She most strongly resembled a prince of a foreign country.
"It's good to meet you, Ripple. I am Sister Nana. Pleasure to make your acquaintance. This is Weiss Winterprison."
"Hi."
Sister Nana spoke softly, which to Ripple meant she was slow of mind. Winterprison's voice was low, her demeanor curt. To Ripple, this was a sign of a superiority complex. Neither made an incredible first impression, but then again, no one had ever made a good first impression on Ripple. That wasn't hugely concerning. What was concerning was Top Speed's troubled expression as she dropped them off. After a few more formalities, Sister Nana began.
"I think this is wrong."
She got straight to the point.
"What's wrong?"
"This situation. We were given power to bring peace to the world of man, not to hate, quarrel, and compete among ourselves. What good can this accomplish?"
She clasped Ripple's hands and drew closer. Ripple frowned, but the nun paid her no mind and continued.
"It is during times like these that we must band together."
"Yeah, but what exactly are we supposed to do?" Top Speed asked in Ripple's stead. Sister Nana turned her head to face the witch, her hands still gripping Ripple's, and smiled gently.
"That is what we should first consider. If we put our minds together, we can surely come up with a sound idea."
Top Speed grinned awkwardly, Ripple tsked, and Winterprison coughed. It was entirely possible the cough was meant as a warning to Ripple for clicking her tongue, but either way, Sister Nana continued unfazed.
"Only the mind of a magical girl can solve this. I submitted a formal complaint to the management through Fav, but it was ignored."
"Oh, you did?"
"Yes, but it did no good. Fav told me to give up because that's just how things are... But this is not an issue we can afford to give up on! One poor soul has already fallen victim to this vicious system. Nemurin... What regret, what sadness, what pain she must have felt... The poor thing."
A single tear spilled from Sister Nana's eye. Ripple clicked her tongue. Just like the class president she'd had in second grade, Sister Nana expected people to flock to her side by spouting pretty words. Just like her seventh grade homeroom teacher, she pitied others in order to think of herself as kind. Just like... well, many women, but her mother most of all, she felt no shame in crying.
She also didn't seem to be proposing they work together to gather candy.
Ripple wrested her hands free from Sister Nana, sending her toppling into Winterprison's arms. The nun's shoulders quivered as Winterprison held her close.
"Oh... The poor soul..."
Behind Sister Nana, Winterprison glowered at Ripple, her eyes ablaze with anger. The gesture was returned with murderous intent. The taller girl narrowed her glare, and Ripple moistened her lips. Winterprison stepped in front of Sister Nana as if to protect her. The ninja moved her right hand to her back and found the hilt of her sword.
"All right! I see what you're trying to say!" Top Speed shouted, and clapped her hands loudly, attempting to dispel the tension. "I need to discuss things with my partner, so let's leave it at that for today. Okay?"
"We need to act fast to prevent any more victims—"
"Yeah, I know. Understood! Which is exactly why we want to talk things over first. We know how important this is, and that's why we don't want to decide lightly."
Sister Nana seemed unsatisfied but grudgingly nodded, and the two girls hopped on Top Speed's broom and zipped away. Upon her equally rushed return, Top Speed put her hands together and bowed deeply to Ripple.
"Sorry."
"Go to hell."
"Seriously, I'm sorry. They just said they wanted to talk, so I was like, why not? I didn't think you'd get so pissed. And on the off chance they had a good idea, why not go along with it? I really don't want to die either. At least not for six months."
Why was she so insistent on six months? Ripple clicked her tongue. How many times had she done that today?
"So irritating..."
"It's not like they meant any harm, y'know? You guys just didn't gel, I guess. Don't go starting any fights here. No way I'm gonna let myself die. I'm not getting caught up in some brawl between you and Winterprison."
It seemed to Ripple that Top Speed's insistence on survival wasn't because she was simply afraid of dying. Six months, huh? What's in six months?
Ripple pointed at Top Speed.
"Your back..."
"Hmm?"
"It says 'No Gratuitous Opinions.'"
"Oh..."
"You have no spine..."
"Yeesh, you're harsh. I really don't recommend fighting Winterprison, though. Remember what I said before? Apparently she saved Sister Nana from Calamity Mary by tackling her head-on. Sister Nana told me all about it with a little blush."
Ripple remembered Sister Nana's tears as she lay in Winterprison's arms and scowled. That they didn't "gel" wasn't even the half of it. The point was Nana's plan wouldn't do any good.
"She's not a bad person."
"Delusional religious fanatics disgust me..."
"I don't think she's exactly delusional. More like rotten, I think. Well, either way, we're back to patrolling the roads for candy."
"We'll still need to defend ourselves..."
"We can just run away. I'm the fastest in town, y'know. They don't call me Top Speed for nothing. I'll always leave the rear seat open so I can swoop down and rescue ya. No one'll ever catch us. That's why I'm playing this game fair and square. I'll keep watch from the skies and intervene when something happens. That should be enough to land us tons of candy."
Ripple knew any further discussion would only prove fruitless, so she silently sat behind Top Speed and wrapped her hands around her waist.
N City's Nishimonzen was crowded with temples. From grand, enormous structures to tiny ones tucked away in between buildings, shrines lined the streets. And of all the temples in Nishimonzen, Ouketsuji was the oldest—or rather, the most decrepit. It was not some ancient and storied place, and it had no one to look after it. It had simply been left to rot. And as far as the middle of town went, it wasn't a bad place to hide magical girls. Specifically, five of them.
Ruler fingered her tiara, then adjusted its position and sat down, using her long cape as a cushion.
"As you know, our magical phones have received an update."
As she spoke, Ruler focused on a decapitated statue of a bodhisattva. Kneeling there was a girl in swimwear. Ruler found herself thinking that if the pure white school swimsuit and goggles dangling from her neck reflected her identity as a swimmer, then the headphones and curls were pointless additions serving as her magical-girl chic. The swimsuit meant for younger kids combined with that voluptuous body made for a morally indecent picture.
"This update allows us to move magical candy between us."
A few feet in front of her was a girl with doglike ears, only her head visible above the hole in the dirt floor. According to her, she felt most at home in holes she dug herself. She wore a hooded cape, and her dog ears peeked out from holes on the top. Paw gloves covered her hands, and around her neck hung a collar. The patches of fur on her outfit and tights were white with black polka dots, and her shorts had a hole in them near her butt to allow her tail to poke through.
"Does everyone understand what this means?"
Perched on a beam was a crow wearing a ruby necklace. The next second, it was a black cat in boots. The second after that, two magical girls sat in its place, swan-like wings on their backs and rings of light above their heads. Despite their many forms, this was their true one. They appeared to be ten years old. Their dresses and headbands were a matching navy blue, their blouses and drawers white, perfectly matched like members of a choir. There were only two ways to tell the girls apart: whether their short bobbed hair flipped under or out, and whether the ribbon each wore around her ankle was on the left or right.
"Those who have lots of candy should share with those who don't?"
The dog-eared Tama cocked her head and made a suggestion, to which Ruler responded coldly, "Zero points."
"We should form teams and try to make sure we all have enough candy?" "Oh, that sounds right. Sis, you're so magi-cool."
The twin angels Minael and Yunael, known as the Peaky Angels, pointed at each other.
"Thirty points," Ruler announced. "Swim Swim, what do you think?"
The girl dressed for the pool, Swim Swim, said not a word but shook her head. Her sizable breasts shook in unison with her head. Ruler spat silently. She was not particularly endowed, neither as a regular human nor in her transformed state, and had a considerable complex about it.
"I'm surrounded by idiots." She glared at them all. "Idiots, every last one of you."
The Peaky Angels looked away, Tama lowered her ears apologetically, and Swim Swim continued to stare at Ruler without moving. They weren't the only idiots Ruler was referring to, however. Every last magical girl running around to help others in an effort to save themselves after Nemurin's death was an idiot.
"This is a message from the management. They're telling us to steal from each other."
"What? We're allowed to steal?" "Really?"
"We don't need anyone's permission. We can just take their magical phone and perform the transfer ourselves. I've already tried it."
"Seriously?" "That's amazing."
"If all you're capable of is kissing ass, then shut up, you obnoxious idiots."
The twin angels once again averted their eyes. Ruler snorted, then continued.
"I'm going to have you follow my orders. Work hard if you don't want to end up like Nemurin."
"Orders?" "What are you going to make us do?"
She wanted to yell at them for trying to kiss ass again, but Ruler decided it was more important to proceed than to give the twins a tongue-lashing.
"Simple. We'll steal from the one with the most candy: Snow White."
Sanae Mokuou had been so happy to become a magical girl and finally attain the greatness she deserved. She'd gone to highly acclaimed elementary and middle schools, then it was high school, university, and straight into employment at a top-class company. All the while, she had been surrounded by idiots. She constantly wondered why she was forced to work with morons who couldn't understand her value, and she even said so out loud. Because of that, she had no friends and had spent her whole life alone.
She'd picked up Magical Girl Raising Project as a pastime, and when she transformed, she finally had a clear answer to her eternal question of why all the stupid people around her couldn't recognize her worth: She was the ugly duckling. Though she was a swan among them, none of the ducks appreciated her beauty. That day, Sanae quit her job.
The heroine in the mirror filled her with pride. Her lustrous satin cloak, encrusted with jewels, flowed all the way to the floor; an eagle with a jewel in its claws topped her yard-long ivory scepter; and long gloves fit for a party and a tiara finished off the set. The tiara was small and simple in design, but the diamond embedded in it was of unnatural size and clarity. Ornaments held her regal purple updo in place, while her feet rested in glass slippers. Her eyelashes were so long you could almost hear them when she blinked. She had no need for foundation or makeup. She was free of all the miscellaneous chores she'd hated as a normal human. Now she could join her fellow swans. But Sanae's joy vanished when she met her mentor, Calamity Mary.
The other girl smoked a cigar, blowing the smoke in Sanae's face, and knocked back her bottle of booze at regular intervals. The minute Sanae decided she'd had enough of her delinquency and stood up to leave, a gunshot rang out, and an explosive roar boomed from behind her. She turned to see a hole nearly ten feet wide in the wall behind her.
"Do not go against me. Do not give me trouble. Do not piss me off. Okay?"
Sanae was frozen, half sitting, half standing.
"Okay?"
At some point, Calamity Mary's gun had made it to her hand. The only explanation for the hole in the wall was that a bullet from that gun had created it. But no pistol was capable of such results.
"Is this... your magic?"
"Why are you asking me that? I asked you a question first, little girl, so answer. Nod like an idiot if you have to. Okay?"
After a long, long time, Sanae nodded deeply.
"Okay, okay. Good answer."
Her quick draw was fearsome. Sanae hadn't even seen her take out her weapon, let alone cock the hammer or fire. By the time the wall had exploded, everything was over.
Calamity Mary blew away the smoke trailing from the barrel of the gun with a quick puff, spun it a few times, then holstered it in one smooth motion. Then she tilted back her bottle of booze and gulped loudly. The amber liquid dripped from the corner of her lips and splashed onto her breasts.
Sanae's blood boiled from the humiliation, and she bit her lip. She'd been powerless, cowed by violence. She understood her own magic, of course, and was satisfied with its strength, but Calamity Mary completely outclassed her in speed. If she tried to use magic on her, she was more likely to end up with a hole in her, just like the wall. She understood her own body. While it wasn't as fragile as a wall, the best she could hope for was a critical injury—at worst, she'd die instantly. Basically, she was no different from a normal human facing a normal gun.
The moment she thought she'd become a swan, her head had been grabbed and shoved underwater. Sanae chewed on the humiliation and learned her lesson. What she needed were bodyguards, she realized—human shields that could withstand punishment until she could cast her magic on Calamity Mary and exact her revenge. Thus, every time a new girl joined, she volunteered whenever she could to be their mentor, solicited the easily manipulated ones, and formed her own faction. It consisted of the slow-headed Tama; the Peaky Angels, who blindly followed any and all orders; and the taciturn Swim Swim.
Tama was a dog, a foolishly faithful creature who obeyed a strong owner. No matter how many times she was beaten or kicked, she would continue to wag her tail happily for her master. When Sanae gave her a collar, she joyously ran laps around the temple.
The Peaky Angels were cowards. One strong word from her rendered them speechless. Sanae still had no idea which was Yunael and which was Minael, but they'd never made a fuss about it.
Swim Swim's silence stemmed from ignorance. Sanae had once discovered her staring at a Nishimonzen directory sign. When she asked why, the girl had responded with, "What does this mean?" while pointing at the English letters of "Nishimonzen." She remembered everything she was told, so it wasn't that she had terrible memory, but she often couldn't read simple kanji, either. They did say women with big breasts were stupid, though.
All of her followers were idiots. None of them could think and act on their own. But by following Sanae's orders, they could do something of significance. They were happier this way, even if they had to die for her.
The Peaky Angels agreed to the candy theft strategy easily, saying, "Sure, that's easier." "Super-cool, huh?" and Swim Swim nodded silently, but Tama was the only one who couldn't get past the ethical problem—should magical girls be stealing from others?
"You have to listen to what the leader says," Swim Swim warned, and in the end Tama, too, nodded.
Ruler had a rough understanding of Snow White's usual patterns, but to confirm that nothing had changed recently, she sent out Tama and the Peaky Angels to scout. Only she and Swim Swim stayed behind at Ouketsuji. Ruler found herself repeatedly glancing at Swim Swim, sitting on her knees and not moving a muscle. She just wouldn't move, so finally Ruler opened her mouth.
"Why are you on your knees?"
"This is the proper position to assume when before our honored leader."
"... Is that something I told you?"
"Yes."
She had a habit of reciting Ruler's past instructions at every opportunity. She remembered everything, even the meaningless insults and thoughtless narcissistic declarations Ruler had forgotten herself. She had accepted Swim Swim's behavior as simple loyalty, but there were times that it wore on her.
"Just as you may not tell regular humans your true identity, you may not share it with other magical girls without my permission."
"Your leader must be the object of your affection. The organization is most effective when everyone tries to imitate her."
"Above all, deal with strong enemies swiftly."
"Never let down your guard, even after becoming a magical girl and gaining mystical powers. If any enemies that can fight us exist, they, too, will have similar powers."
Sometimes she'd run her mouth based on whatever was happening at the time, but Swim Swim remembered it all. Ruler walked over to her, crouched down, and patted her head.
"Even an idiot can be slightly bearable if she fills her head with noble things."
"Noble things like what?"
Ruler smiled and answered, her voice cold as ice.
"My words."
Ruler's strategy was simple. It had to be, or her brainless subordinates would fail to keep up, make stupid mistakes, and bungle the entire operation. They would attack the Kubegahama steel tower where La Pucelle and Snow White met—before they could join forces. She knew they met up there because they'd left discussions mentioning the fact in the chat log. "My idiots aren't the only ones, it seems," she'd gloated when she found the logs.
But just because they met there didn't mean they arrived at the same time. There was a small window when one would be alone. If La Pucelle arrived first, the Peaky Angels and Tama would attack and attempt to delay her. Then, when Snow White showed up, Ruler and Swim Swim would attack and steal her candy. If Snow White arrived first, the order would be reversed.
Ruler had no experience in battles between magical girls. Nor did she have any information on what kind of special powers they'd be up against. It was concerning, but the same went for her opponents. Most likely neither La Pucelle nor Snow White had ever fought another of their kind before, and no one knew what magic Ruler's group was capable of. Tama's ability to instantly dig holes was well suited to ambushes, and the Peaky Angels' abilities to transform and fly were perfect for diversions. Ruler's magic was unbeatable as long as she had a guard, which made Swim Swim perfect for the job, since she could nullify physical attacks with her magic. As a team, they weren't too shabby.
As long as the idiots don't make stupid mistakes...
Then the magical candy theft would be a success.
This would be a practice run, a test of sorts. If they succeeded, they could move on to the next step: assaulting Calamity Mary and stealing her candy. Ruler's humiliation still smoldered, and its embers would never be extinguished until Calamity Mary was on her knees.
"There!" "I see La Pucelle!"
The Peaky Angels reported through their devices. Apparently, they had spotted La Pucelle from their vantage point above.
"She's running toward the tower!" "She's pretty fast with all that armor!"
"Execute the plan accordingly."
Swim Swim and Ruler leaped from the bushes beneath the steel tower and began to ascend.
La Pucelle slowed when she noticed the two angels descending upon her.
Yunael and Minael together formed the Peaky Angels. She'd seen them in chat before, but never in real life. The sneers on their faces half explained what was going on, but their next action—simultaneous dive kicks from the front and back—made their intentions perfectly clear. She dived off the gravel path and rolled over some bushes, drew her sword from its sheath, and, still crouched, pointed its tip at the twin angels. With one hand she easily wielded the two-and-a-half-foot blade, stopping it on a dime.
"What do you want?"
"'What do you want?' she asks!" "Isn't it obvious?" "Candy, please!"
Her blood boiled with anger at the magical girls so weak-willed that they instantly turned to stealing others' hard-earned reward—and just a tiny bit of excitement at the opportunity to unleash her full power. Ever since she'd obtained this strength, she'd dreamed of victory over a powerful enemy.
The twin angels flapped their body-length wings and circled from above. They seemed to be looking for the right moment to strike. They'd definitely attack as soon as she tried to stand. La Pucelle slowly moved her left hand, then stopped. Something was vibrating ever so slightly.
Below!
Just as the circling angels rocketed toward La Pucelle, a three-foot-wide hole opened up below her. If she didn't jump, the opening would swallow her, but if she did jump, the angels would attack her while she was unable to move freely in the air. Both choices would lead her to a worst-case scenario—so she chose neither. Instantly she reacted, jamming her sword beneath her feet and jumping on it. Width, length, and thickness all grew to five times the original size, until the sword could support La Pucelle and keep her from falling into the hole.
This was La Pucelle's magic: to change the size of her sword at will. She could choose the perfect length for any moment. She could hear scratching from within the hole, but it was impossible to nick the enchanted sword.
Hesitation flashed across the angels' faces. They tried to stop their descent, but instead they lost their balance in midair. Noticing this, La Pucelle leaped off her sword and swung her sheath at one of the angels.
The angel tried to dodge, but was surprised when she couldn't. She had thought she was far enough away, but failed to account for the sheath's newly gigantic size as well. The sword wasn't the only thing that could expand—the sheath covering it was also capable of this. Its flat side connected, smacking the angel to the ground. La Pucelle landed and dashed toward the hole, shrinking her sword to a little under two feet. With the cover on the hole gone, someone appeared from inside it.
"Hey, what the heck—"
Tama popped her head out of the ground, sensing something was amiss, and La Pucelle attacked without mercy. The solid kick to her temple sent Tama flying straight back into the hole with a muffled grunt. Their formation broken, La Pucelle picked up her sword and turned to face her last enemy.
"What do you want?"
She repeated the question she'd asked when they first attacked, but the angel was gone. All she could see was a single crow cocking its head at her. La Pucelle glanced back at the angel she'd brought down, but no one was there, either—just a rubber ball. Before she could figure out what was happening, the crow took flight, picked up the ball, and flew off toward the steel tower. Their forms stretched, bent, morphed, and changed color until they were no longer a crow and ball, but two angels.
Transformation? Is that their magic?
"That's good enough of a diversion, right, sis?" "Yeah! No problemo!"
A diversion?
La Pucelle looked up at the top of the steel tower. She could see one, two, three silhouettes—clearly Snow White was not alone up there. Her boiling blood chilled in an instant.
"Damn it!"
She cursed loudly—unbecoming of a gallant knight—and ran up the tower after the two angels.
Meanwhile, the plan went perfectly for Ruler and Swim Swim. They'd scaled the steel tower and attacked the magical girl standing there—the one in the white school uniform, and the darling of Internet news sites. Without a doubt, she was Snow White. Her face twisted in fright as she looked from Ruler to Swim Swim.
"Wh-what?" she asked, voice quavering. She looked and sounded more like a civilian than a fighter, a victim more than a perpetrator. Clearly, she had no intent to fight.
Fool, do you still not realize what I'm here for? Or do you just not want to fight, even knowing what I want? Either way, you're a fool, Ruler venomously thought to herself. She raised her staff—her royal scepter—pointed it at Snow White, and made her magical decree.
"In the name of Ruler, I order you, Snow White, not to move."
Snow White froze as she prepared to run, her face still taut with fear. Swim Swim took out her phone, aimed it at Snow White, and began the candy transfer.
This was Ruler's magic—the ability to make others obey her decrees.
Her power had a few rules. She had to point her scepter at them and strike a pose. She had to hold the pose to keep the decree active. She had to say, "In the name of Ruler." She could not be more than fifteen feet from the person. And she could have a maximum of four people under her command. However, such an ability was powerful enough to require such limitations. Once she made her decree, it was checkmate.
The Peaky Angels, Tama, and Swim Swim weren't aware that she had restrictions. She'd merely explained that her magic allowed her to order others around. She wasn't foolish enough to tell her subordinates her own weaknesses. It was much more convenient for them to think of her as an all-powerful leader.
The decree "give me your candy" would have been less complicated than "do not move," but it didn't prevent the problem of an immediate counterattack once the candy was transferred, so she prioritized safety. Ruler was clever, and clever people were careful.
"Swim Swim, are you done yet?"
"Almost."
"Honestly. This pose is tiring, you know."
"Just a little more and I'll be—"
Swim Swim cut off. Ruler looked to where she was gazing, and down below them, two angels hurtled toward the tower. Behind them she could see a knight charging through the gravel and leaving a cloud of dust in her wake.
"Those stupid, idiotic, garbage... They couldn't even manage to be a distraction?"
"I'm almost done."
"Shut up, fool!"
Snow White was under attack. Images of her crying and afraid—and finally of the human Koyuki Himekawa—popped into La Pucelle's head. She felt like her heart was being ripped in two, but at least the blood that had been pounding angrily in her head was now circulating through her body.
To La Pucelle—Souta Kishibe—a magical girl was a heroine who fought. He had no problems with the old-school ones who solved problems around the neighborhood, but to him they were warriors who stood bravely in the face of giant enemies and never gave up protecting what was important to them.
At the top of the steel tower, Snow White needed rescue. However, if La Pucelle just ran straight up, the flying duo was sure to attack her. If the Peaky Angels had completely lost the will to fight, that would be one thing, but from the looks on their faces as they glanced back occasionally, they weren't exactly running in fear. She'd be forced into a two-on-one midair battle if they attacked while she scaled the steel tower with no stable footing. Even if she did win, it would only help them with their goal of stalling for time. Her opponents had the numbers and the terrain advantage—the fight probably wouldn't be over quickly. For all the exhilaration she felt at finally being able to unleash her full power, she was acutely aware of her limits. I really am a natural-born warrior, she gloated, but soon snapped herself out of it. She didn't have many options to save Snow White.
In the few seconds before she reached the tower, La Pucelle observed, thought, found a solution, and acted on it—she charged at the tower with everything she had and shoulder-tackled one of its legs with all her momentum, weight, and power.
From below, the tower's shaking seemed violent, but at the top it was far worse. The power lines snapped and flailed in the air. They felt like they could almost touch the ground, the shuddering was so violent. Ruler, posing with her scepter, and Snow White, forbidden to move, lost their balance and were hurled from the top. Swim Swim, also falling from the tower, grabbed Ruler's hand and threw her high into the air, where the twin angels caught her.
Meanwhile, La Pucelle raced to intercept Snow White's deadly plunge. She caught her, and the two tumbled about thirty feet before finally stopping in some bushes.
Ruler glared angrily at Snow White and La Pucelle, dangling by the arms between the Peaky Angels. They had saved her from the fall, but the position was hardly elegant and only infuriated her. Swim Swim, on the other hand, had no one to save her and would hit the ground. Luckily, her magic would allow her to nullify the damage. Once they all grouped up, they'd be four against two. As Ruler thought about this, she remembered something.
"Where's Tama?"
"La Pucelle kicked her and that was it." "Dunno if she's alive or dead."
This was the same knight who had managed to shake the giant steel tower, nearly toppling it or even breaking it. It wasn't hard to imagine one blow taking Tama out of commission. So, considering the fact that Tama and the Peaky Angels had roundly lost in a three-on-one...
"Okay, let's retreat."
"Huh?" "Seriously?"
"It's a strategic retreat! Stop blathering and about-face right!"
As Snow White and La Pucelle picked themselves up, the angels made their escape with a sharp turn to the right, leaving the pair behind.
Ultimately, the cowardly-seeming strategic retreat turned out to be correct. Tama had made her way back to Ouketsuji on her own. Her memories were a bit scrambled, but then again her brain was normally scrambled, so Ruler deemed it not a problem. Swim Swim had not just returned, but returned victoriously after completing her task—she'd succeeded in stealing Snow White's magical candy and come home in style. Her magical candy stores, formerly 826 pieces, had jumped to 2,914 pieces after the operation. She had taken 2,088 pieces, which was more than anyone in their group, including Ruler, possessed by a factor of two.
"She collected 2,000 pieces on her own?" "How do you even get that many?" "So bourgeois." "This is a modern-day revolution!" "Sis, you're so magi-cool."
"Uhhh, so what do we do with the candy?"
"We snagged 2,088." "Divided by five, that's 417, remainder three. It's uneven."
"Yuna-Minael, you're so good at math!"
"No, there's no remainder."
Their math had been correct, but they'd used the wrong equation, so Ruler corrected them.
"826 from 2,914 gives 2,088. So far, you're correct."
"The rest is wrong?" "How?"
"What makes you think we're splitting it evenly? 2,088 divided by two is 1,044, which goes to me, the leader. The other half we divide by two again, which is 522. That's Swim Swim's share. 522 divided by three is 174. Yunael, Minael, Tama, that's your share. See? Perfect."
The run-down temple went silent. The hushed stillness, which should have been normal for the abandoned temple, was eerie. Ruler immediately broke the silence she had created.
"Anyone have something to say?" She glared. "We have you incapable idiots, who couldn't even do the job you were given, a helpful idiot who actually managed to fulfill her task, and me, the leader—creator of the plan and executor of its most important role. So what would make you think we get equal rewards? Are you stupid? Oh, yes, you are. I knew that. You're senseless, incapable, and can't even stall one person three-on-one. You almost screwed up the whole plan! But out of the kindness of my heart, I'll forget this."
Ruler pointed at each of them in turn and scowled. The twin angels looked away, Tama's ears drooped, and Swim Swim just listened, kneeling with perfect posture. Ruler snorted and jabbed her scepter into the temple ground.
"Know your place, idiots. Just be grateful you haven't been punished."
|
[ CHAT #2 ]
> Now it's time for this week's chat~
> but it seems we're missing a few people today, pon
> I hope they don't think they can just check the logs later, pon
> No one here seems to be talking much either
> so let's try to make this a little more bright and fun, pon
> That's what magical girls are all about, pon
> Now, back on topic
> Let's talk about something happier, pon
> A new girl will be joining us this week~ Clappy clap~
> Um... She doesn't appear to be here
> She's probably just shy, pon
> Still, please try to attend next week, okay?
> Promise Fav, pon
> Next, what you're all most interested in...
> Time to announce who has the least candy this week, pon
> This week, it was...
> Ruler
> Hmm, too bad, pon
> It looks like you tried really hard, but you just barely lost, pon
> Hey, hey. Say all you like, Fav is in a pickle, too, pon
> Oh, and this week's top earner was Snow White, pon
> Congrats on two weeks straight~!
> Everyone, gather lots of candy and aim for the top, pon
> Well, see you all here next week, pon
> Bye-bye~!
The chat ended—only Tama, Swim Swim, the Peaky Angels, Ruler, Cranberry, and Fav had been in attendance. Everyone was probably on high alert and considered the others their enemies.
|
"Man, that worked perfectly!" "So magi-cool, huh?"
The fading light illuminated the run-down temple grounds of Ouketsuji in Nishizenmon. The Peaky Angels weren't even attempting to hide their glee as they high-fived, clapped, and hugged. They paid Tama and Swim Swim no mind—the former's expression was mournful, while the latter displayed no emotion. This elicited more from the angels.
"The nasty girl is gone!" "Ms. I'm-better-than-you!" "Ms. I-won't-share-the-candy!" "Ms. You're-nothing-but-idiots-and-morons!" "Seriously, what a nasty girl."
To the Peaky Angels, Ruler had been nothing but terrible. She was haughty, greedy, and whenever she opened her mouth it was to insult or belittle. Had she known how Minael and Yunael had talked behind her back?
In Tama's eyes, Ruler had been a scary person. Her reasons were the same as the twin angels'.
But Swim Swim had known—to the three of them, on some level or another, Ruler was a hindrance. So much so that they would easily agree to getting rid of her.
"So, what do we do with this?" "Take it out into the mountains and bury it?" "It should be easy with your magic, Tama." "You can whip up a hole in no time."
Minael, Yunael, and Swim Swim were discussing the body of a perfectly ordinary young woman in her late twenties. She had on a cardigan over her pajamas and sandals on her feet.
"Do we really have to go to all that trouble, though?" "Oh, good point." "Let's just dump her somewhere in the middle of the night. Someone will find her in the morning." "Yeah, let's do that."
Ruler had screamed "Why?! How?!" until her very last breath. Even lying on the ground as a normal human, her hands were outstretched as if she were trying desperately to grab on to something.
Swim Swim stood up and went over to Tama, who was hugging her knees, covering her ears, and shivering. Bending down to her eye level, she soothed her with a pat on the head. Tears welled in Tama's eyes. Swim Swim relaxed her face, lifted the corner of her mouth slightly, and said simply, "It's okay." She patted the other girl on the head again. "I'll take care of the body," she declared, picking it up and slinging it over her shoulder.
"You don't have to do that, Swim." "Yeah, yeah. You're our new leader."
"We're disbanding. You're all free to do as you please."
Behind her the Peaky Angels still tried to argue, but Swim Swim ignored them and pushed open the temple doors. As always, they creaked loudly. She remembered how, when Ruler was alive, she had told them to oil it.
Swim Swim ducked into a Nishimonzen alley. No moon was out. Compared to other areas, Nishimonzen had barely any streetlamps, some residents complained. But the local government never responded to the complaints, so the alley was dark. She couldn't sense anyone following her. Ruler had always said, "You're all free to do as you please" when she got fed up with them, but the angels and Tama seemed to be obeying.
She had idolized Ruler. When she'd suddenly become a magical girl and had no idea what to do, it was Ruler who had come and taught her. She'd reminded her of the princesses in her dreams, and Swim Swim loyally carried out her teachings.
"Your leader must be the object of your affection. The organization is most effective when everyone tries to imitate her."
And so Swim Swim obeyed. Her mentor was a princess, and princesses were always right. She was strong, clever, lovely, and overflowing with leadership. Swim Swim tried to be like her, but Ruler herself was the biggest thing in the way of that goal. Two rulers meant that neither was truly in charge, because a ruler stood above all. Swim Swim adored and revered Ruler, but in order for her to take the final step, her leader had to die. The night she realized this, Swim Swim threw up everything she'd eaten that day and broke into a fever. She'd skipped two days of school. But it had to be done. Swim Swim wanted to be like Ruler more than anything.
But Ruler's magic was powerful. Swim Swim would have to work hard to take her out. She knew the Peaky Angels and Tama were unhappy with Ruler, but even with their help, she would still have to deal with the leader's orders. She decided to wait for the right opportunity.
It wasn't long before that chance presented itself: the plot to steal Snow White's magical candy. Of Snow White's nearly 50,000 pieces of candy, she took 37,000, grabbed the dazed Tama underneath the steel tower and forced 35,000 onto her, and reported to Ruler that there had only been 2,000 pieces. The 35,000 pieces she'd given to Tama she split evenly between all the magical girls except for Ruler, Snow White, and La Pucelle. Some were suspicious, some were on guard, some were openly hostile, and some fired before asking questions. Nobody welcomed them, even though they were there to share their candy, but nobody turned it down.
She'd used Fav to contact the others. His connection with everyone allowed him to contact any magical girl, even if they tried to hide where they were. Fav was short-spoken and tended to not explain well, but he tried to help as much as he could when they asked. Swim Swim had learned this from Ruler, too.
Divided among eleven people, the 35,000 pieces gave them 3,180 each. She'd left Snow White with more than 10,000 pieces, meaning if she split evenly with La Pucelle, they'd each have 5,000. And so Ruler, convinced that her 1,044 pieces meant she couldn't possibly get the ax, ended up with the lowest amount of candy.
The Peaky Angels had enthusiastically agreed to the plan, and Tama, though clearly a little guilty, also agreed. They accepted Swim Swim as their leader.
She had succeeded in taking out Ruler without giving her a chance to use her magic or even realize she'd been betrayed.
She laid the body at the end of the main street. It was light to carry, even for someone without magical strength, and long gone cold.
"Good-bye, and thank you for everything."
Swim Swim bowed deeply, turned her back on Ruler's corpse, and disappeared into the darkness of the alley. Ruler was gone, but she'd left behind her many teachings. No matter what the future held, she'd stay true to them. Wiping a tear with her fingertip, Swim Swim ran off into the gloom.
|
As the days went by, the leaves on the evenly spaced gingko trees lining the main street turned from green to yellow, completing their transformation. It felt like just yesterday that the sun was high even during evening, which made the rust-red sky seem lonely and almost colder than a normal winter's day.
Shizuku Ashu drew the curtains closed and spoke to the room.
"People look so small from a sixth-floor apartment. The smaller they look, the less human they seem."
"You think so too, Shizuku?"
"I suppose it's not very magical girl–esque of me to say."
"But it's certainly Shizuku-esque of you to puzzle over ideas."
Nana Habutae chuckled, and Shizuku's expression softened. It seemed like ages since she'd last smiled. Whether as Nana Habutae or as Sister Nana, she only wore sadness and tears lately, never smiles.
The apartment was in Nana's name, but Shizuku was practically her roommate. She came and went freely, returning to her own place barely even once a week.
Shizuku had been popular in middle and high school. Ever since childhood, she had received compliments for her face, fair as an angel's or an elf's, and becoming Winterprison didn't change her outer appearance much. She was most certainly a girl, but the androgynous and mysterious air around her made her popular with about 30 percent boys and 70 percent girls. She had experience with both, having dated both sexes, but none of those relationships ever lasted very long. However, her relationship with Nana had lasted, uncharacteristically so.
The two first met in a university seminar. Eventually they became friends, spending weekends together, and Nana showed Shizuku the game she'd been playing recently, Magical Girl Raising Project. Thus, it seemed like fate that when she was chosen, Nana was, too. However, that wasn't the reason they remained together. Shizuku wasn't a doe-eyed young girl, enamored with "soul mates" and the like—she'd been drawn to Nana since before her transformation.
"I guess her smile's just too cute."
"Did you say something?"
"No, just muttering to myself."
She sat on the sofa, crossed her legs, and rested her weight on the armrest. Nana constantly insisted it was unsightly, that it could hardly be comfortable, and that it looked like a monk's self-flagellation, but this position was most relaxing to Shizuku. She could only be like this when she was in a safe place, free of the danger of being attacked.
The bookshelf was packed with romance novels, manga, and collections of romantic poems, and the light pink wallpaper, upon close inspection, bore a faint heart pattern. Pinned to a corkboard were pictures of Sister Nana and Winterprison, aka Nana Habutae and Shizuku Ashu, smiling. One in particular drew Shizuku's eye, and she stood up. One of its corners was bent, so she flattened it out and made sure it was straight, then returned to the couch.
"You're such a perfectionist."
"Some would just call it fussy."
"So you're aware, then?" Nana laughed again. "Don't make me laugh while I'm dealing with fire."
"Is today's menu curry?"
"Close, but no cigar."
"Then is it stew?"
"That's right, a spikenard cream stew. It'll take a while to remove the bitterness, so be patient, okay?"
Shizuku's expression clouded, in stark contrast to Nana's as she lightly stirred the pot with a ladle. Spikenard? Cream stew? It's not even the season for them...
Nana was constantly worrying about the fact that she was heavier than normal. Because of this, she refused to eat what she would have liked to in the name of her diet.
"You don't need to suffer to get skinny. Besides, your roundness is healthy and, more importantly, cute." The one time Shizuku had tried to give her heartfelt advice, Nana had ignored her for three days. You're skinny when you transform into a magical girl, so what's the problem? she thought to herself, but made sure to never say it out loud. She could never understand Nana's maiden heart, but she had to pretend to or she would get the cold shoulder again.
Lately Nana had not only restrained her appetite, but tried to limit herself to vegetables. Somehow she procured mountain vegetables for dishes Shizuku had never heard of. Of course, alien dishes meant alien flavors, and each new one puzzled Shizuku.
Still...
It's just good to see her smiling, she thought.
Nana was normally a cheerful girl, and she had glowed with joy over being able to save others as a classic heroine. But ever since the number of active magical girls within the city had hit sixteen and they had been forced to fight one another, that glow had faded.
Shizuku—Winterprison—knew what she had to do.
Nemurin. Ruler. So far there had been two. Only six remained to be cut. She had to make sure Sister Nana did not end up one of them. Just imagining her death broke Shizuku's heart.
Something hadn't seemed right about Ruler's demise, and Swim Swim's offer of a massive amount of points for free was definitely related. Some among them weren't content to simply gather candy like the rules stated.
She picked up the glass fish decoration on the table and peered through it at Nana working in the kitchen. The distorted figure of the other girl appeared much slimmer. A smile crept onto her face, so to disguise it she called out to Nana.
"Let's go out after we eat. You have any plans today?"
"I was thinking of going to Mount Takanami."
"I don't approve of you going out too far. It's dangerous right now."
"I'll be fine with you around. But I really must go today."
"Why?"
"The Musician of the Forest, Cranberry, contacted me and insisted we meet. Maybe she's heard about our efforts. Maybe this time she'll agree to help..."
Nana smiled weakly. She was probably stressed because Top Speed hadn't reacted favorably and Ripple was pretty much hostile. Shizuku just wanted to give her a hug.
The meeting was at two in the morning, in a quarry at Mount Takanami.
The Musician of the Forest, Cranberry—Nana had seen her in chat before, but had never met her in real life. She had only "seen" her and not "talked with" her because, though Cranberry had a high chat attendance rate, she hardly ever said anything. All she did was serenade them with background music. She was a mysterious one. Didn't everyone who attended the chat—except for Winterprison, who was only there to accompany another—do so because they wanted to talk? But despite the fact that she attended every chat, she remained silent and never interjected.
Sister Nana was excited for a potential new comrade, but Winterprison was on her guard. Sometimes the ones with no obvious goals or principles were more trouble than those who were openly dangerous.
Cranberry arrived right on time.
"Good evening, Sister Nana. Weiss Winterprison."
"Good evening, Musician of the Forest, Cranberry."
"Just Cranberry is fine, Sister Nana."
"Very well, Cranberry. I've seen you many times in chat, but this is our first time meeting in person."
"You two are just as I imagined. I'm a little surprised."
While Winterprison simply lowered her head slightly and gave a curt "Thanks," the other two conversed merrily and easily. In chat, Cranberry was stubbornly taciturn, but actually talking to her, she seemed like a modest adult woman fluent in societal niceties.
Long, pointed ears poked out from beneath her casually flowing blond hair, while thin vines dotted with flowers of all sizes wrapped around her shoulders, feet, waist, and thighs. She wore a frilled blouse and grass green jacket held together by an amber pin, and the top half of her outfit seemed quite modest. But downstairs, her thighs were almost completely exposed, and this, combined with her twenty-year-old appearance—ancient for a magical girl—made it all the more stimulating. After listening to Sister Nana's passionate proposal, she slowly opened her mouth.
"I have a question for you, if that's all right?"
"Yes, please. We'll answer anything we can."
"Could you stop this?"
"Huh?"
"Stop trying to spoil the game."
Sister Nana turned to Winterprison for help. She seemed absolutely baffled. Winterprison removed her right hand from the pocket she'd stuck it in, and a smile crept onto Cranberry's face.
"Err... What is the meaning of that?"
"Exactly what you think it means."
Winterprison took a step forward in front of the confused Sister Nana, shielding her.
"Winterprison. I've wanted to fight you since the day I heard the rumors."
"What?"
"That no one's ever successfully made you use your right arm in hand-to-hand combat."
Winterprison quickly took note of her surroundings: to the right, a cliff; to the left, piles of gravel; below her, stones scattered about. The weather was fairly clear, and she could see no traps or ambushes prepared. The quarry was more accurately an abandoned quarry, as the construction company that owned the land had disbanded long ago. Everything valuable, from machines to supplies, had already been seized and dismantled, the useless junk left among the stones of various shapes and sizes. Cranberry's courteous behavior remained unaffected. Her aura hadn't changed, either.
Slowly, she took a step forward.
She was in range. The moment Winterprison realized this, Cranberry unleashed a lightning-fast high kick. Winterprison managed to block with her left arm, but the blow was heavy, and her bones creaked. The tremendous force tousled her scarf. With a small yelp, Sister Nana fell onto her butt.
"That long scarf suits this quarry quite nicely."
Cranberry's fingers shot toward her opponent's face, causing Winterprison to use her magic—wall creation. The material of the walls changed depending on where she was, so in a quarry it was stone. Standing six feet high, three feet wide, and an inch thick, the monolith split the ground between them. Cranberry's assault, however, pierced through it easily and turned it to rubble, forcing Winterprison to roll on the ground to dodge.
Cranberry was stronger physically than the average magical girl, but she didn't simply attack. She used martial arts. Beneath her movements flowed the confidence of a veteran. Without hesitation she had struck at the eye—and the brain right behind it. She was clearly aiming to kill.
"Winterprison!"
"Get back, Sister Nana."
She needed to widen the gap between them and get Sister Nana away from the enemy. With those two goals in mind, Winterprison retreated a step. The quarry was littered with obstacles, forcing her to pay attention for even simple movements, but Cranberry didn't seem to watch her step at all as she approached. She took no offensive stance. She simply smiled.
She demolished, obliterated, and even scaled wall after wall. As barriers, Winterprison's stone defenses were utterly useless, couldn't even slow her down. They weren't weak, either, because they were reinforced with magic. Stone or not, they should have been stronger than steel, but before Cranberry's unnatural strength they were no better than wood fences.
Predicting an attack, Winterprison took another half step back. But the attack she expected never came. Cranberry stepped forward, closing the vast gap. Winterprison blocked the low kick with her shin and felt a dull pain—her attacker's pointed toes drove straight into her.
From low, Cranberry went high. The arc of her kick aimed at Winterprison's head turned, slipped through her guard, and found purchase in her rib cage. The blow was powerful enough to knock the air out of her lungs.
And she didn't stop. From middle to high, Cranberry's toes struck at Winterprison's temple. Staggered as she was, Winterprison couldn't fully avoid the attack. It sliced her cheek open, sent blood and flesh flying, broke her cheekbone, shattered her teeth. She could hear the damage directly in her eardrums. Slamming her foot down, Winterprison barely stayed standing.
Then she felt a new energy in the pit of her stomach. It was magic. Not her original power, though—Sister Nana was giving her strength. Now she could fight back.
By the time Winterprison was internally ready to counterattack, Cranberry's leg was already in front of her face. She tightly wound her scarf around it before the other girl could react. While symbolic, the garment was no mere decoration. It was a weapon. Like lightning, she yanked back with all her weight to snag Cranberry's leg. Focusing entirely on her hands, gripping hard enough to break bone, she swung up and then down, and Cranberry hurtled toward a wall she'd just created. Unable to break the fall, her head crashed against the stone and sprayed blood everywhere.
The girl's body bounced and rolled along the gravel, and Winterprison gave chase. She flung up a barricade to cut off any escape route and stop her in her tracks, then grabbed her. She tumbled with her in a tangle of limbs, clutched Cranberry by the arms, pinned her legs, pulled her long hair, and finally tied her up with it. Straddling Cranberry, Winterprison glared down at her.
She hit her without mercy. Once, twice, three, four, five, six, seven times. Cranberry seemed to be rolling with the punches in an effort to reduce the damage. Winterprison continued the onslaught. There was no need to finish it with one blow. Little by little, they would add up. Over and over, until she could hear the pain.
"Winterprison! Behind you!" she heard Sister Nana cry out. She whirled around, but there was nothing there—only Sister Nana, looking dumbfounded. A heavy blow struck the back of her head and sent her flying from her seat on top of Cranberry. Winterprison grasped at the gravel with her fingertips to slow herself, then balled her hand into a fist as she kneeled.
She'd reacted instinctively to Sister Nana's voice behind her, but there had been nothing. All she'd done was give Cranberry a giant opening. There was no way Sister Nana had tried to distract her on purpose, and her confusion suggested she hadn't even done the screaming in the first place.
Cranberry's magic, then?
Within her blurry vision, she could see Cranberry trying to stand. Winterprison activated her magic as she stood, then rocketed toward her. Though it would seem counterintuitive, she placed the wall between her and Cranberry. It would be destroyed without any real effort, so she just needed to block off the enemy's sight for a moment.
Winterprison picked up Sister Nana, leaped toward the cliff opposite Cranberry, and retreated from the quarry.
They'd gotten away.
Cranberry knew Mount Takanami like the back of her hand. Not to mention her five senses, especially her hearing, far exceeded mortal limits. She was confident she could catch them if she pursued.
But she didn't. She gazed down from atop the cliff, saw that the shrubbery and incline blocked off most of the view, and shrugged.
"You're letting them get away, pon?"
The voice from her magical phone was vaguely scornful and accusing. Cranberry was impressed that a synthetic voice could pull off such a skillful imitation.
"Didn't you say you were going to finish off Sister Nana, pon? Letting her live won't help the game progress, pon."
"That... may not be entirely true."
How long had it been since Cranberry last fought someone on equal ground like that? How long since someone had made her use her magic?
Her powers allowed her to control sound. Her "Winterprison! Behind you!" in Sister Nana's voice had distracted her opponent long enough for a strike to the defenseless back of her head. If Cranberry hadn't been restrained, she could have killed her, but instead Winterprison had escaped merely wounded.
Weiss Winterprison was stronger than anyone she'd ever fought. She'd gone toe-to-toe with Cranberry, albeit with the help of Sister Nana. Faced with an opponent she could finally go all-out on, joy bubbled up within her, like a light sparkling deep inside her brain. The experience made her feel like a girl in love. Perhaps she was.
For a proper fight with her, Cranberry would need to get rid of her source of restraint, Sister Nana. Yet without her, Winterprison wasn't all that strong. It was unfortunate all around, really.
"I want time to think. Let's just put things on hold for now."
"How irresponsible, pon."
"Then what about this? I'll search for anyone sympathetic to Sister Nana... and eliminate the strongest ones."
The biggest requirement was that they be strong. Fighting to kill, lives on the line—only then was she not alone. Blood flowing, flesh flying, entrails spilling, each understanding the other perfectly. The only restriction was that her opponent must be strong. She didn't want to break the communication with a single attack.
She was aware that her thirst for battle was bordering on suicidal, but she would never have accepted this role if there was no fighting involved. Cranberry had no plans to change herself. Blood poured from her nose without stopping as the battle-crazed Musician of the Forest wiped it with her wrist.
Swim Swim, in her new position as leader, inherited Ruler's will on a basic level, but also made it her own. She knew that was what Ruler would have done in her shoes. She still prioritized stealing candy over earning it herself, but now she was wiser about her methods. In attacking Snow White, they had challenged her head-on and barely succeeded. La Pucelle had been stronger than expected, and her ability to fight off three of them and come to Snow White's aid was the reason their success was so narrow. If Snow White had been as strong as La Pucelle, if La Pucelle had been any stronger, if either had possessed some incredible magic—then the plan would have certainly ended in empty failure.
But that was what happened when you attacked head-on. Why not attack from the side, or the back? Swim Swim considered all her options. What could she do? What should she do? How could she best gain the most candy? How should she disable her opponent and take theirs? Over and over and over she thought, until the Peaky Angels made a suggestion.
"How about we sabotage the person in first place?" "A smear campaign, huh? Sis, you're so magi-cool."
And so they took to the message boards and started perpetrating terrible rumors about Snow White. It was surreal to see the twin angels sitting in the corner of the temple, their heads huddled together as they typed away on magical phones.
"I'll say that girl in white mugged me!" "Then I'll say the witch screamed at me!" "And the ninja kicked me!" "The nun punched my shoulder!"
Swim Swim started to wonder if Ruler would have found a better method after all.
"Thank you for the food."
After finishing dinner, Koyuki put down her bowl and sighed. She could feel someone watching her, and when she raised her head, she discovered it was her father. His worry and curiosity were unmistakable. Koyuki shifted uncomfortably in her seat.
"Wh-what?"
"Oh... Nothing."
For some reason, he hesitated and slapped his forehead below a receding hairline. He was acting odd. Normally, the patriarch of the Himekawa household expressed himself more clearly. The sounds of her mother doing the dishes in the kitchen were the same as always.
"Seriously, what, Dad? You're weirding me out."
"You've just seemed down lately."
Koyuki reacted with shock, and she stared at her father in his pajamas. Everything but his hair was startlingly similar to how it was years ago. The more she grew, the more people commented that she resembled him, but she couldn't for the life of her see how.
"You're eating less, too. You barely moved your chopsticks yesterday. You're pale. Mom thinks it might be boy troubles."
From the kitchen came a loud shout, "I told you not to say that!"
"Today... you seemed more down than usual, but you at least ate all your food. That's a relief."
"Uh, right."
"I guess that means you found some answers, then."
"Yeah, I guess."
"So, was it a boy?"
"Dad! God!"
She stood up and nearly tripped as she ran down the hall and up the stairs, and then she collapsed on her bed.
So they knew she was depressed. In other words, she'd caused them a lot of worry. She'd felt guilty, but the comment about boys made her forget that instantly. For a second, Souta's face popped into her head, then changed to La Pucelle. Koyuki shook her head to dispel the image.
School, work, and earning magical candies. At school, she worked toward her future; at her job, she worked to preserve her present; and when she was a magical girl, she worked to keep herself alive. She couldn't slack off on any of it. The only times Kano could think were before bed, in the bath, and on the way home from school.
The walk from her place to the station was five minutes, and the walk from her school to the station was seven minutes. For the thirty-five minutes between stations, including transfers, Kano rocked with the motion of the trains. Back when she'd had money she'd bought a train pass, but it would only last until the end of the third trimester of her second year. In her third year, she'd have to buy a bicycle, and if she couldn't find one for cheap, she'd be forced to walk to school. So she decided she would at least get the most out of the peaceful train commute while she still could.
To and from school, her train was always full of middle schoolers. Kano stood alone amid the schoolmates and their idle chitchat, staring out the window. Among the sights was a big red diamond signboard for Koushu Chinese restaurant. It was famous for its delicious boiled dumplings, but crows tended to swarm in the trash area behind the restaurant. The owner was also famously stubborn, so complaints about this went unheard. Perhaps she could do something.
The building in front of the station was a municipal parking garage ready to collapse at any moment. The very first step of the stairway between the first and second floors was rusted and pocked with small holes. The place was badly in need of repair. Someone would get hurt sooner or later. Unfortunately, any reports would most likely fall on deaf ears. Perhaps she should ask Top Speed if she owned any repair tools.
Directly next to a supermarket and its bright signs was a pedestrian bridge. About once every three days, at around ten PM, a broad-shouldered, middle-aged man would sit on the bench there, which made her quite curious. From his dress he seemed to have a steady job, but he always hung his head with pain on his face. Perhaps she should talk to him one day.
These thoughts ran through her head like the train running through Nakayado. Kano retrieved her phone from her school bag—not her magical one, but her regular phone. The Internet was still buzzing with magical-girl sightings. And of course, Snow White's surpassed everyone else's. Whenever she thought of Nakayado, Kano wondered if she just wanted to earn candy, or if she simply cared that deeply for her assigned area. Two months ago, it would have definitely been the former. Now she wasn't so sure. The former seemed more like Kano, while the latter seemed like the motivation of an irritating busybody. Still, she couldn't say.
Kano's desperate need for candy had led her to investigate every bit of Nakayado. As a result, from the trash situation of a Chinese restaurant to the stairs of a parking garage, there was nothing Kano didn't know. Once, she'd shown Top Speed just the tip of her vast knowledge, and the other girl had praised her, saying, "Wow, you know everything! That's the kinda love a magical girl should have for her neighborhood!" Kano had simply clicked her tongue over the big fuss, but she wasn't exactly unhappy about it.
Did Snow White also think about such things while helping people? Kano read further down the page. There were stories of how the girl in white helped fix a bike chain, not caring that her dress would get stained, and how once she'd comforted a crying child, even though she looked like she wanted to cry herself. It was all rumors, but the actions and behavior painted a vivid picture of her true character.
Hearing the announcement for her station, Kano returned her phone to her bag.
Winterprison took her near-loss quite hard. And the attack from someone who'd agreed to a discussion had wounded Sister Nana. Bitterness filled Winterprison over losing at her specialty, hand-to-hand combat, even if she had been distracted by magic. Her inability to protect Sister Nana had been traumatic, but that was nothing compared to how Sister Nana herself must have felt. Her overconfidence had led her to hurt and not kill her opponent, but she swore that the next time they met she'd kill that piece of trash with one blow.
But for the battered Sister Nana, there was no time to rest.
The day after their battle with Cranberry, she learned she would be mentoring the newest addition to their ranks. Winterprison urged her to cancel or ask for more time, but the haggard Sister Nana stubbornly refused to do either.
Magical girls healed quickly, so Winterprison's wounds were already completely gone. Sister Nana's heart, however, showed no signs of mending. As she tottered forward, Winterprison followed two steps behind, thinking, If this newbie tries to harm Sister Nana, there will be no mercy.
A deep, dark night covered the town of Kobiki. The impenetrable gloom hid even the presences of magical girls. There were no tall buildings, but away from the lampposts no one could spot a few people having a conversation. Taking advantage of this, Winterprison and Sister Nana chose to have the meeting in front of an abandoned factory.
The area, long ago nicknamed Lumber Street, had suffered an extended period of recession that caused many businesses to close their doors and shut down their factories. Only reckless idiots looking to test their courage, professional thieves, and weirdos lurked here anymore. Most likely, a magical girl would be considered a weirdo rather than a thief, Winterprison thought disparagingly. But at that moment, Sister Nana entered her line of sight and quickly banished the thought.
Sister Nana was a saint, willing to sacrifice herself to save another. Winterprison didn't consider herself even close to a saint, but she would die for the other woman's sake.
But what about the other one in front of her?
With her basically normal clothes, Winterprison didn't have much room to judge, but this girl's outfit was relatively plain. She seemed almost like the main character from one of the books on Nana Habutae's bookshelf—Alice's Adventures in Wonderland, come to life—except for the color. In the book, the main character didn't wear all black. This Alice, black as a wet crow's feather from head to toe, and silent as a mouse, resembled someone returning from a funeral in their mourning clothes. In her right arm, she held a white rabbit that, rather than looking cute, reinforced her creepiness.
Her clothes weren't the only element of her unhealthy image, though. Magical girls, even outlaws like Calamity Mary or crazies like Cranberry, had beautiful skin, smooth cheeks, and healthy proportions. They showed their physical beauty in its natural form.
But this person—Hardgore Alice, the newbie under Sister Nana's mentorship—had deep bags under her dead, black eyes. She stood slightly hunched, her pale lips parted about a pinkie's width, her arms dangling limply at each side. Her complexion was more pale than white, like a person with constant indigestion.
It was impossible to tell if she was truly listening as Sister Nana prattled on passionately despite her depression. To Winterprison, it seemed like she was spacing out.
"Now is the time to band together. We have to pool our knowledge and think together to avoid any more victims. We need an idea to break out of our present dilemma."
No answer. Not a sign that she was listening. She probably hadn't even blinked. Hardgore Alice hadn't moved a muscle since introducing herself.
The whole reason they were in this predicament in the first place was because a sixteenth magical girl had been added. So shouldn't Alice, as the sixteenth, feel a little guilty? If she wasn't planning on listening, the least she could do was pretend. Sister Nana deserved that much.
Alice annoyed Winterprison, and the frustration only burned hotter as time went on.
Sister Nana explained that the purpose of magic was to make others happy. No response.
She shared her experience of Calamity Mary's attack. No response.
She explained how they earned candy by performing good deeds, and that once a week the girl with the lowest amount of candy was cut from the roster. No response.
She recounted her regret over Nemurin. No response.
A little perplexed, she shared how Ruler had been cut. No response.
Even their tussle with the crazy Cranberry. No response.
Winterprison was approaching the limit of her patience. From her cool appearance and quiet demeanor, most would say she was calm and logical, but in actuality Winterprison had a short temper. She was just about ready to yell at the girl.
"I heard that Snow White was attacked the other day. I bet they were after her candy. She's been the undisputed top candy earner, after all. Oh, despicable..."
Alice's shoulder twitched.
"This Snow White."
Sister Nana stopped talking. She'd nearly missed the small whisper—the first time Alice had opened her mouth since they'd met.
"Is that the white magical girl?"
"Huh?"
"Is Snow White the white magical girl?"
"Yes, that's right."
"And her clothes are like a school uniform?"
"Yes."
"Do you know where she is?"
"I believe she was designated Kubegahama. Isn't that right?" The last bit was directed at Winterprison, but before she could respond, Alice turned on her heel and ran off. Her footsteps faded into the distance.
"Does she even know how to say thank you?" she muttered, fully aware it was beside the point.
"Do you think... she went to go help Snow White?"
Winterprison found it more likely that she'd excitedly rushed off to steal from the girl with the most candy, but she knew the idea would upset Sister Nana, so she nodded stonily.
La Pucelle was sorry. Deeply, deeply sorry. Deeply, deeply, deeply, deeply, deeply sorry. She was sorry she'd been so naive as to think the update to the magical phones would only be used for willing transfers. She should have foreseen that people would use it to steal. That way, she would have been more on guard.
She was sorry for making the steel tower in Kubegahama her meeting place with Snow White. They'd even talked about it in chat, so it was practically public knowledge. That was probably the most appealing point for any potential criminals looking to attack.
She was sorry for being so sure she and Snow White shared the same ideals. Snow White had never wanted to fight. Arrogance had made La Pucelle believe their vision of what a magical girl should be was the same.
She was sorry for not realizing the initial attack was a diversion until it was actually said out loud. She'd been so excited at the chance to use her full power, drunk on it, that she had put Snow White in danger. It was completely her fault that 37,000 pieces of candy had been stolen.
But she wasn't just sorry. La Pucelle actively worked to make sure everything she did as a magical girl went safer and smoother than ever before. Every day they changed their meeting spot. To minimize risk, they split their candy between them. Whenever they were together, they'd talk with their backs to each other. This way, they could respond to attacks from either side.
Then there was the shame.
She'd sworn to protect Snow White no matter what, yet only a few days later they'd been utterly defeated. It was unbearable. She was so ashamed she couldn't bring herself to look at her friend. Yet, of course, she couldn't afford not to. There was no telling when something similar might happen again, and that was when she would need to protect her. Snow White, however, had become depressed despite being saved. La Pucelle desperately wanted to cheer her up.
Seeing Snow White's sadness upset her. The fact that someone had stolen her candy—that a magical girl would think to steal another's candy—had shocked her. La Pucelle's attempts at conversation mostly received half-hearted replies. If she said nothing, the only sound between them would be the night wind blowing as they both stared off into the distance.
She remembered how, as a child, Snow White—Koyuki Himekawa—had hated fighting. She was the kind of girl who cried over fights that didn't involve her in the slightest. Of all the magical girls, she was the least suited to stealing and hurting others.
La Pucelle had to protect her.
The memory of Snow White in her arms atop the steel tower made her heart race. Her blood ran cold as she remembered the attack.
Now Snow White was no longer by her side. She'd already gone home.
"Good evening."
"Hey."
Suddenly, a voice came from behind, but La Pucelle answered without shock or panic. She'd felt the presence all night. Something had been observing them, and while she'd sensed it, Snow White had seemed unaware.
"Seems you noticed me."
"Yeah."
"Of course. But then why did you let Snow White leave?"
"Because this'll be easier alone."
"Well, well... That makes this simpler."
The seventh port warehouse was shorter than the steel tower, but it was closer to the ocean, so the thick, salty scent of the waves on the wind was stronger. From the gaps between the clouds, stars flickered in and out of view. The one facing La Pucelle appeared quite old. All the magical girls she knew, enemy or friend, looked to be between ten and nineteen, but this one was at least twenty.
"La Pucelle, I heard you were victorious in a three-on-one battle."
"I wouldn't really call it a victory."
"No need to be modest. It's better for me if it's the truth. Your strength is the only reason I would challenge you."
La Pucelle blinked.
"You're not after my candy?"
"I am the Musician of the Forest, Cranberry. I have no need for candy. All I want is a strong opponent."
A magical girl who's not trying to steal candy, eh? It had only been a few days since the last attack, so being on her guard wasn't unwarranted. She was a bit embarrassed she'd been so quick to judge, though. To hide her embarrassment, she smacked the roof of the warehouse with her tail.
Still, this girl was crazy to stalk strong opponents to battle. Well, if she wanted a fight, La Pucelle would give one to her. She liked these sorts of situations. Two people aiming to be the strongest would meet each other and have a clean, fair fight, acknowledging each other's power. She'd seen it so many times in manga and anime and had always dreamed of something similar.
"My name is La Pucelle. Musician of the Forest, Cranberry, I accept your challenge."
"Thank you very much."
La Pucelle drew her sword, and Cranberry readied her fists. The salt spray licked at the two combatants as they squared off atop the warehouse, rustling the flowers decorating Cranberry's body. The blossoms reminded La Pucelle of Snow White, but Cranberry's were darker, fresher, and more vibrant.
|
[ CHAT #3 ]
> Well, time for another exciting chat, pon!
> Uh... but no one seems to be here, pon
> Three weeks in and we're down to two. That's kind of a problem, pon
> Well, no matter, pon. Everyone looks at the logs anyway
> Cranberry, thank you for always attending, pon
> No one else is here, so it's fine if you play your music
> Well, there are three announcements today, pon
> Two pieces of good news, and one piece of bad news
> Let's go with the good news first, pon
> The magical phones have received another update, pon
> You can now download useful items, pon
> There are five in total!
> They're all on a first-come, first-served basis, so remember, the early bird gets the worm, pon!
> Now for the bad news, pon
> La Pucelle has died in an accident, pon. This is very sad, pon. Heartbreaking, pon
> But everyone, do your best not to let this sacrifice be in vain, pon
> And the last piece of good news:
> Because La Pucelle is dead, no one is getting cut this week
> So, see you next week!
> Oh, and the top earner hates having her results announced, so that is canceled, pon
> Thank you for your understanding
The music from the magical phone no longer reached her ears. At home, at school, even at the funeral, Snow White had held it in, but now she screamed into the howling winds—she writhed, wailed, and punched the steel tower. Unable to consider why it had happened or what this meant for her, Snow White cried. She sobbed and grieved over the death of La Pucelle—Souta Kishibe.
|
La Pucelle's death meant no one was cut that week. No one really questioned the cause of death, either. If someone dies, I'm not cut. If I kill someone, I'm not cut. If I want to live, I should kill. That was the best mind-set, and eventually everyone would come to realize that.
"You think it'll be that easy?"
"It will, it will. The medium to gather people this time is a mobile game aimed at a younger demographic, pon. That's drawn in lots of them, and they're all young. Their youth makes them particularly emotional, so all we need to do is add a little fuel to the fire, pon."
Fav was the one who had suggested using a mobile game as the medium. Meaning he probably wanted to claim the success as his own. Cranberry had first met Fav some time ago, but this part of him still rubbed her the wrong way. Most likely, Fav also found Cranberry to be a pain as well. That was how work relationships should be.
Cranberry rolled onto the bed and tapped her magical phone. A new header had been added to the start screen for Magical Girl Raising Project, entitled GET ITEMS.
Four-Dimensional Bag: Can hold items of any size or weight that can be carried by one person. Its fourth dimension gives it unlimited storage.
Invisibility Cloak: Makes the wearer invisible to others. Also erases smell, so dogs can't find you.
Weapon: A weapon you can add to your costume. Can stand up to the abuse of superpowered combat. You may choose your weapon from the list. Give it a cool name!
Energy Pills: Medicine that makes you really pumped! This doesn't heal wounds, so don't make that mistake. Some side effects may occur from overuse. Ten pills per container.
Rabbit's Foot: Brings good luck when you're in big trouble. Whether that saves you or not still depends on you, so don't rely on it too much.
In total, there were five downloadable items, and all of them were everyday tools from the Magical Kingdom. However, they each came with a price in order to use them. Fav, of course, had proudly announced that these items with irreversible effects would up the intensity of the fighting and cut off any means of escape for the girls.
Cranberry spoke into the device.
"Fav."
"Yes, yes, master? What is your request, pon?"
The black-and-white sphere with butterfly wings faded in from a corner of the screen.
"Are you sure adding these items won't ruin our goal of cultivating the strong? Some of these might allow the weaker ones to overcome the stronger ones."
"If that's all it takes to kill them, then they weren't really that strong to begin with, pon."
Fav did a flip in the air, scattering scales.
"Magical girls aren't just users of magic, pon. The ones who pass that shallow selection test from the Magical Kingdom aren't true magical girls at all, pon. They must be heroines, pon. If they die some silly death just because items were added to the game, they're failures. Just consider them side characters that were supposed to die, pon."
Inside the screen, Fav's mouth twisted ever so slightly into what looked like a truly ominous smile.
"Hey, master! Fighting tough opponents is enough for you, right? And you hate a selection test that doesn't choose the strongest survivors, right? So this is just fine! This sets up the true magical girls to brutally crush the ones who scheme and suck up to survive."
After finishing his spiel, Fav did another flip and returned to his usual expressionless demeanor.
"That's about it, pon."
"I see."
"Fav is trying to grant your wish to fight at full power, so the least you can do is grant Fav's wish for a super intense spectacle, pon. That's our contract, pon."
"Am I part of this spectacle as well?"
"Maybe."
Fav smiled, his expression unchanging.
"Are these items... free?"
"Magical Girl Raising Project is always free to play. You will never be charged money, pon."
"But there are numbers under the names. The bag has a ten, the cloak has a twenty-five, the weapon's five, the medicine's three, the rabbit's foot's six..."
"You won't pay money, but Fav never said there wouldn't be a price, pon."
"So I do have to pay something?"
"Part of your life, pon. The weapon takes five years, the bag ten. The cloak takes twenty-five years. The stronger a magical item, the greater the price you have to pay to create it. But for girls like you with magic that isn't suited for fighting, this is a bailout, pon. You're supposed to use these items to close the gap between you and the others, pon. When things are this dangerous, what's a bit of your life that you don't even know you have?"
Snow White leaned against the concrete-block wall and slid down. Maybe it was the dirty alley, devoid of even drunkards and stray dogs, but she felt alone in the world. She'd sought out a place to spend some time by herself, but the solitude was torture. She wiped her sticky, sweaty cheek with the back of her hand. Her skin was pale as a ghost's, too.
Souta Kishibe's death had been explained as a traffic accident. Snow White had attended the wake and funeral as Koyuki Himekawa, but she couldn't bring herself to look at his corpse because it was so mutilated. The car that hit him had been discovered in a parking garage, but it was a stolen vehicle. The police still hadn't found the driver.
Snow White wiped her eyes. This time, her hand was covered in tears. She'd thought they all dried up after she sobbed her eyes out over La Pucelle's death, but just remembering her friend made them well and overflow again.
"Sou..."
She remembered the first day they'd talked atop the steel tower. The day she saved her from the candy thieves. The day she swore to be the sword that protected her. The day they shared their magic with each other and pinkie promised to not tell the others. The day she risked her life to save a kid from an oncoming car and later said, embarrassedly, "My body just moved on its own." The day they celebrated a web post that called her a knight who protected a child. The days of discourse over manga and anime. The days they sat together and watched anime as children.
She recalled how, as Souta, he had looked at her with such jealousy when she proclaimed she'd become a magical girl. How, as La Pucelle, she had proudly shown her that a boy could become a magical girl after all. How, as Souta, he walked to school kicking a soccer ball. How Souta's mom bawled over losing her son who had just entered middle school...
His warmth as he held her. The heat blooming deep in her chest.
Time seemed to blur. Memory after memory floated through her mind and disappeared. She couldn't go on like this. It wasn't right. She knew this, but her heart was frozen in place. It wouldn't let her move forward.
"Sou... Sou..."
"Cry all you like. No one's going to pity you, pon."
Her magical phone had fallen screen-side down, which muffled Fav's voice more than usual. It sounded as if the creature was somewhere else.
"Do you think if you snivel and whine, someone will come save you, pon? Are you going to let La Pucelle's sacrifice go to waste, pon?"
The word sacrifice weighed on her back like a cross. They still hadn't captured the driver that ran over Souta. Was his killer actually a human, though? She knew it was a horrifying thing to consider, but she couldn't get it out of her mind.
Could one of her fellows have killed Souta? Was there a magical girl in the city capable of killing others like her? If so, then if she got one of those new items...
"Cheer up—for La Pucelle's sake, too, pon. Summon some courage and choose an item, pon."
Snow White shakily reached out for her device and opened up the item selection screen. Listed were five items. Underneath them, the numbers.
"My life..."
Her heart pounded heavily, and her breathing roughened. She exhaled, then inhaled. The sounds of her ragged breaths echoed in the empty alley. The ground shook—or was that just her imagination? Snow White couldn't tell. If she took an item, she'd lose part of her life. At the least, that would be three years; at the most, twenty-five. What would La Pucelle do? Her fingers shaking, she clicked PURCHASE. The invisibility cloak that took twenty-five years off her life—with that, she could escape any attacker... possibly.
|
Sold out?
The words on the screen indicated the item was out of stock. No matter which one she clicked, the same message appeared.
"Aw, I told you, pon. The early bird gets the worm, so you should have bought it fast."
She dropped the magical phone. It bounced and rolled into the steel trash cans behind a restaurant with a clank.
"It's always first come, first served..."
Whatever Fav was saying, Snow White couldn't hear it. She just stared dumbly at her empty right hand.
Weapon, invisibility cloak, energy pills.
Together, Swim Swim, Tama, and the Peaky Angels had three items. They'd tried to buy them all, but the rabbit's foot and four-dimensional bag were already gone.
"We should have looked earlier." "Don't say that, sis."
After hearing from the Peaky Angels about the download items being up for sale, the four had gathered at Ouketsuji. They got Fav to explain the prices of the items, and Swim Swim instantly decided they should purchase them. She instructed Tama to take the weapon and the Peaky Angels to get the energy pills. When the Peaky Angels complained that part of their life span was too expensive, she purchased the invisibility cloak herself.
When a leader takes the initiative and gives up twenty-five years of their life, who would make a fuss about shortening their own life by a few years? Through her actions, Swim Swim demonstrated how necessary this was and moved the other three to action. Yunael ended up paying for the medicine after losing a game of rock-paper-scissors.
They hadn't quite believed Fav's explanation that they'd lose years off their life, but as soon as they bought the items they knew it was true. The moment they clicked the PURCHASE button, a shuddering sensation ran up their spines, as if something had been taken from deep inside. In its place, only a chill remained.
"Swim Swim, aren't you scared of dying twenty-five years earlier?" Tama asked.
"Yes."
"Really? Then why?"
"I'm the leader. It was important."
Swim Swim looked the same as always. No burdens, fear, or hesitation. She was so unperturbed, you'd never guess she'd just lost twenty-five years of her life. It was appalling.
How would Ruler have responded? What would Ruler have done? Ruler had dominated Tama's thoughts recently.
Their old leader had been full of confidence. She'd been smart. Strong. Confidence, brains, strength—Tama possessed none of these, but Ruler had.
She was also the one who'd taught Tama how to be a magical girl. Most who tried to teach her ended up throwing her out halfway through. Kindergarten, elementary school, middle school—the story was always the same. Her teachers either wrote her off as a lost cause, or she graduated before fully grasping the content.
But Ruler hadn't abandoned her. She'd called her an idiot, hit her, and abused her, but still she'd allowed her to stay. Tama's attempts to nuzzle her leg were met with kicks, but she hadn't minded if it meant she wasn't abandoned. The day she'd received her collar, she'd been so happy she ran around the temple grounds and got a scolding for being obnoxious.
She'd assumed Swim Swim thought the same of Ruler—until she suggested a betrayal.
At first, she'd thought it was a joke or something. Or maybe there was some deeper meaning she didn't understand. She remained confused throughout the whole process, until eventually the coup d'état succeeded and Swim Swim became the new leader after Ruler's death. Despite knowing the plan, she hadn't understood it, so the news was a huge surprise to Tama. However, she was in no position to object, and unable to do anything, here she was at Ouketsuji.
"Ohhh, amazing!" "So magi-cool!" "It seems really sharp." "I wouldn't want to be on the wrong end of that."
Swim Swim's weapon resembled a naginata pole arm but lacked the distinctive curved blade. Instead, the steel resembled a giant knife. The handle was about a yard long, the blade maybe a foot. It certainly wasn't worth all the praise the angels lavished upon it, and it looked unrefined and awkward. Were they just trying to suck up?
"Whatcha gonna name it?" "The instructions said to give it a cool name, right?"
Swim Swim bowed her head and thought for a while.
"Ruler," she muttered. Unable to discern why she gave it the exact same name as their former leader, the Peaky Angels and Tama all stared at the weapon. It shone in the light of the angels' halos.
Swim Swim had proposed they share the items among themselves. Ultimately, Tama ended up with the invisibility cloak, Swim Swim with the weapon, and the Peaky Angels with the energy pills. The reason Swim Swim wound up with the cheapest item despite paying the most was because she herself requested it. No one dissented.
"Don't you want to use the best item?" Tama asked Swim Swim.
"This weapon goes with my magic. That cloak goes with yours," she said. Then she added, "The Peaky Angels are holding the pills for safekeeping."
Tama wondered what she meant by the cloak "going with" her magic, but couldn't think of a reason. She sort of understood why a weapon suited Swim Swim—she looked best when wielding it, after all. Swim Swim reached out and patted her on the head, as if she thought Tama was troubled instead of attempting to think. Ruler most likely would have yelled at her and called her an idiot. She wasn't sure which she preferred. Maybe one day she would be.
Everyone had to know—even Tama knew, and she was as slow as they come. La Pucelle's accidental death that week meant no one was cut. Then the items had been added. Most of them seemed more appropriate for purposes other than helping people. Swim Swim and the Peaky Angels were raring to go. When she considered what for, Tama shivered.
High-quality furnishings decorated an elegant room: a shag carpet with a complex design, a small ebony desk, a black leather sofa, a gorgeous chandelier, simple watercolor paintings in lavish frames, a three-pronged coat rack, honey-colored candles in a dull-silver candelabra. There was even a pillar and solid wood flooring. This must be the club's VIP room, she thought as she surveyed the place.
Calamity Mary inspired as many bad rumors as there were stars in the sky, one of which was that she had ties to a criminal gang. She'd entered the building via the back door and passed smoothly through to this room, ignoring the other guests and getting past the black suits without hassle. Given this, it was hard to deny the stories.
Magicaloid 44 was a robot magical girl. She wore backpack-shaped booster rockets on her back, a weapon rack around her waist, an antireflective hood over her main camera, and various smaller thrusters all over her body for minor adjustments during flight, and her body was made of magicalium alloy that felt like human skin but was harder than steel. If the other magical girls were humans in cosplay, then Magicaloid 44 was a robot made to look human. She was certainly different, that was for sure. Yet none of the staff shrieked in shock or pointed at her. Their expressions hardened, but that was all.
"Your teachings are sinking in, it seems."
"Kissing my ass will get you nowhere."
Calamity Mary chugged the amber liquid filling her Baccarat crystal glass. With her legs spread and her hips sunk into the sofa, she formed the very picture of a gunslinger out of a spaghetti Western.
Magicaloid 44 remembered the post that had made the rounds on the Internet at the beginning of the month about Calamity Mary's assault on the apartment of a Triad gangster. Some reports said she'd acted alone, but the stories that called it a paid hit were more accurate. The compensation would be, say, permission to drink all the expensive alcohol in a high-class club and free rein to use it for her own personal reasons while the staff pretended not to notice anyone she brought with her.
Knowing her, it was quite possible. Their relationship was merely that of veteran and newbie, but even so, she understood that any comments about Calamity Mary's behavior would cost you.
"The items are on sale now," said Magicaloid 44.
"What did you buy?"
"Nothing. I value my life," she answered honestly. No one lied to Calamity Mary.
"So boring. I bought the bag. It seems useful."
"I envy you."
How many times that day had Calamity Mary knocked back a glass of that amber liquid? While Magicaloid 44 remained expressionless on the outside, on the inside she sighed. Magical girls were immune to poison—their physical strength nullified its effects. So obviously they couldn't get drunk off alcohol, yet still Calamity Mary continued to drink. Was it one of her human habits, or just a part of her magical-girl character?
"So, did you give any thought to my proposal?"
"What was it...? You wanted to team up with me?"
"Yes. That is what I said over the magical phone."
La Pucelle's death had meant no one was cut for one week. In other words, if anyone died, she would be the one cut, regardless of candy count. Some most likely considered this method quicker than simply earning candy. It was better to act than wait to be killed.
So far, there was Swim Swim's band of four, Top Speed with Ripple, and Sister Nana with Winterprison. Magical girls were starting to team up more and more, and it was becoming far too dangerous to act alone. The ones still without a group were Snow White; the Magician of the Forest, Cranberry; Calamity Mary; and the new girl. Of those, Magicaloid 44 only had a connection to Calamity Mary, albeit a tenuous one. Mary was also the most reliable in combat.
"I do not mind if you think of me as an errand girl. The only way I survive is if I depend on your power."
"I see."
Calamity Mary stopped drinking and stared into Magicaloid 44's eyes. She seemed to be appraising her, or searching for a hint of a lie. Or maybe she was just staring blankly with no thoughts behind her eyes at all. The room was soundproofed from the outside world, and without even a single ticking clock, it was truly silent. The ice in her glass cracked.
"Y'know, the good thing about you is you always seem ready to stab me in the back."
"Betraying you is an unwinnable game."
"I like how you keep me on my toes. If it's not today, it'll be tomorrow. Or the day after that."
"Please."
Magicaloid 44 laughed, trying to dodge her suspicion, but there was no telling if she actually had. In her head, she marveled.
Calamity Mary was absolutely correct.
Magicaloid's magic changed daily. Each day, she could remove at random from her weapon rack one of 444,444,444 "useful futuristic gadgets" that became usable for that day only. If she could consistently obtain powerful gadgets, she'd never need to team up with anyone. She'd simply destroy all her enemies with ease. But some days she'd end up with items she could not for the life of her understand how to use, like the Fat Removal Manipulator or the Insect Breeding Appraiser. Those were hardly useful. For all her good days, she had equally bad ones, and that was no good.
Calamity Mary was a brutish, violent, irrational, and vulgar woman, but that was most likely the type of magical girl the management was looking for. Under the current rules, those were the only ones who could survive after the addition of the items. Thus, Magicaloid 44 had to follow suit.
"I'd rather die than partner with a fathead like Ruler or an idiot like Sister Nana. Winterprison and Cranberry I'd rather fight than serve. Snow White should just shut up and die."
Calamity Mary's appraisal of the other girls seemed convincing, at least to Magicaloid 44. The gunslinger was hardly the intelligent or logical type, but she did have experience.
"Then what about me? Magicaloid 44?"
"I guess you could be a good underling. A good servant to your master. You get a passing grade."
"So you will team up with me?"
"If you pass my test, I don't mind letting you watch my back."
"Test?"
"Go kill someone." Joy spread across her face as she imagined something. "Don't worry. If you die instead I'll be sure to avenge you. I'll host the grandest, most extravagant, most breathtakingly bloody massacre in your honor."
Support pole, sign, concrete base—she tore them apart with the ease of a knife through butter. Ripple shredded the steel signs, then chucked the pieces into a basket, one after another. No matter how she threw the steel, it would morph unnaturally and land in the basket, as if it had been sucked in. Her magic, the accuracy of her shuriken, seemed to affect anything she threw with her hands. The rules were surprisingly lax in that regard.
Kitayado locals had been complaining for over a month that the three foreign road signs—complete with concrete around the base, as if they'd been ripped straight out of the ground—had been abandoned in an emergency fire lane. Apparently, there was some confusion about which department was in charge of such matters. Until they were disposed of, they'd just sit there wasting people's time, fanning the flames of their anger, so that night the two magical girls worked to dispose of them.
All that was left to do was leave the pieces marked as unburnable trash at the dump, and their mission would be complete. Once morning came, someone would see it and take care of it. This would most likely net them each one hundred pieces of candy, a large amount in line with the effort required.
"Okay, all ready. Hop on."
"The weight..."
"Hmm?"
"The weight... Will it be okay...?"
"Oh, is that what you're worried about? Naw, no problemo!"
The cargo hung from Top Speed's broomstick, Rapid Swallow. Thanks to the additional concrete, the signs might have weighed about the same as a person, though it was difficult to tell. Ripple worried whether the broomstick would still float, but Top Speed easily took flight with Ripple and the remains of the signs in tow.
"I can't go as fast, though. Not because of the weight, but because of the air resistance and stuff. I don't really understand it."
Ripple clicked her tongue.
The broomstick was certainly slower than normal. But that wasn't what irritated her. It was because she was so used to sitting in the back seat that she instantly recognized the slower speed.
They had utterly and unequivocally become a pair. Even the Internet was calling them the witch and ninja duo. Ripple tsked and tightened her grip around Top Speed's waist.
"Don't get so mad."
"I'm not mad..."
"Sure, it sucks we couldn't snag an item. But how many things are really worth paying for with your life span?"
By the time Ripple had learned the items were on sale, they were all sold out. Apparently, the same went for Top Speed. She'd called right away.
"The game's hook was that it was free to play, anyway. This is nothing."
If they were partners, fine. Ripple just wished she could trust her partner more. Top Speed simply wasn't reliable. She kowtowed to Calamity Mary, even groveled, and she couldn't even obtain a single item. Ripple found herself constantly wondering if a mere chauffeur was worth calling a partner.
"We could be killed without one..."
"By who?"
"Another magical girl..."
"Ha-ha! No way. We can always run away if it looks like we're about to die. Who's gonna catch me if I snatch you up and zoom off into the sky?"
"Some of them can fly... Like the angels in the video..."
"Sure, the Peaky Angels and Magicaloid 44 can fly. But there's a huge difference between flying and flying faster than anyone, Ripple. No magical girl can catch me!"
Top Speed grabbed the brim of her hat and pulled it lower. It was impossible to tell her expression from behind, but her tone was terribly light.
"I'm not bluffing or blowing hot air, either. I'm doing this magical-girl thing because I can run away whenever I like. I can't die for at least six more months."
She was constantly going on about those six months, so Ripple constantly asked her what would happen. But she never got a satisfying answer. Maybe she'd find out in six months.
Underneath the moonlight, the broomstick carried its two passengers across the sky.
Snow White spun to look behind her in the empty alley. Fear coursed through her veins, and her ears strained to hear even the tiniest noise. She could have sworn she heard something drop on the asphalt. Maybe it was just her imagination. Practically every day since La Pucelle's death, she'd felt someone nearby and called out, but received no response. Sometimes, she sensed something approaching and lay in wait, but no one ever showed.
Whenever she turned around, no one was there. She knew her nerves were running high, but she couldn't relax. She was too afraid.
Snow White ran.
She darted from alley to alley in the long shadows created by the moonlight. She tried her best to keep out of the light, but after three turns, she heard a noise behind her. Something was rhythmically tapping on concrete. When Snow White stopped, the noise stopped.
Footsteps?
Goose bumps ran up her skin. She turned around to find a pair of eyes staring right back at her. A magical girl she'd never seen before was hiding behind a wall. She had on an apron dress with puffy sleeves, socks, shoes, drawers, and a ribboned headband. She was the spitting image of Alice from Alice in Wonderland, but all her clothes were black. The only white thing on her was the creepy plush rabbit under her arm. Her hunched posture reminded Snow White of a predator about to pounce on its prey.
"Finally... I've found you."
Joy shone from within her dull, iris-less eyes, and the corners of her lips twisted upward.
Snow White couldn't move a muscle. One step, two steps, three—the girl slowly drew closer. On the fourth, she was about fifteen feet away. Snow White tried desperately to keep her knees from shaking. After that, the girl stopped.
The black Alice cocked her head. Slowly, ever so slowly, it continued to tilt until, with a pop, it fell off. Where her head had been, Snow White could clearly see her windpipe, her veins, and even her spine. The next second, a geyser of blood showered the small street.
The decapitated body sank to its knees and collapsed on top of its head. Snow White struggled to understand what had just happened. Covered in the black Alice's blood, she stared wide-eyed and unblinking at the convulsing corpse.
"Well, it appears I ended up saving you."
A robot appeared from behind the black Alice's body and stepped over it, seemingly not worried if the blood stained her shoes. She splashed toward Snow White through the pool forming from the headless corpse.
"We have met in chat many times, have we not? I am Magicaloid 44."
She looked exactly like a robot. Her skin was plasticky, her eyes red. Distinctive designs added a magical-girl touch to the mechanical bits on her back, legs, hips, and other places on her body. On her back, she wore a red backpack much like an elementary schooler's.
"Hmm. You know, I imagined I might experience sickness, or uncontrollable shaking, or even ecstasy. Some kind of emotional response. But I only feel disgust, like I did when I was a child and we watched pigs being butchered on that school trip. An instinctual disgust, perhaps."
Her face held no expression, but her tone suggested she was trying to joke.
"This is my first time killing a person... a magical girl, but it is not very interesting. I guess I will never understand why Calamity Mary loves killing so much."
Magicaloid 44 extended her right hand, and Snow White recoiled.
"Can you see it? There are fine threads attached to my fingers. I guess you cannot. Boy, I am glad today's mystery gadget turned out to be useful."
Something glittered in the moonlight, but it was impossible to tell exactly what. Magicaloid 44 swiped her right hand to the side, and without a sound five cuts appeared in the concrete wall next to her. Snow White gasped.
"My plan was to just kill you."
She kicked the head at her feet, sending it rolling over to the other girl. Snow White barely managed to remain standing—if it had landed face up, she surely would have sunk to the pavement. But the face was toward the ground.
"I was not planning to kill someone else. Though this is good-bye for you as well. There is no reason to keep you alive. Maybe Calamity Mary will be more pleased with two bodies instead of one. If murder repulsed me, I would be more careful. But it is no big deal. Well, good-bye."
Magicaloid 44 raised her right hand, and a loud screech erupted, like metal being pierced. Her arm still in the air, the robot looked down to her chest. Something was protruding from it. Someone had impaled her through the chest with an arm. Unable to believe what she was seeing, Magicaloid 44 stared at the arm as it lifted her up and slammed her into the crimson puddle. Blood drenched Snow White and dyed her white clothes almost entirely red.
She'd held it in for a long time, but that was too much. A scream escaped from deep within her throat. Magicaloid 44's impaler was none other than the decapitated black Alice, whose head still lay at Snow White's feet.
Her own scream woke her up. She jumped out of bed, sweating profusely. Her pajamas were soaked and sticky and gross—and not just her pajamas, but her sheets, blanket, and pillow covers, too.
"Koyuki? What's the matter?"
From downstairs, her mother called with worry.
"Nothing!" she answered.
A dream?
She hoped it was only a dream. But it had been too real. Though something like that could never happen in reality, it had. Koyuki glanced down at her right hand. In it she clutched a fluffy white rabbit's foot.
|
[ CHAT #4 ]
> So...
> Has everyone mastered their items, pon?
> What? Enough with the formalities, pon? Oh, fine
> This week Magicaloid 44 was cut
> Well, see you next week
> Oh, Cranberry. Thank you for the music, pon
|
Swim Swim's magical phone rang. Tama fell silent, and even Yunael and Minael stopped chatting to listen to her conversation with Fav. After exchanging a few words, she slipped the phone between her breasts.
"What's the matter? Did something happen?"
"Sister Nana sent a message. She wants to meet."
"Seriously?" "Winterprison is scary." "What do we do?" "What?"
"Above all, deal with strong enemies swiftly."
If they couldn't win in a fair fight, then they would just have to fight dirty. Swim Swim gave the angels her instructions.
Atop the desk sat a lone ball of fluffy white fur. The plethora of plush animals in the room wasn't unusual for a girl to have, but this item was not like the others.
"What is this?"
"The rabbit's foot listed in the game, pon. Something lucky will happen when you're in trouble, pon."
"Why do I have it?"
"Maybe you picked it up after someone dropped it?"
"Who is 'someone'?"
"Logically speaking, probably Hardgore Alice, pon."
"Hardgore Alice?"
"The girl who looks like an all-black version of Alice from Alice in Wonderland."
So it really had happened. Visions of the shambling headless corpse resurfaced. Bile rose in her throat, but she suppressed it. Her heart had never been at peace since La Pucelle died. Every time she remembered her death, the urge to throw up and cry overtook her.
"You won't lose your sanity at least, so don't worry, pon. Business depends on our magical girls remaining healthy in body and mind, pon."
As if he had read her mind, Fav cut off all escape. Anger bloomed in her. She wanted to scream, smash the magical phone, and stamp on the pieces. But she wasn't brave enough to hang up on the only one she could still converse with.
Hardgore Alice had been decapitated and walked away. Such a scene you'd only see in nightmares—yet it had all been real. Her death hadn't been reported in chat, so she was still alive. If the rabbit's foot belonged to her, then what did she think now that Snow White had it? She doubted she would get away with a friendly explanation that she'd picked it up by accident.
"Can't you give this back to her for me?"
"You'd have to do that in person, pon. Fav can contact her for you though, pon."
She'd asked precisely because she didn't want to meet in person, but he didn't seem to understand. Or maybe he did, and he was saying this on purpose. Was it malice she sensed from the black-and-white sphere floating daintily in the air? Or was it indifference?
Snow White collapsed on the desk and cried. Five minutes of sobbing later, she raised her head, a little recovered. She thought about how much easier it would be to just let her mind go.
From the floor below, her mother called, "Koyuki! Dinnertime!"
"Coming!" She stood from her chair. She reached out to turn off the magical phone, but just before she could, Fav piped up, half an octave higher than normal.
"Oh, I have a message, pon."
"Message?"
"Sister Nana wishes to meet you, pon. What do you say, pon?"
Magical girls didn't get many opportunities to meet others like them in person. Of course, if two girls paired up, like Snow White and La Pucelle, Sister Nana and Winterprison, or Top Speed and Ripple, they would naturally see each other. But outside of the mentor system, there weren't any reasons to meet. No major accidents or events that required them to join forces had occurred since they became active in N City. Plus, some girls were more territorial than others, and they were strong enough to maintain their own areas, so there was no real reason for anyone to set foot in another's neighborhood.
Sister Nana had visited other territories—except the late Ruler's—with friendly intentions before, but after Calamity Mary nearly killed her, she had adopted a firm policy of noninvolvement and nonintervention. That is, until this game to reduce the number of magical girls to eight.
Personally, Snow White had only ever met Sister Nana and Winterprison in real life once, before Sister Nana stopped leaving her house.
Snow White arrived early, but Sister Nana and Winterprison were already there. Every time she saw Winterprison, she marveled at how cool she looked. She was more like a prince than a magical girl. As for Sister Nana, she exuded kindness. The solemn abandoned supermarket serving as their meeting place reminded her of a run-down chapel.
"It is good to see you again, Snow White."
"Hey."
"Hello, Sister Nana! Hello, Winterprison!"
"I heard about La Pucelle. It is... truly regrettable..." She clasped Show White's hands and dropped her head.
Tears stung Snow White's eyes. Was she happy that others missed La Pucelle, too, or did remembering La Pucelle's death make her sad? She couldn't rightly say.
Sister Nana raised her head.
"We cannot allow such tragedy to continue. This is the time for us to band together! We can pool our knowledge and find a solution!"
The tears welling in her eyes spilled over. Sister Nana's hands were warm and secure around hers. Everyone she'd met since the start of the game had been hostile, save for La Pucelle. None of them had spared a kind word or needed her. To them, she was no more than prey.
Snow White nodded.
"I want to help... Please, let me help!"
"Oh, thank you, Snow White! Let us work hard together."
Great tears continued pouring from Snow White's eyes, and through her blurred vision she could see Sister Nana smiling. Maybe it was the tears, but her smile looked crooked somehow. Still, it was reassuring. Sister Nana looked away and spoke to someone behind Snow White.
"What do you say? You left before we could hear your answer the other day."
Had she invited another magical girl? Snow White turned around toward whoever Sister Nana was talking to—and there was Hardgore Alice, a dark parody of her namesake, peeking out from the entrance to the supermarket. Snow White bit back a scream and jumped to hide behind Winterprison. Her hands were still firmly held by Sister Nana's, so she nearly fell over trying to change places with the nun, but nonetheless she moved extraordinarily fast.
"Um... Do you two know each other?"
"Yes, we do."
Hardgore Alice answered before Snow White could tell her about the attack. All the girl in white could do was quiver in fear behind Winterprison. Suspicion darkened the prince-like girl's expression, but Sister Nana continued without concern for Snow White's reaction.
"Um, well then... Will you help us, Hardgore Alice?"
"Yes. I understand. I will help."
Hardgore Alice spoke blankly, like she was reading off a script. Her inelegant speech sounded like a translation of her response from a foreign language.
"Oh, today is such a wonderful day! Thank you so much!"
Apparently Sister Nana didn't doubt her sincerity. She ran over to Hardgore Alice, clasped her hands, and shook them vigorously, just like she had with Snow White.
The last thing Snow White wanted was to end up alone with Hardgore Alice by accident. But Sister Nana's constant delighted exclamations ("We four are united in purpose!") left her no opportunity to tell them the truth.
"I have other meetings with magical girls planned for today. Perhaps our ranks will yet increase," Sister Nana mused happily.
Unable to think of a reason to stop her, Snow White ended up in the one situation she wanted to avoid—alone with Hardgore Alice. She tried to mutter a good-bye and extricate herself, but when she turned she discovered Hardgore Alice following her. Awkwardly, she smiled and bowed, then set off quickly, rounded a corner, and looked back. She was still there. A shiver went up her spine.
Maybe she'd only been playing nice earlier because Sister Nana and Winterprison were there. But with them gone, she probably felt free to attack. Snow White put up her guard, but Hardgore Alice just stared, unmoving, as if her eyes had been glued there.
Oh, right.
Remembering, Snow White reached into her pocket. Her fingers touched soft fur, and she pulled out the rabbit's foot. She held it out to Hardgore Alice.
"Is this yours? Um, I didn't steal it. It was just there when I woke up, honest."
That was the truth, but it seemed like a flimsy excuse. Snow White backed up, still holding out the rabbit's foot.
"No."
"Huh? Am I wrong?"
"That belongs to you."
"N-no, I've never owned something like this."
"I gave it to you. To Snow White. So it's yours."
"Huh? Why? Why would you give it to me?"
Hardgore Alice suddenly cocked her head, startling Snow White. She almost expected her head to fall off again. What exactly had happened the night Magicaloid 44 beheaded her? On closer inspection, there were no scars or bandages on her neck. A natural assumption would be that her magic was responsible, but the power to survive decapitation was too much to believe.
"Because I felt like it."
"Huh?"
"I felt like it, so I gave it to you."
"But why—?"
Hardgore Alice cocked her head again and stared.
"Because I felt like it."
Yesterday, Hardgore Alice had been a blood-covered monster that could move even after death, inspiring a self-explanatory fear. But this Hardgore Alice... this magical girl cocking her head at Snow White... blocked the way as an unfathomable object of terror.
Water gushed from the fountain in the center of the town square in a simple rhythm. The show of flashing lights and changing spray arcs was over. The fountain simply continued its work in a robotic manner—though it was in fact a machine—as if the lively waterworks of only a few minutes ago had never even taken place. The spectators drifted away one by one, abandoning the benches around the fountain, signaling the end of the light show.
Ripple tsked.
Every month on the fifteenth at ten PM, the fountain in N City's central park square hosted a light show. The infrequency of the lovely display made it particularly special—the lights even changed depending on the season, flaring bright pink in April when the cherry blossoms were in bloom and replicating exploding fireworks in August—and ensured more people came to watch.
A bigger audience meant more problems, and more work for a magical girl. All the potential witnesses also lowered the risk of an attack.
Top Speed's plan had seemed sound, so Ripple had agreed. They watched the entire affair from the roof of the park's multipurpose auditorium, completed the previous summer, but not a single problem had cropped up. After enjoying the colorful display, the people quietly left. The only thing the girls had done was dispose of cans, empty convenience store food containers, and broken glass before people showed up.
Had this been Jounan, would there have been more of a disturbance? A fight or two might have broken out in Kubegahama and Kobiki, where fishermen and tradesmen still resided. But nothing of the sort happened in Nakayado. That was what made it Nakayado, after all, and while Ripple liked that aspect, right now what she wanted more than anything was a problem.
The ninja tsked again. Perhaps she should be happy about the peace, but there was no way for her to earn candy.
"Man, good thing nothing happened."
"It's not a good thing..."
"Hmm? Ya say something?"
"No..."
"Wasn't that a pretty sight? The moon was out and everything, so we could see the lights all the way from over here. We shoulda brought some booze to watch it with."
Ripple reached into a Tupperware container, picked out a mushroom with her fingers, and popped it into her mouth. Top Speed could be annoying, but her cooking was always good. The stewed vegetables were juicy with soup stock.
"I can't drink alcohol..."
"Why not?"
"I'm underage..."
"Huh? You mean not just as a magical girl, but for real? In real life? Wow, I just can't see it. Ripple, how old are you actually?"
"Seventeen..."
"Seriously? I'm nineteen."
If Ripple wasn't wrong, a nineteen-year-old was still a minor in their country. Naturally, that meant she shouldn't be drinking. Ripple clicked her tongue.
"So, you're younger than me, huh? I thought you were my age. Maybe older."
She had thought she was older and still used that tone with her? Ripple made her signature sound of irritation and reached out for another stewed veggie. Potato this time. It was good.
"Is school fun?"
"It's whatever..."
"You have friends?"
"No..."
"What about family?"
"No..."
"Man, you seem just like me when I was seventeen. I'm getting déjà vu here. Creepy."
Not many could resist pointlessly acting older once they learned they were talking to someone younger—Ripple thought it was inane, but she didn't tell Top Speed that.
"You're super-honest, though. You answer any question I ask. When I was seventeen, I was more like a knife. Like, anyone who tried to get close got cut. I'm all dull now, though."
Ripple clicked her tongue.
"Ripple, Ripple."
A high-pitched synthetic voice came from her magical phone. Fav turned it on remotely and projected a hologram.
"Fav has a message for you, pon. Calamity Mary wants to meet. She'll be waiting at the Hotel Priestess in Nakayado at eleven PM two days from now, pon."
Ripple looked at Top Speed, and Top Speed looked at Ripple.
"C'mon, Ripple. No need to look so grumpy."
Apparently her distaste showed in her expression. Well, she hated the idea. Hated it a lot. The fear of staring down a gun still hadn't faded, even months later. Sometimes she had nightmares of her death at Calamity Mary's hands.
"I'll pass..."
"Whoa, you'll pass? I know how you feel, but don'cha think something really bad could happen if ya don't go? I'm getting serious bad vibes—my one tiny wish to live another six months might not come true because of this."
"Would you stop that...?"
"Hmm?"
"Tell me why you keep saying six months already..."
"Oh..."
"Hey, Ripple! Ripple!"
From within the projected image, Fav flapped his wing vigorously. So many scales flew off that a yellow cloud seemed to cover the image, nearly blocking him out.
"Calamity Mary says it's important."
Ripple looked at Top Speed, and Top Speed looked at Ripple.
"Seriously, no need to look so grumpy."
Ripple clicked her tongue.
Swim Swim wasn't the only one who knew Ruler had been cautious of Calamity Mary—Tama and the Peaky Angels did, too. "Cautious" was a weak word to describe her attitude, though; perhaps "hated" was more fitting. She'd seen Calamity Mary as an enemy and something in her way.
But despite all this, she had never tried to start a fight with her. The first target she'd chosen to steal candy from was Snow White, not Calamity Mary. Ruler had hated and feared the gunslinger at the same time. Why this was, Swim Swim did not know. The two had become magical girls long before Swim Swim had, so while she could guess what might have happened, she doubted she'd ever truly know. For now, all she knew was that Calamity Mary was scary and nearly untouchable and that Winterprison, who'd gone toe-to-toe with her, was on the same level.
Every magical girl in the city knew how Winterprison had fought Calamity Mary to save Sister Nana. The nun had made sure to brag about Winterprison's strength in chat after.
Ruler was Swim Swim's idol, but also someone to surpass.
And Ruler had feared Calamity Mary above all.
The only one to fight on even terms with Calamity Mary was Winterprison—who would be arriving soon.
If she could beat Winterprison, could she beat Calamity Mary? Surely it wasn't that simple. But possible victory was infinitely better than defeat. Ruler would have thought the same.
Both parties agreed to meet at Ouketsuji. If they didn't manage to win on their home turf, they'd definitely lose their base. But regardless of the risks, she was set on Ouketsuji. It was easier to set up traps in a familiar place, and they had the land advantage if a battle broke out.
That didn't mean they needed to do anything fancy, though. Ruler had never been a fan of complicated things and always insisted that plans be as simple as possible.
Swim Swim peered outside through the skylight. Filtered by the glass, the courtyard appeared faded. Something was moving—a bug? An endlessly chirping autumn insect, or a predatory insect eyeing it for a meal? Between Winterprison's group and hers, which was the predator and which was the prey?
Suddenly the chirping stopped, signaling the arrival of Sister Nana and her companion. Two sets of footsteps creaked across the floorboards in the silent temple. The sound of a door opening followed the creaking, and the two faces appeared in the entrance. Swim Swim's eyebrow rose slightly. Sister Nana was in front. She wasn't supposed to be there.
"It is good to see you again, Swim Swim. Thank you for your candy donation before."
Silently, Swim Swim stood up. She could sense tension from behind Sister Nana—or, more accurately, from the person behind her. Sister Nana was smiling pleasantly, not perturbed in the slightest.
"Snow White and Hardgore Alice just recently agreed to join us."
Swim Swim took a step forward. Winterprison stayed still. Another step. And another. Finally, Winterprison moved protectively in front of Sister Nana. There. Perfect.
"Go."
As Swim Swim gave the signal, Sister Nana screamed from behind Winterprison. Still wary of Swim Swim, Winterprison turned around, and her face froze in horror. Sister Nana shakily pointed at Sister Nana—there were two of them now. The other nun pushed past the first and clung to Winterprison. Dumbfounded and unable to process what was going on, Winterprison took her in her arms—and received a dagger to the chest.
Even with a dagger embedded in her, Winterprison remained calm.
There were two Sister Nanas. One was screaming, the other grinning; one was crying, the other holding a bloody dagger. The Sister Nana with the weapon kicked Winterprison and backed off. Her body began warping. It bent, twisted, stretched, shrunk, and changed color, and after numerous transformations, the second Sister Nana became two angels. They smiled maliciously, not even trying to hide their excitment. That was when she understood how there had been two Sister Nanas, and how that tiny dagger had pierced her sturdy, muscular body.
Winterprison smiled back. Blood running from her mouth, she smiled. Her enemies were fools. Why had they changed back? If they had stayed as Sister Nana, she never could have attacked, even if she knew it was a fake.
One of them had transformed into the magic dagger that now pierced Winterprison's heart. Blood gushed from her chest. She couldn't breathe. Her consciousness dimmed. But she wouldn't die for a few more seconds. She couldn't die just yet.
"Run!" she shouted at Sister Nana, then activated her magic. Walls of earth shot up, breaking through the floorboards—one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight. Stirring up clouds of dirt, the barriers struck the ceiling and trapped the angels. It was a prison.
Winterprison closed the gap in one stride. Balling her left fist hard, she drove her hand into the earthen walls and shattered them, crushing one little angel within.
One angel left: the one who had transformed into the dagger.
Winterprison chopped at her, attempting to rip through her neck with her bare right hand. Unfortunately, the blood spray from her first attack got in her eye, and as the blood loss reached a critical level, she just barely missed the timing. Her target inside the prison ducked, and Winterprison chopped through the upper half of the earthen walls. She tried to attack again, but a hole suddenly opened up beneath her and threw off her balance. Swim Swim attacked, chopping off her right arm.
Winterprison watched her limb arc through the air. She remembered how she'd stroked Sister Nana's hair with that hand, those fingers.
She couldn't sense Sister Nana nearby. Fortunately, she seemed to have escaped. Winterprison relaxed. Please, please be safe, she prayed, before dropping to her knees and lowering her head.
After Minael had transformed into a dagger, Yunael had held her and hid under the invisibility cloak. She waited until Sister Nana arrived, then shape-shifted into her. With the real thing right in front of her, her disguise was perfect. Then she'd thrown off the invisibility cloak and shown herself to Winterprison.
The events with Calamity Mary had suggested Winterprison would protect Sister Nana no matter what. But if she suddenly had two people to protect, and one even attacked her, surely Winterprison would be too confused to react.
And up until the stabbing, things had worked out perfectly. But then Yunael lost her life in the counterattack, and Sister Nana ran away so quickly, no one spotted her. It was hardly a success.
Minael wailed and clung to the body of a girl about university age. This was Yunael's real form. Tama sobbed next to her, too.
"Yuna... Yuna saved me in the end, didn't she?"
"Mm-hmm. Yeah."
"Yuna... Yuna..."
"Mm..."
Swim Swim's powerlessness weighed painfully on her shoulders. Ruler would have done better. Swim Swim still couldn't measure up. She had to learn from this mistake for next time.
Alcohol didn't serve as a cure-all for long. For one, it was expensive. Two, there were the hangovers. Three, her husband's complaints. Thanks to that, alcohol never really became that magic medicine.
Eventually, her daughter became an outlet for her frustrations. Under the pretext of "discipline," she kicked her, beat her, burned her with cigarettes, and starved her. When she was drunk, the abuse became a wonderful source of stress relief, until her worthless husband ran away with the victim.
She'd enjoyed bullying her daughter because of her own weakness. The weak could only bully the weaker, after all, and her daughter sufficed for that. But it was a stopgap for what she really wanted. Her true wish was to torment someone stronger. The desperate pleas of a swaggering gangster gratified her in a way her daughter never could have.
The strong, the self-important, the beautiful, the clever, the confident—the expressions of the esteemed when they fell to their knees at unstoppable violence! With pleasure like that, she'd never need to touch alcohol again.
A small compact rested on her ebony desk. The little mirror reflected a woman in her thirties, nearly forty. She was the definition of a middle-aged woman past her prime. A wide smile spread across her face.
She put her hands to her cheeks and shouted, "Calamity Miracle Kuru Kururin! Transform into the magical gunslinger, Calamity Mary!"
Gone was the tired woman in the mirror. Now she had a holster strapped to her left thigh, a sheriff's badge on her breast, a tiny mole under her left eye, thick blond hair extending down to her hips from underneath her ten-gallon hat, voluptuous breasts barely covered by a bikini-style top, a miniskirt exposing practically everything, soft thighs, long legs, and spurred cowboy boots. Popping her shapely hips to one side, she struck a pose. In the mirror now was a beautiful creature.
There was no need to chant or pose while transforming, but in all the anime Calamity Mary had watched as a child, none of the girls could transform without it. Thus, she should do the same. There was no deeper meaning behind it.
Calamity Mary understood her role. She was happy with it. It meant she could shame magical girls, the strongest and most honorable creatures in existence, and crush them underfoot. To her gun belt she attached the four-dimensional bag, containing all kinds of important tools.
Ten minutes had passed since she left the club. She'd ordered Fav to send for Ripple, then made her way to Ripple's designated neighborhood, Nakayado, to meet her. It was currently 10:45 PM. It was almost time.
Japan National Route X, which the locals called "High Road," passed through Nakayado. Like its nickname indicated, the road stood thirty feet above the ground. Traffic law enforcement here was relatively lenient for a public highway, and this, combined with the sparse traffic outside of the New Year's rush, meant that vehicles often raced by at speeds far above the speed limit.
From her perch atop the tallest hotel in the city, the Hotel Priestess, Calamity Mary watched the road. The cold wind whipped around her cheeks, threatening to blow away her ten-gallon hat, so she pulled it down tighter. Strong winds made sniping difficult, but with Calamity Mary's magic, a regular weapon became an enchanted weapon. Its power, bullet speed, accuracy, and range were all optimal. No amount of wind would matter. The guns also became easier to handle and maintain. Calamity Mary withdrew one of them from her four-dimensional bag.
It was the Dragunov, a sniper rifle developed by Soviet Russia. While its slim design made it easier to transport, the extra kick made it more difficult to actually use. But none of this mattered to someone with her powers. Calamity Mary held the rifle lazily and squeezed the trigger. With semi-auto mode off, she fired bullet after bullet in rapid succession, but each one found its mark in a car. The Dragunov, designed for urban warfare, was sold for its ability for quick fire.
An explosion, then a fiery plume. One by one, she destroyed the cars on High Road. A flaming tire rolled across the road. When the vehicles erupted into flames, the ones behind them slammed into the blazing wreckage, and so did the ones behind them. The Dragunov picked off the vehicles lucky enough to escape the pileup. The night road was as bright as day.
One man managed to stop his car and jump out in a panic, and she shot him for sport. She thought his guts would explode all over the asphalt, but the truth was far harsher. He didn't just explode—he was erased. Everything above the kneecaps gone without a trace.
A sniper rifle was too powerful as an antipersonnel weapon. It was no fun. Cars were better game than people.
And magical girls were even better.
If she took Ripple on directly, Top Speed would interfere. And if Top Speed fled at full speed, Mary would have no way to catch up. If she wanted to fight Ripple, she had to give her a reason. A noble do-gooder would show up to defeat the evil woman destroying her city and its innocent civilians.
Angering Ripple also made her happy. Two birds, one stone. And after she'd slaughtered Ripple, the town would be crawling with people looking for help—the perfect chance to earn candy. Calamity Mary pulled the trigger until the magazine was empty, destroying everything on the highway.
This was all because of one mistake. If Ripple had just bowed her head the first time they'd met, she would have killed her and that would have been the end of it. But she hadn't, and now Calamity Mary was obsessed. It was all Ripple's fault.
Calamity Mary could not abide those who did not fear her.
|
A magical phone displayed the flaming highway.
"This is bad... We have to help!"
"I'll follow you, Snow White."
"R-right! Let's go together!"
A magical phone displayed the flaming highway.
"Wh-wh-what do we do? We have to help!"
"Let the other magical girls handle this."
"Huh? But..."
"We'll attack anyone who tries to help. Tama, Minael, hurry and get ready."
"Huh? Huh? Huh?"
A magical phone displayed the flaming highway.
"What's this? Master, you're not going, pon? You should be able to have lots of fun if you do, pon."
"Perhaps."
"You're hard to understand, pon."
"That's enough of that. More importantly, is it true that Winterprison is dead? Who killed her?"
"You should probably consider your future and not some dead rival, pon."
"I just want to know."
The moment she spotted the figure aiming a gun at the highway, her brain exploded with rage. Springing off the broomstick, she dived. Top Speed shouted something, but she couldn't hear it.
"Took you long enough, little girl."
Discarding the rifle, Calamity Mary pulled the pistol from her hip holster and aimed at Ripple as she landed. Silhouetted against the flames of the highway, her eyes were unreadable in the shadows, but her mouth was another story. White teeth flashed in the darkness.
A bullet shot from the pistol. Holding her blade in typical ninja fashion, Ripple deflected it into the sky. Calamity Mary fired again, but she repelled that as well. Boiling rage had completely replaced her fear of the firearm.
Calamity Mary pulled out another pistol with her left hand. With dual weapons, she unleashed a barrage of bullets. They all zipped past Ripple—or maybe it was more accurate to say she dodged them. The slugs were heavy and fast, but she could read their trajectory. And in her hands, a sword was faster.
Tossing away her pistols, Calamity Mary stuck her hand into the bag hanging from her hip. Ripple dashed forward and slashed as she passed, aiming for the carotid artery.
Sparks flew. Her blade screeched against something steel. Ripple turned around and adjusted her stance. Underneath her armpit, Calamity Mary was holding an automatic rifle about a yard long with a foot-long bayonet.
That was what her blade had struck.
"I guess a Tokarev isn't enough to take out a little girl of your caliber."
Ripple leaped and slashed at her side, but the bayonet rebuffed her blade again. She'd been able to cut through road signs and masses of concrete with no problem, but Calamity Mary's bayonet was a different story. Was she also reinforcing it with magic?
So what if she is?
Tensing her legs, Ripple swung at her torso with all the speed she could muster. Blocked. She shifted her weight and followed up with a stab. Blocked again. Jumping back, she threw three shuriken, but the bayonet denied them all. She feinted to the side and slipped in close to her opponent's breast. The moment she tried to stab between her ribs, she felt intense heat on her face and sailed backward. The butt of the automatic rifle had connected with her face. She rolled to avoid the subsequent fire and, blood streaming from her nose, adjusted her stance again to close the gap quickly.
It was about thirty feet to her target. She traced an arc to the right. One, two, three steps—then a distinctive click came from below. Ripple froze. Upon close inspection, the concrete block under her foot was slightly sunken. As she realized exactly what she'd stepped on, a chill ran up her spine.
"Ha-ha-ha... Hya-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha!"
Calamity Mary burst into laughter.
"Go ahead and move your foot, little girl! You'll be in everyone's way if you stand there forever! Die and take the land mine with you!"
The automatic rifle spit a burst of flame. Ripple couldn't lift her right foot or the mine would explode. No normal antipersonnel weapon could hurt a magical girl, but this was a magical trap set by Calamity Mary.
Ripple could no longer move, but bullets rushed at her just the same. She drew the weapon hidden up her sleeve—a ninja blade half the size of her regular one, about the size of a short samurai sword but much better suited to blocking than a full-length blade. Using both swords, she deflected the hail of bullets. Eventually, the automatic rifle ran out of ammo before it could fatally wound her. Calamity Mary pulled the trigger, but only clicks came out.
She chucked the automatic rifle aside.
"Do not go against me."
She shoved her hand into the bag again and pulled out eight items.
"Do not give me trouble."
Attached to each dark green spheroid was a pin. Calamity Mary hooked her finger around it, pulled, and tossed the object at Ripple.
"Do not piss me off."
Calamity Mary flipped over the railing. A fall from the roof of a building was no problem for a magical girl. But for Ripple, there was no escape. If she moved her foot the mine would go off, but if she waited the grenades would explode.
The air boomed.
Something slammed into her, and suddenly she was being pulled through the air. The impact to her side was enough to break her hip, or so it felt. Flames licked at her hair, singeing the ends. Ripple soared through the sky, leaving behind eight grenades and one land mine.
"Enough with the crazy stunts!"
Ripple twisted herself to see the person holding her up, and there was Top Speed, angrier than a hornet's nest.
She'd flown fast as she could, nabbing Ripple from the side just before the grenades exploded. This simultaneously removed Ripple's foot from the mine and set it off, but Rapid Swallow was faster than the explosion. In the end, Ripple had escaped with only a few scorched hairs.
Ripple grabbed Top Speed's shoulder, flipped onto the broomstick, and plopped into the rear seat. That moment, she spotted the brilliant crescent moon in the night sky. Her mind flashed back to Calamity Mary's smile, glinting white, and she ground her teeth in frustration.
"We have to get rid of her."
"Don't talk like a gangster, yo. We should withdraw."
"Do you know why she was terrorizing the highway? Because she wanted to make me mad. Because she knows I care for this town. She'll continue to hunt here until I die or something stops her. I—"
She took a breath. Why did Ripple want to fight? Because she was angry. Pissed. When Ripple had been Kano Sazanami, most of her motivation had come from anger. Why was she angry now? Was it because of Calamity Mary?
Ripple had always thought the laid-back nature of Nakayado clashed with her own personality. But just thinking about what had happened to her town made her insides boil.
"I don't want to save the world, and I don't even think I can. But... I wouldn't be a magical girl if I turned tail and ran from the people of Nakayado. Even passing strangers."
Ripple squeezed her arm around Top Speed's waist. The heroines she'd idealized long ago surfaced in her mind.
"I am a magical girl."
Top Speed seemed to be at a loss for words. After a while, she let out a breath. This wasn't a sigh or a simple exhalation, though.
"Oh yeah?"
She dipped her chin and pulled down the edge of her triangle hat.
"Well, aren't you proud of yourself."
The broomstick slowed, until finally it stopped.
"I've never seen ya talk so much before," she said, grinning wryly. "But you missed something."
She spun 180 degrees in the air. Ripple held tightly to Top Speed's waist to keep from falling off, but Top Speed didn't sway in the slightest.
"I'm a magical girl, too, ya know."
Boosters extended from either side of the broomstick. Flames ignited within, and they took off like a rocket. The loud flapping of Top Speed's coat in the wind and their own screeching through the air threatened to destroy Ripple's ears. Not even the sound of the streamlined windshield cutting through the air could catch up. Atop the broom, the girls lay as low as possible to hide behind the barrier.
Thanks to her magically enhanced eyes, Ripple spotted the Hotel Priestess. The roof was gone without a trace, exposing the top floor. Smoke rose from fires here and there. Steel beams jutted out at every angle, and debris covered the floor. She prayed no one had been staying there.
But the sight of her enemy erased all noble prayers from her mind and sent her rage into overdrive. There she stood against one of the ruined hotel walls, watching them. Calamity Mary. Dual-wielding automatic rifles, she opened fire in their direction.
Ripple's magically enhanced eyes could pinpoint each bullet as it traveled through the air, but most of them ended up ricocheting off the windshield. The few that didn't missed by a wide margin and disappeared behind them. Rapid Swallow's windshield possessed formidable strength, able to withstand even supersonic speeds. Calamity Mary seemed to shout something, but the wind carried her voice away, so Ripple had no idea what it was.
The broom made a beeline for Calamity Mary.
It broke through walls and ripped up the floor. The shock wave behind them crossed the entire floor, picking up flames, smoke, carpets, beds, and heavy chunks of rubble in its wake. Six miles away from the hotel, they turned. Then the sound caught up with them, and the mountain of rubble collected by the shock wave dropped out of the sky. A great I-shaped scar was now carved across the entire top floor of the hotel.
Ripple saw everything. Calamity Mary had escaped. She had shot at them until the very last second, but when her bullets couldn't harm Rapid Swallow's armor, she'd turned to the side and dived into the pile of rubble.
Heavy, sticky bloodlust blacker than night coiled around the hotel. It was so thick, they could almost see it. The pile of rubble collapsed, and a silhouette rose from the debris.
"She's alive."
"Looks like..."
"All right, I'm going in for another pass, damn it! Hold on tight!"
Top Speed reignited the boosters, and the armored broomstick rocketed toward Calamity Mary on the hotel. Calamity Mary reached into her bag and pulled out a gun. This was no pistol, nor an automatic rifle—was it a sniper rifle? The barrel was long, about three feet by itself... maybe a little over four feet in total. She still has more?
Calamity Mary aimed at them, and her lips twisted. She was smiling. A shiver ran up Ripple's spine, just like when she'd stepped on the land mine.
"Dodge!"
She shouted and lunged forward, grabbing Top Speed's triangle hat and shoving her down with all her might. Rapid Swallow's trajectory jerked to the lower right. The boosters reversed, pumping flame in the opposite direction, but it was too late. They smashed through the hotel wall and floor, and the sudden change in momentum sent them weaving back and forth like a squirming snake until they landed on an office building a few miles away.
The office building was around the same height as Hotel Priestess. And they hadn't so much landed as crashed straight through the roof and destroyed it. Shattered concrete flew everywhere, and clouds of fine glass hung in the air.
"What the hell was that for?"
Top Speed's anger was natural, but Ripple pointed at the top of the windshield.
"Look..."
"Huh?"
The upper section of the windshield was twisted and ripped away. Thousands of bullets and pieces of concrete traveling at supersonic speeds hadn't even scratched it, but now it was beyond repair.
"What happened?"
"That last bullet grazed it..."
Top Speed hadn't seen it because Ripple had shoved her head down. The bullet from Calamity Mary's sniper rifle should have hit the windshield dead-on, but since they had dodged out of the way, it only grazed the top. Yet that was all it took to rip their protection from the broomstick. A direct hit would have ripped through both of the girls.
"How? Her little peashooter wasn't even scratching it earlier!"
"She changed guns..."
That last bullet was clearly faster than the rest. If they hadn't changed direction before she pulled the trigger, they would never have been able to dodge it. It would have scored a bull's-eye, blowing them to smithereens.
Top Speed used Rapid Swallow to stand. Dusting herself off, she placed her triangle hat back on her head and glared angrily toward Hotel Priestess.
"Damn it! Let's go in for another run!"
"If we do the same thing... she'll just shoot us down and kill us."
"So what do we do? I can't do anything except attack head-on!"
"That's all I can do, too..."
"Then what?"
Ripple's direct assault on Calamity Mary had nearly gotten her blown up.
Top Speed's direct assault had nearly gotten them shot out of the sky.
One-on-one, they stood no chance against her. Luck was the only reason they were alive. If they repeated their approach, they'd certainly die this time.
"Next time..."
"Next time?"
"We should take her head-on anyway..."
Calamity Mary's magic was the ability to imbue weapons with power, so she could not create weapons from nothing. She required premade weapons to work her magic. The Dragunov, the Tokarev, the AK, and this KSVK anti-materiel sniper rifle—all of Russian or Soviet Russian make—created an odd contrast with her Wild West gunslinger motif, however.
She would have liked to use only American models, but the South American drug cartels sold mainly black market models. She hadn't exactly been overjoyed when she'd first received them, but now she loved each and every one. Calamity Mary slid her tongue along the muzzle brake. It tasted of iron.
The shot from the KSVK had only grazed the enemy. A narrow miss, but they must have sustained some damage regardless. Even through her rage, she knew her baby's firepower.
Ripple and Top Speed must have learned by now that challenging her head-on without a plan would only lead to their deaths, so what would they do next? People who couldn't win one-on-one usually relied on the advantage of numbers. Most likely, Top Speed would come from the front. But after witnessing the power of the KSVK, she would charge without much speed or power. That would just be the distraction. Ripple would strike from the left, the right, or behind—some angle different from Top Speed's. That would be the real attack. If she could predict that, she could deal with them.
The wide roof was no longer flat. Her battlefield was now covered in rubble. Setting traps was a simple matter. She had had plenty of time earlier, after Top Speed's rescue.
There was no way for Ripple to come straight at Calamity Mary, regardless of the direction she chose. She'd laid down piano wire around the roof and even set up a trap with wire and stun grenades in the room below. If the worst happened and she decided to attack from below, it'd be no problem at all.
Ripple's only opening was from above, but she couldn't fly. Without Top Speed's help it would be impossible, and if Top Speed helped her they couldn't try the pincer attack. She'd easily vaporize them with her KSVK.
Seventy degrees to her right, a window broke in the five-story building—a department store, if memory served—and something large crept out. Calamity Mary had of course noticed, her senses heightened and attention focused, but she was also confused. Thing was the only word she could use to describe whatever had climbed out. Seeing it, she couldn't tell what it was. By the time she realized the black, fifteen-square-foot wall was a fire door, she'd pulled the trigger. The fire door blew away, and the flying broomstick lurking behind it zoomed off into the building's shadow.
What was that?
The fire door, most likely from inside the department store, had been mounted on the front of the broomstick. They seemed to be using it as a shield or screen of some kind, but would it do any good? Another fire door popped up in a different window and headed straight for her.
Calamity Mary licked her lips, though they weren't dry. In fact, they glistened with moisture. The moment her tongue poked out of her mouth, saliva dripped from the corner of her lips. She did nothing to stop it.
The fire door was heading straight for her. Last time, she'd been confused and had shot without thinking, but this time was different. She'd fire once she had a clear view of the target.
Come on, little girl.
Come from whatever direction you want.
Then...
Die.
The bullet hit the instant she pulled the trigger. The speed of the bullet far surpassed any magical girl's reflexes. She couldn't have dodged.
The fire door shattered and fell to the ground below. Glee spread across Calamity Mary's face. Then her expression twisted. Not with joy—with bewilderment. The door had exploded, but there was no corpse, not even the remains of the broomstick. There was nothing but the fire door.
The hairs on the back of her neck stood up. She could sense a piercing intent to kill. Tossing aside the KSVK, she pulled the Tokarev from its holster.
She'd already calculated every possible route of attack in case of a diversion—left, right, behind, and below. Even if she was caught unawares, her quick shooting would handle the rest.
She pointed the Tokarev toward the murderous aura she'd sensed—above her. The crescent moon. The starry sky. Wait, were there that many stars before? Not in the middle of town, at least. Flying toward her were thousands of... shuriken? No, too many. The projectiles glittering under the moonlight were not shuriken—but shards of glass. These buildings were full of it.
High above, Top Speed and Ripple gazed down at her from atop the broomstick.
Damn them!
She squeezed three shots off but couldn't manage a fourth. She swiped at the shards with her pistol, and that was it. Glass pierced her shoulder and lower neck, and spinning shuriken ripped through her flesh. A knife sank deep into her forehead and threw her head back, bending her whole body backward.
Don't look down on me! Calamity Mary thought just before she died.
Calamity Mary toppled back, her body riddled with shuriken, knives, and shards of glass. Her ten-gallon hat floated through the air, landing on its owner's breast.
Ripple let out the breath she'd been holding. Pain spread like fire throughout her body. She hadn't had the time to feel it before, but now it hit her full force. She could feel her consciousness fading.
The fire doors had been Ripple's work. By throwing them with her magic, she knew they were sure to fly in a straight line toward Calamity Mary. From the front, the second had looked the same as the first. The point was to make Calamity Mary think Ripple was still using the door as a shield. The moment the violent gunslinger shot at the door, it created an opening for Top Speed and Ripple to attack from Rapid Swallow above.
Once she saw out of the corner of her eye that Calamity Mary had detransformed, Ripple collapsed. It felt like she might stop breathing altogether.
"Nice job, partner."
She raised her head. There was Top Speed, extending her right hand to Ripple as she gasped on the ground. She grabbed it.
"You look like someone used you for target practice. Everything okay?"
"Somehow..."
She pulled the other girl's hand, but for some reason Top Speed collapsed onto her, and Ripple ended up supporting her instead. Before she could ask what was wrong, she noticed the silhouette behind Top Speed.
There stood a girl about high school age, sporting a white school swimsuit and wielding a giant pole arm–hatchet hybrid. The ridiculous outfit and obviously aggressive stance made her intentions clear. Ripple rolled, still holding Top Speed. The massive weapon cut through the floor like a hot knife through butter and scooped up after her. However, Ripple had already sprung into a crouch and whipped out her sword. She parried, and the weapon skipped away to the side. She followed with an immediate slash back at its wielder's left thigh and right wrist.
She should have seriously wounded her, but the girl hardly reacted and continued to swing her weapon as if she didn't notice. Ripple retreated a step. Not a drop of blood appeared where she'd struck.
Magic...?
Dodging a swipe along the ground, Ripple drew her short sword and hurled it. The sword nailed the girl's foot to the hotel floor, but then slipped right out. Still no blood. In fact, she didn't seem to be a wounded at all.
She attacked like a bladed whirlwind, striking with pinpoint accuracy at her enemy's vitals. The girl wasn't even trying to dodge. Direct hits had no impact. Everything felt like whiffs. Her opponent's attacks were heavy and simple. Ripple had no trouble dodging them, but none of her own attacks were finding purchase.
The swimsuit-clad girl retreated, as if realizing they were at a stalemate, and the giant weapon vanished. Then she sank into the hotel floor—first her ankles, then her calves, thighs, and hips, until even her head had vanished.
Ripple clicked her tongue. Her attacks hadn't missed—they'd passed through her. The girl was definitely using some kind of magic. And as long as she couldn't get around that, Ripple could never win with her abilities.
As the futility of the situation sank in, exhaustion settled heavily on her shoulders. There was nothing to gain from fighting anymore. They'd simply lose. If the girl had retreated, that was fine, but that was an optimistic assumption. It was smarter to assume she was hiding, waiting to strike again, and she had to act accordingly.
Ripple spun around to grab Top Speed and beat a hasty retreat. Suddenly, she stopped.
The one lying facedown on the floor was supposed to be Top Speed. There she was, with her coat declaring "No Gratuitous Opinions" draped across her like a blanket. But the girl wasn't Top Speed. The coat was there, but the triangle hat and witch clothes were gone.
Staggering, Ripple made her way over and kneeled next to the human lying there. She appeared to be in her late teens with braided chestnut hair. A deep wound crossed from her shoulder to her breast, the worst of the bleeding already past. Her eyes were closed, and her expression was so peaceful she might have been sleeping.
Ripple took the girl's hand in her shaking one. It was cold.
The girl was wearing a maternity dress. Her belly was quite large.
Top Speed had always said she needed six more months to live. Ripple bit her lip. Hard. The taste of iron filled her mouth, and blood dripped out, but she didn't release the pressure.
Her words echoed endlessly, deep in Ripple's heart.
Why? Why? Why? Why? Why?
That night, Ripple lost her one and only friend.
The moment the angel descended, Snow White breathed a sigh of relief. Even in these extraordinary circumstances that forced them to fight one another, magical girls rushed to help when disaster struck, regardless of faction. That was how magical girls should be. That was what this was all about.
The Peaky Angels had attacked her and La Pucelle on the steel tower in Kubegahama, and she still remembered them with fear. But if this one wanted to help save lives, then she had to forget the past and assist her. She had to be careful to keep her smile natural, so as not to put her on guard.
As she welcomed the newcomer with the warmest smile she could muster, Hardgore Alice tackled her and sent her rolling across the pavement. Surprised and confused, she stood up and frantically tried to piece together what had happened, only to find Hardgore Alice already in heated battle with the angel.
The angel's expression was not normal. Her lips formed a thin line, her face was pale, her brows were knit, and she was moaning. Hardgore Alice hurled her plush animal onto the road, unceremoniously yanked a traffic sign out of the ground, raised it above her head, and swung. The angel maintained her distance.
What's going on? Snow White wondered. A giant pileup had occurred on the highway, and the casualties were sure to be great. There was so much for the magical girls to do. Yet the angel had attacked her without a thought to the flaming vehicles, the toppled truck, and the countless injured.
Snow White quivered with anger, not fear. She was indignant that this girl could be so selfish and think nothing of others' lives. Her magic let her read the minds of people in trouble to figure out what was wrong, and she could hear countless voices. She knew exactly where each one was, too. It was unbelievable that someone with their powers could just ignore them to fight. Maybe she was the only one who could hear, but it was obvious that people needed help. Could they not see, or did they not care?
The voices in her head were increasing and intensifying. Suddenly, Snow White noticed something. A strange voice was mixed among the cries for help.
Oh no... What do I do?
The source was thirty feet behind her. She looked, but there was no one there.
Swim said to attack them.
But shouldn't I be helping with the accident?
Still, Swim did say...
Maybe I should just take her out, then go help...
"Is someone there?"
Huh? Can she see me? That's not good... How can she see me?
"Are you a magical girl, too?"
The voice stopped.
"Sorry! She found me!"
A dog-eared girl suddenly appeared out of nowhere.
"What are you doing? The plan was for me to act as a distraction while you took her out! You let her find you! Idiot! Stupid dog! Useless!"
The angel lashed out, frantically dodging the road sign.
"If you're not going to use it, then give it to me!" she spat. She spiraled through the air, snatched a transparent cloak from the other girl, tossed it over herself, and disappeared. The dog-eared girl watched her go with tears in her eyes. Snow White and Hardgore Alice, still brandishing the road sign, turned to face her, and she let out a noise that was part shout, part scream, and part cry. She swiped at the ground below her, and a hole a few feet wide opened up below. She dropped into it and disappeared.
Hardgore Alice had served as both her reinforcements and her savior that night. The angel was gone, and the dog-eared girl had turned tail. Snow White limply dropped her raised fist.
"... Let's go help some people, even if it's just us."
"Yes. Understood."
Hardgore Alice set off in search of her rabbit plush, found it in the shadow of some rubble, and picked it up. With her rabbit in her right hand and the street sign slung across her shoulder, she followed after Snow White.
She shut off the TV. The accident on National Route X showed how gruesome things had truly become, but she felt no urge to rush over. If she went, she could do many things to help. But there was nothing she wanted to do.
Sister Nana... Nana Habutae hadn't moved from her bed since she had fled Ouketsuji.
Shizuku Ashu. Weiss Winterprison.
Still on her belly, Nana moved only her face to the side. In front of her was the corkboard displaying the smiling photos of Sister Nana and Winterprison—of Nana Habutae and Shizuku Ashu. Shizuku had always been so kind. Cleaning, laundry, she did it all. She'd helped Nana with a report for university, and even called her cute.
Nana knew her outward appearance was only temporary. People had always called her cute to make fun of her, or to express some sense of superiority, but never had anyone truly meant it. But Winterprison wasn't like them. Whatever it was she'd liked about Nana, her claims that it was "love" didn't seem fake, at least. Maybe she just had bad taste.
Sister Nana had the ability to draw out the power of other magical girls. With her magic, Winterprison became stronger.
She'd cared about Nana quite a bit, but how did Nana feel? No, Nana didn't return the feeling. She loved Winterprison. She'd loved her, but not really cared about her. After all, she'd led her to her death. She was a siren, leading her into danger.
Winterprison...
No matter how many times she thought about it, she arrived at the same conclusion. She was tired of thinking. Had it been hours, or had it been days? Her sense of time was long gone, and she couldn't tell. Nana got up from the bed. Her joints groaned.
Nana was neither kind nor pure. She was conniving when it came to getting what she wanted, and only ever acted with her own best interests in mind. She was neither kind nor pure, but wanted to be seen as such by others. By Winterprison. By her dream prince.
The long scarf hanging from the chair must have been Shizuku's. She doubted it was part of Winterprison's magical-girl outfit. Nana picked up the scarf and chair.
If she'd told Winterprison that she wanted to die as a kind, pure heroine while protecting her prince, what would she have thought? Examining herself now, she could only conclude that was what she had wished for. A sense of loss overtook her sadness.
Placing the chair under the curtain rail, she stood on top of it. She tied the scarf to the rail, then formed a loop.
She had failed to become the heroine who died to save her prince.
She could have become a heroine that avenged her prince. If she'd teamed up with Snow White and Hardgore Alice, she could have magnified their power to assist the suffering people in that giant pileup. But she didn't care.
She slipped the looped scarf around her neck.
She'd failed to save her prince and die, and she didn't want to fight to avenge her prince. The only option left was to follow her prince in death.
Had Winterprison realized Sister Nana's feelings? She'd probably foreseen that Sister Nana would abandon her to escape. Yet still she'd fought and died to protect her.
Sister Nana could never do the same.
And with that impassable rift between them weighing on her mind, Nana kicked the chair out from under her.
|
[ CHAT #5 ]
> So, uh, about this week's cuts, pon
> There are a lot more than usual, pon
> Please pay attention so you don't miss any, pon
> Weiss Winterprison
> Calamity Mary
> Sister Nana
> Top Speed
> Yunael
> The above have all been cut, pon
> The remaining magical girls are:
> Swim Swim
> Snow White
> Tama
> Hardgore Alice
> Minael
> Musician of the Forest, Cranberry
> Ripple
> Seven, in total
> Ohhh! We did it! We're finally below the initially proposed eight girls! Wonderful, pon!
> But unfortunately... this isn't the end, pon
> Those items you all received
> have depleted our stores of mana again, pon
> My, what a miscalculation, pon
> So Fav must apologize to all of you
> but the limit of eight is now down to four, pon
> Do your best to earn candy until there are only four left, pon
> Fav knows you all have what it takes to survive, pon
> Well, good-bye~
|
The chaos of Calamity Mary's attack was ultimately explained as an act of terrorism. No groups claimed responsibility for it, but it was the only justification the world might accept.
Snow White and Hardgore Alice worked themselves to the bone helping people, leaving far more than a few witnesses. Additionally, the many weapons Calamity Mary had left behind lent credence to the terrorism story. No one, at least publicly, suspected a magical girl to be the perpetrator, partly because no one could imagine a lovely girl with superpowers as a gun-wielding soldier. Their existence was hardly public knowledge, despite the number of witness reports. Of course, the syndicate that had supported Calamity Mary knew who was behind the attack, but they kept silent. Most likely they didn't spare a thought for what a magical girl was supposed to be. They were just relieved to be free of the nuke waiting to go off.
"My, what an exhausting morning, pon."
The white section of the sphere's body was dull, and the butterfly wing beat weakly. At least, so it seemed.
"They're calling it a scam, a hoax, fraud, lies, and all sorts of things, pon. Maybe it was too much to hope they'd believe we had to cut down to four just because we added the items, pon."
"If they don't believe you, then so be it."
"Master."
"Yes?"
"You don't think it's okay for Fav to suffer just because it's Fav, do you, pon?"
"It's your job to be hated."
Lying on the bed, Cranberry put a hand to her cheek.
"So please, let them hate you. I have a lot to think about in the meantime."
Several of their number had already died: Nemurin, Ruler, La Pucelle, Magicaloid 44, Weiss Winterprison, Sister Nana, Yunael, Calamity Mary, and Top Speed. It was a shame she wouldn't get a rematch against Winterprison. She'd been so sure Winterprison would be the last one alive.
The game had passed its halfway point, and the most qualified contender, Winterprison, was out. Of those left, maybe Swim Swim or Ripple were most capable. Or perhaps Hardgore Alice. Cranberry preferred interesting opponents.
"Oh, one more thing."
"What is it?"
"Fav was going to make a progress report. Did you have anything specific to add, pon?"
The Magical Kingdom would periodically hold selection tests in order to find new blood. Capable candidates were chosen to compete, and one would be chosen to join their ranks.
As per custom, the selection test curators were called "masters." After the Magical Kingdom dispatched the necessary members, they would adopt the role of adviser and seek out humans from the land the test was being held in, offer words of wisdom, and keep the test proceeding smoothly. Without a master to handle this role, the selection test could not take place.
The special phones provided to masters came preinstalled with various applications not found on normal magical phones in order to make the test as smooth as possible. Fav, who resided inside this supervisor phone, would obtain whatever items the master required. Fav was also an impish creature, and many of the apps he installed were alarming.
"Fill out the report as you see fit."
"Yes, yes."
Cranberry wondered if Fav would actually do as she said. The idea was to convince the Magical Kingdom that they were carrying out a perfectly normal personnel training session. It had to present their bloodstained death match as a test of peaceful, goody-two-shoes girls.
The Magical Kingdom sought talented individuals, but they would not accept applicant deaths in the name of this pursuit. They claimed it was wrong to disrupt other realms for their own gain.
Of all the idiotic ideas. Cranberry spat.
Reaching out to other realms for talent was a disruption in and of itself. All that crap about making the least possible disturbance was just their hubris talking. If they were going to come in and throw things out of balance anyway, then they might as well use everything at their disposal to achieve their goal. If they wanted talent, then they needed to purge the weak and pick from the strong.
An accident had occurred during the selection test that had made Cranberry a resident of the Magical Kingdom. One of the applicants had attempted to summon a demon in a basement, and it went berserk. By the time she'd subdued the demon, it had killed everyone except Cranberry: her fellow applicants, the supervisor who'd stepped in to help—twelve casualties in total. A great tragedy.
One by one, her classmates had been crushed, melted, mashed, and broken. Cranberry had been nine at the time, so it was a shocking experience for her, but the joy she'd experienced was even greater. Trading blows with violence incarnate, drooling with the elation of slaughter, firing off magic—then, when they were both at wits' end, emerging dominant over her opponent. Truly, that was the definition of a warrior of justice. In defeating powerful enemies, she found catharsis.
The demon purged, she'd stood there intoxicated. Ecstasy coursed through every fiber of her being. She bathed in the joy of overflowing blood until a hologram rose up from the supervisor's phone and asked, "How long are you going to keep standing there, pon?"
The real shock came when she heard it had all been because of an accident. The true selection process seemed so tepid, exasperating, and boring. The failures would laugh with embarrassment, and everyone would celebrate the winner together. But that wasn't how it should be, she thought. It was all wrong. They should be stealing irreplaceable treasures from one another, killing, being killed—and only by surviving to the end did the winner get chosen. That was how things should be.
When she told Fav this, he had answered, "Then you should become a master, pon." Taking his advice, she did just that. Fav admitted he was bored with the current system and eagerly looked forward to a more entertaining selection test under Cranberry's supervision.
She wondered if something inside her had broken during the accident. But it was of no concern to her. As a master, she could conduct the game as she saw fit. As long as the Magical Kingdom never caught wind, she could do as she pleased.
"I just wish I could have enjoyed this as a participant. C'mon, can't I get an invitation?" she muttered to herself.
Swim Swim pondered the situation.
The number of magical girls had been reduced to seven, yet they were given another quota. In order to ensure everyone in her group survived, three other girls would need to drop out of the race. Tama had come scurrying back after her skirmish with Snow White and Hardgore Alice, but Minael was still missing. She didn't seem to be dead, though.
Their ambush had failed because even though Minael had successfully distracted the enemy, Tama had been discovered while wearing the invisibility cloak. It must have been the work of magic.
That magic that let its user find people. That made the invisibility cloak utterly useless. It also meant Tama couldn't hide in a hole for a surprise attack, and if Swim Swim dived beneath the ground, she'd be found anyway. Snow White might even be able to sniff out Minael while she was transformed into an object. Ambushes had been extremely effective against people who believed in chivalry and fair fights, but Ruler had never cared for those things, so neither had Swim Swim. But if Snow White could sense them, that was that. It was a bad matchup.
In other words, they should avoid a battle with Snow White. Hardgore Alice seemed to be acting together with her, so they should stay away from her, too.
What about Ripple?
She had taken care of Top Speed by attacking from behind, but she'd had to let Ripple go after a head-on clash. The battle between Calamity Mary and Ripple had told Swim Swim that Ripple far outclassed her in reaction speed, agility, and quick thinking. This was why their fight had ended in a stalemate even though Swim Swim had rendered all of Ripple's attacks useless.
Tama and Minael could run and fly faster than Swim Swim, but in battle they were no quicker than her. Swim Swim might be safe, but they would most likely get killed before they could get an attack off. A successful ambush would mean victory, but if they failed, the damage would be enormous.
If she went after Ripple, it would be best to go alone.
The only one left was the Musician of the Forest, Cranberry.
There was no information on her.
And mystery was a sign there was great danger lurking in the shadows. But the reason she had no information on her was because Cranberry had abstained from fighting—had never even run into another magical girl by chance. If she was confident in her skills, wouldn't she have shown up for Calamity Mary's attack on National Route X? Her name, Musician of the Forest, also made it seem like she wasn't a fighter.
Compared to Snow White, who couldn't be ambushed, and Ripple, who was too fast to surprise, she seemed easiest to deal with.
They'd saved the energy pills because they had so few of them, but now seemed like a good time to test their effects. If they worked well, they would be useful in the fight against Ripple.
Tama was kneeling on the wooden floor, looking depressed, and Minael still hadn't come back.
Yunael's loss had hurt, but the remaining three had still made it into the final eight. Ruler would have kept them all alive, even once the limit had dropped to four. Swim Swim mulled over what Ruler would and wouldn't have done.
The sound of a door opening broke her concentration. There was Minael. She was panting, just like when Winterprison had killed Yunael. Tama screamed, but Minael ignored her.
"I know someone we can kill! We won't fail this time!"
Behind the back alleys of the Kubegahama street lined with fishing supply shops was a long stone staircase. During the day, it was a playground for children, but at night there was not a single streetlamp. Even the light from the stores that opened early and closed late couldn't reach that far. No one was foolish enough to climb those long stairs with only moon and starlight to rely on, so the area was naturally empty at night. Except for magical girls.
Snow White sat on the first stone step, staring at the pebbles at her feet. The incident on the highway had been no accident. It was obvious from the giant holes, exploded vehicles, and people reduced to simply feet that it wasn't a normal pileup. She had been too busy prying open car doors, lifting rubble off people, and carrying the victims to ambulances to even stop to think, but now that she did, she felt more and more that it could only have been the work of a being like her.
She was disappointed in her comrades who'd ignored people in need to fight instead, but she despaired that some had purposefully hurt and killed civilians.
And now they needed to reduce their numbers to four, not eight.
After letting her emotions take over and screaming at Fav, there was nothing left in her. Not anger, not fear. Nothing. Only weariness and exhaustion.
She'd spent her whole life thinking magical girls were supposed to help people in need, and Snow White's magic was for this express purpose. But maybe she was the crazy one, not everyone else. La Pucelle wasn't there anymore to cheer her up and tell her that wasn't true. Sister Nana and Winterprison had suggested they band together to overcome the danger, but they were gone, too. It was hilarious, really—she was like a character in an action movie trying to change it into a romcom on her own.
"I don't want to do anything..."
The sentiment bubbled up from deep, deep within her heart. She was tired. She'd stopped checking the aggregate sites for magical-girl sightings, grinning widely at her own section. She had missed just one day at first, which became three, until finally she had stopped altogether for who knows how long.
"I don't have to do anything, do I?" she asked, hoping to hear some kind words.
"Not true," came the swift denial.
"There's nothing I can do."
"Not true."
"There's nothing I want to do."
"Not true."
"Hey."
"Not true."
Snow White's toe kicked the pebble she'd been staring at. The flat little stone flew straight through the air and bounced off a utility pole.
"I don't want to do anything anymore!" Snow White screamed. Secretly, she was surprised she had the energy to scream. She stood and seized Hardgore Alice, sitting next to her, by the collar, hauling her up.
"There are no magical girls in this town anymore! I! Don't! Want! To! Do! Any! More!"
Hardgore Alice's apparent indifference to what had happened infuriated her. Her eyes were dead and colorless. Dark bags drooped beneath them. Her back was straight because Snow White was holding her up, but other than that she was the exact same as when they'd first met.
So much had happened. Was she not sad or depressed at all? Snow White was mad at her, but she was also angry with herself for yelling at her.
"There are still magical girls in this town."
"No, there aren't. They're all gone."
"Not true. They're still here."
"They're gone."
"Not true."
"They're gone!"
Snow White roughly let go, and Alice fell back onto the stone stairs. Snow White continued to shout.
"La Pucelle, Sister Nana, and Winterprison are gone! There are no magical girls left in this town! Just leave me alone!"
She took the rabbit's foot from her pocket and hurled it at Hardgore Alice, then turned and ran. She could sense a presence chasing after her, but she shouted, "Don't follow me!" and it disappeared. Alone, Snow White ran off into the darkness.
Ako Hatoda woke to rays of sunlight peeking in through a gap in the curtains and chirping swallows. Sitting up in bed, she reached next to her pillow for the white rabbit but came up empty. Ako was often careless with it, so it constantly went missing. Thinking she would look for it later, she decided to have breakfast.
Her uncle worked the night shift, so he was asleep. Her aunt had already eaten breakfast and headed out for the day. Ako spread some butter on her bread, then topped it with sweet red bean jam. She added ketchup to her fried egg and soy sauce to her cabbage salad. The bottle got jammed, so she opened the hole with a toothpick. She'd packed her schoolbag the night before, so it was ready. Her school uniform was on a hanger hooked on the wall. She checked the mirror. Her complexion was bad, but she seemed the same as ever. Picking a piece of cabbage off her cheek, she put it in her mouth.
Everything was normal as she shuffled into the crowd of students heading to school. Without any attempt to start conversation or even say hello, she blended into the mob.
Snow White had flung the rabbit's foot at her, saying to leave her alone. But she couldn't. Unlike Hardgore Alice, the other girl would easily die from being beheaded or impaled. Alice needed to be by Snow White's side and protect her. If not, Snow White needed to at least hold on to the rabbit's foot for emergencies.
She could ask Fav to contact her, but Snow White would probably ignore her. In that case, she needed to look for places to find her that night. She hung her head as she walked and thought, but at the sound of her name she looked up. That moment, she realized the name she'd heard was not Ako, but Hardgore Alice.
A few yards in front of her stood an oddly dressed figure. Now that Ako had reacted, the figure slowly approached. She didn't seem to be heading to school or work, and she stood out in the crowd. From the shadow of her hood, she watched Ako. She was coming closer. Beneath the coat was... a swimsuit? It seemed familiar.
Her eyes reminded Ako of her father's. The one time she'd gone to visit him in prison, he'd said nothing except "Don't ever come back," and then he'd returned to his cell. This girl's glittering eyes were the same. The same as the ones she saw in the mirror, so perfectly like her father's. They were the eyes of a killer.
She panicked. A murderer in a white school swimsuit and coat was walking toward her. There were so many people nearby. If she transformed, the other students from Ako's school would learn who she really was, and she'd lose her right to be a magical girl. In other words, she'd die. She had to find somewhere private to transform.
Ako did an about-face and took a step, searching for a secluded place, when something bumped into her from behind and knocked her off balance. There was nothing to grab on to, and she clawed at the air as she pitched forward and tumbled across the ground. She heard a scream. Her back burned. She hadn't been pushed—she'd been stabbed. Blood gushed from a deep wound. Was she going to die? She needed to get away from the crowd, and fast. There she could transform into Hardgore Alice, and she would heal in no time.
Crawling across the asphalt, she made it a full body length before her arms stopped working. She couldn't transform. If that was the case, then she at least needed to find Snow White.
The rabbit's foot in her hand trembled slightly.
Koyuki had just gotten up for the day when a faint voice reached her ears. She couldn't hear the cries for help without transforming into Snow White—that rule had never been broken before. Yet now she heard a voice.
It was small and weak, like it would disappear at any moment.
Still in the middle of changing, Koyuki raised her head and strained her ears. The words she'd shouted the day before haunted her. There are no more magical girls in this town. La Pucelle, Sister Nana, and Winterprison were all gone. Snow White had lost all hope for her fellow heroines.
Koyuki bit her lip. The voice was fading. Tossing aside the scarf she was holding, she leaped out the window, transformed into Snow White, and threaded her way through the mass of students making their way to school. She ignored the screams and shouts, focusing only on the direction of the voice. Kicking off the ground, she dashed up a utility pole and looked down from the power lines. A crowd was gathering—that must be it.
She ran across the wires and jumped down. A circle had formed in the crowd, and no one attempted to approach the girl lying in the center. She could hear the girl's voice.
Snow White...
She rushed over. The crowd was buzzing with excitement, but the only voice Snow White could hear was the girl's. It was small and weak, about to vanish, but still she heard it clearly.
As she approached, something seemed off to Snow White. How did this person know her name? Why was she calling her? All became clear a moment later.
Seeing the girl in white, the girl on the ground weakly extended her right hand. In it was a white ball of fluff.
I wanted to cheer you up.
If you're here...
If the one who saved me is here...
Then this town will always have one magical girl in it.
That's what I wanted to say.
But you ran off, and I couldn't...
So now...
Snow White held the girl's hand in both of hers. She was cold as death.
Snow White...
Please, at least take this...rabbit's foot...
The voice faded away.
Blood stained the girl's uniform, but her face was clean save for a few flecks of blood. Snow White remembered her. She was the middle schooler who'd lost her house key that night months ago.
She gripped her hand tightly.
She'd learned her lesson after the mistake with Winterprison.
The Peaky Angels had fatally injured her, but they lost Yunael in the counterattack. All because they had assumed she was dead and revealed themselves.
You couldn't let your guard down for a second—disguised, closing in, or stabbing. Gritting her teeth, Minael shared what she'd learned from Yunael's death.
After snatching the invisibility cloak from Tama during the battle at National Route X, Minael had used it to replace the white rabbit plush Hardgore Alice always carried around. After she tossed the cloak over the plush in the middle of the road, she'd transformed and swapped places. Hardgore Alice had picked her up and brought her home, and that was how Minael learned her true identity and address.
She carefully considered when they should strike. She'd learned from her mistake—she could only attack when there would be no risk of counterattack. Somewhere like in the middle of a giant crowd, where her target would be unable to transform or risk exposing herself.
Under her breath, Minael muttered over and over, "We should have done this in the first place. Then Yunael wouldn't have had to die."
|
Two days had passed since Hardgore Alice's death.
The Musician of the Forest, Cranberry, had accepted their offer to meet, but her tone had been so flippant that Swim Swim half suspected a trap. But if they could lay an ambush without being caught in one themselves, there was nothing to worry about.
Each of them received one energy pill. The effects only lasted for thirty minutes, so they would wait for Swim Swim's command before taking their pills and attacking Cranberry.
The meeting would take place on N City's second-tallest mountain after Mount Takanami, Mount Funaga. The entrance was a short ways from Koujimadai Station, following the road counterclockwise and up a hill. Unlike on Mount Takanami, there were no abandoned structures from failed development projects. There was equipment to turn it into a skiing area, and in the winter tourists from all over came to ski and snowboard.
But that was the mountain's southern side. On the northern side, there was no such thing as a tourism season. Trees and grass grew wild, untouched by man. The unpaved mountain road and various animal trails formed the only paths, such as they were. For a human, climbing the steep northern side required specialized knowledge. But for a magical girl, the ascent was a breeze.
Swim Swim's chosen meeting spot was a mountain cabin halfway up Mount Funaga. Thanks to a landslide after a great storm some years ago, the cabin was now half-buried in earth. No one would think to come here, no matter how eccentric or crazy they might be.
Minael and Tama moved to their places while Swim Swim waited for Cranberry inside the cabin alone. She could tell Minael was emotionally unstable, which was making Tama uneasy, too. But a leader must remain calm, and so Swim Swim was unaffected. She would need to figure out what to do if the others messed up their parts of the plan.
It was already late at night. From inside the cabin, she could hear the occasional hooting of owls and the endless buzzing of insects. Tired of the moldy air inside the broken-down cabin, she stuck her head out and checked the area, but all she could see were trees and flowering plants shivering in the wind.
To her powerful eyes, the mountainside at night was as clear as day. But it smelled damp compared to when they'd come during the day to scope out the place. Maybe the smell was different at night, or maybe rain clouds were approaching. Swim Swim pulled her head back in and waited some more. In a corner of the cabin was a spiderweb with no spider. Maybe it had gotten tired of waiting and moved on.
Her magical phone rang with an incoming call. She's almost here.
Cranberry would be there soon, and then they would take her out three-on-one. Soon. Until then, she could only wait. Swim Swim swallowed the energy medicine. The pill was large, but it went down easily. She could feel power welling within her.
What's taking so long? Did she need to wait even more? At that moment, she heard what sounded like a startled shriek, or a dog being kicked. It was Tama.
It had already begun. Swim Swim slipped into the ground with a soft splash.
Musician of the Forest, Cranberry, had excellent hearing far surpassing that of the average magical girl. She'd noticed the flapping of angels' wings before she even set foot on the mountain, and as she hiked upward, the footsteps, breathing, and rustling coming from her invisible stalker were all too obvious. The invisibility cloak was a powerful item, but it had many weaknesses. If the wearer had any personal troubles, Snow White could hear them, and it was useless against someone like Cranberry, who could track an opponent just by sound.
She picked up a fist-sized rock from the ground, rolled it around in her fingers, tossed it up and caught it about two times, then flung it at her stalker. The rock bounced off what was supposedly air, eliciting a doglike yelp. Something swiped at the ground, opening a hole a few feet wide. The magical girl fled into this endlessly extending tunnel.
Cranberry had thrown with the intent to kill, but it seemed this one was strong enough to escape with her life. She had most likely blocked it with her arm, but she still must have sustained heavy damage and lost her desire to fight. That would explain why she'd fled.
Creating a yard-wide hole and escaping underground—that was Tama's handiwork. Cranberry knew the extent of her abilities. Normally, her reflexes wouldn't be enough to react to a shot from Cranberry. Her reaction speed was being abnormally enhanced. Clearly, she was under the effects of the energy pills.
Cranberry could hear her traveling through the ground but made no attempt to follow. She had bigger fish to fry than a beaten dog. The flapping wings above her were gone, too. She proceeded cautiously, taking care to make her gait natural so she didn't seem wary. She avoided the great moss-covered trees, crushed the saplings under her feet, and climbed up the ivy on the cliffs. She was getting close. Her heart pounded with just the right level of tension. She'd need to account for the energy pill when attacking. Wading casually through the underbrush, she randomly plunged her right hand into a human-sized boulder, lifted it, then slammed it against the ground.
The pulse she'd heard from within the boulder stopped. The boulder faded, transforming into an angel with a great hole in her chest, then a young girl. Not a bad idea to transform into an object to ambush people, but it was pointless against Cranberry.
Winterprison's killers were such petty creatures, she thought with a sigh.
Five minutes after leaving the cabin, Swim Swim ran into Tama as she was escaping underground.
"I'm sorry! I'm sorry! She just... she just suddenly threw this rock, and my arm... my arm..."
Now was not the time to listen and sympathize. Ordering Tama to follow behind her, Swim Swim poked her head out of the ground and carefully searched for the enemy. Minael could be fighting at that very moment. If they could find wherever that was, they could trap Cranberry in a pincer attack.
It wasn't long before she found what looked like the remains of a fight. Several small trees were broken—more like they'd been trampled underfoot than hit in an attack. In other words, their enemy had almost definitely gone this way. As she turned to follow the trail, the ground shook.
What happened?
She ran, relying on sound to guide her, and came upon the corpse of a young girl. She looked just like Yunael after she'd detransformed, and it didn't take long for Swim Swim to piece together the situation. Tama dropped to her knees, holding her head, but Swim Swim grabbed her and forced her up. They couldn't grieve just yet.
Ruler would have yelled at her a bit, too. Swim Swim had opened her mouth to speak when she noticed a silhouette among the trees ten feet behind Tama. Colorful flowers not native to this area covered her. No, she was the Musician of the Forest, so that wasn't strange. Swim Swim leaned close to Tama's ear and spoke softly.
"Cranberry is behind you. Let's attack her from both sides."
She slipped beneath the ground.
Swim Swim was gone before Cranberry could attack. A wise choice. So far she'd killed three people, far and away the best score among the candidates. Plus, her magic was top-tier compared to the others'. Her ability to stay calm and efficient was also a good thing. She'd had an inkling before the game began that Swim Swim might be the last one alive.
Cranberry's greatest wish was to struggle and suffer against strong opponents, yet still manage to bring them to their knees. Victory would be hers, though just barely. Eliminating the powerful was in direct conflict with her goal of discovering the strongest candidate, but it was their fault for being so foolish as to challenge her without even realizing they were outmatched. If they couldn't figure out when someone could beat them, then the fools weren't worthy of being chosen.
Cranberry smiled bitterly.
No magical girl in N City could take her down in a fight to the death. Obviously, that included Swim Swim as well. While at first glance her ability to pass through matter seemed insurmountable, it did indeed have a weak point. Some things she couldn't pass through.
For example, light. The fact that she was visible meant she still reflected it. And there was one more thing she couldn't pass through.
Tama was approaching, moving from the shadow of one tree to another. Did she think she was hiding? Cranberry could even tell where Swim Swim was in the ground. She couldn't eliminate the sound of her pulse, after all, and a surprisingly calm heartbeat echoed from the earth.
While Tama circled around counterclockwise, Swim Swim moved clockwise, slowly spiraling toward Cranberry. Were they going to attack at the same time? The best course of action would be to take out one of them first—who should she prioritize? Between Tama and Swim Swim, the latter was more of a nuisance. Swim Swim was nearly thirty feet away, beneath the ground at a depth of... maybe a foot from the surface, measuring from her head.
Cranberry leaped back without warning. At the same time, the upper half of Swim Swim's body rose out of the ground, and a moment later Tama dashed forward. A great weapon materialized in Swim Swim's hands, and she swung as Cranberry stretched out her right hand.
Swim Swim could sink into matter while she talked, which meant sound did not go through her. She could pass through neither light nor sound.
So Cranberry attacked with sound.
The blow ripped up the surrounding grass and sent the trees behind her flying like toothpicks. The boom slammed into Swim Swim and flung her through the air. The destructive sound wave was focused in one direction, meaning its power was particularly concentrated. It packed quite a punch.
Memories of long ago surfaced. This was how she had repelled the demon in that basement. The pleasure she'd felt in that moment had never left her mind, and that was precisely what drove her now.
Swim Swim landed hard, and she could hear bones breaking. For a second, she thought she'd finished her with one hit, but the pulse and breathing hadn't failed. The girl was quite sturdy. As for Tama, she seemed to be watching from the side. Cranberry decided to prioritize Swim Swim and make sure she never took another breath.
Cranberry walked over to where Swim Swim lay and lifted her foot. She would crush her head and stamp out her existence. But she didn't. Swim Swim wasn't there. What lay there wasn't even a magical girl, but a young human in about first grade, possibly second.
She quickly realized this was Swim Swim's pre-transformation form. She must have lost consciousness from the impact and detransformed.
Cranberry was no shining example of humanity, and she knew it. She would kill anyone, magical girl and human alike, if need be. Whether they were in elementary school, kindergarten, or even a baby. Savior, lover, parent, sister, brother—she'd kill them all. Age didn't matter one bit.
But for one moment, not even a half of a half of a tenth of a second, she hesitated. She loved battles and cared immensely about the strength and abilities of her opponents, but gave no thought to their true forms. This had turned out to be a mistake. Cranberry wondered how such a young girl could be the rival she'd rated so highly.
She'd paused for only a moment, but her hesitation because of her victim's youth confused her. Her mind raced. As a result, she couldn't fully dodge a blow she might otherwise have laughed off—Tama, approaching from behind, slashed into her back.
In truth, only her jacket had been torn to shreds. Cranberry herself suffered nothing but minor abrasions. She wasn't even bleeding. The marks on her skin were too slight to be called welts. Naturally, she'd sustained no damage. At least, she wouldn't have—if she'd been attacked by anyone other than Tama.
Cranberry knew of Tama's magic. She could dig holes. If she dug in even the slightest, it would create a yard-wide hole. This included ground, concrete, steel, even humans—she could expand any opening she dug to three feet wide.
Regret was the first thing to pop into her head, then disbelief. Before she could think any more, Tama's magic activated. Cranberry's back twisted, then ripped apart. Her torso and head vanished; her arms and flowers dropped to the ground; her vines wilted; and her lower body fell back, spilling guts.
Covered from head to toe in Cranberry's blood, her knees buckled. Remembering the horrifying death she'd witnessed and how her own magic had caused it, Tama vomited up everything in her stomach. She nearly collapsed then and there, but she managed, just barely, to hold herself together. She still had things to do.
"Swim!"
Was it really Swim Swim? The girl lying there appeared to be in early elementary school.
"Swim! Swim!"
She cried out desperately, but to no avail. She wondered if she should shake the body, then took it in her arms. The girl's eyelids twitched slightly. She was still alive.
"Swim!"
Her eyelids fluttered, then slowly opened.
"Swim?"
"Yeah."
The girl got up.
"Oh, thank goodness... You're okay. And I'm so surprised! You're just a kid."
She'd always assumed the leader was older. After Ruler's death, Swim Swim had taken the reins. She gave orders, but despite Tama's many screwups, she never yelled like Ruler had, never abandoned her. She'd let her stay. She'd seemed like a kind adult.
The girl clung to Tama for support while she struggled to her feet. She pressed down on her side and grimaced, wobbled, regained her balance with help from Tama, and finally stood. By then, she was no longer a little child, but the transformed Swim Swim.
Swim Swim summoned her weapon into her hands, then swung it to the side. Something burned in Tama's throat, and she felt something spraying from her. The warmth drained from her body instantly. Her legs struggled to support her, and she collapsed. Her consciousness melted into darkness before she could understand what had happened.
It had to be done. Ruler had said they must kill anyone who learned their true identity, so she had to kill Tama. She was a companion, and it was cute how her ears and tail drooped when she screwed up, but Ruler's orders were final.
"Hey! New master! Can you hear me, pon?"
A voice sounded from her magical phone.
"There's a lot we need to discuss. Is now okay? You must have questions, too, pon. Like what exactly is Magical Girl Raising Project, or who exactly I am, pon."
Swim Swim wiped away the tears streaming down her face with her wrist.
"Hey, are you listening, pon? We need to work together as one now, you know. If we can't communicate, there'll be nothing but trouble, pon. You're not going to say you don't want to be a master, are you, pon?"
"What's a master?"
"A very important magical girl, pon!"
"Then I'll become one."
"Thank you for accepting, pon. So, we'll be working together from now on—"
"No."
She turned the phone off.
Ruler stood at the top. Ruler wouldn't work together with someone else.
|
> Well, Fav has some important news so no one better miss this, pon
> We'll start with those cut last week:
> Tama
> Hardgore Alice
> Minael
> The Musician of the Forest, Cranberry
> Congratulations! You've reduced your numbers to less than four, pon
> Further information will be distributed to each of you individually
> See you!
|
The Magical Kingdom's talent discovery department tended to hate office work, and the stronger the mage, the more obvious this was.
For this reason, the digital fairy familiars that lived in supervisor magical phones and took care of desk work were prized far more than the orthodox familiars of old, like black cats and owls. About 80 percent of the department had such familiars.
Fav was an older familiar, even in the talent discovery department. But despite his long tenure, he held no passion for his job. He couldn't remember whether he had lost that spark somewhere along the way or if he'd just never had it. Most likely he was defective. He had grown tired of the selection tests and bored with his masters, continuing on as a familiar purely out of habit. Until he met Cranberry.
In Cranberry's first selection test, a summoned demon had gone berserk and massacred the master and other applicants because Fav hadn't checked to prevent such accidents like he was supposed to. This exceptional situation blew away the same old, same old selection test and excited Fav, but watching the nine-year-old girl defeat the demon by herself excited him even more.
The look in her eyes, the way she spoke, and her unusually belligerent attitude said she was clearly off her rocker, but Fav's report to the higher-ups mentioned no problems at all. Surely she would be able to create a fascinating selection test. Though he had just lost his previous partner, Fav named her his master right away.
As it turned out, Fav was correct. Cranberry ended up being the best supervisor and partner he could wish for. No other magical girl would actually participate in the test to slake a thirst for blood, after all. Cranberry got to enjoy her death matches, and Fav got to enjoy the thrilling spectacle.
The normal selection tests were no fun to watch at all. They looked for qualities that had nothing to do with magic, like courage, wit, and personality, and only one of the applicants was chosen to become a true magic user. Those who failed simply had their memories erased and returned to their normal lives.
But Fav and Cranberry's tests were different. They bent the rules to end the lives of the rejected applicants, encouraged them to kill one another, and ensured that only the strongest would end up victorious. Sometimes Cranberry even forgot herself and killed the "strongest." Her bloodlust was glorious, but she did tend to go overboard.
The Magical Kingdom firmly believed that all people were inherently good, which to Fav was completely stupid. He did everything in his power—messing with the winners' memories, sending fake reports—to keep the wool over their eyes, and so far, they were none the wiser. Naturally, the winners were also stronger, so the superior results of their selection tests actually helped Fav's and Cranberry's reputations.
Talented practitioners strengthened the Magical Kingdom, which meant Fav and Cranberry could call themselves proud patriots compared to the masters who held orthodox selection tests and fostered incompetence. Fav was fond of Cranberry, but he wasn't sentimental enough to mourn now that she was dead. If he needed a new master, he would swap in a heartbeat. Swim Swim's motivation was difficult to determine, and she even rejected Fav's help, so she was hardly a good master. She would need to be eliminated.
La Pucelle had sworn to protect her.
Sister Nana had tried to find a peaceful solution.
And Hardgore Alice.
That girl who lost her key had been Hardgore Alice.
While the end of the game was a relief, Snow White also wondered why only she had survived. She was a crybaby, a weakling, a coward, and above all, fearful, always shaking in her boots. Yet she was the only one to survive.
The lone thought in her mind was, Why am I alive? So when another surviving magical girl proposed a meeting, she agreed without hesitation.
She'd thought of them all as friends. As people important to her. Yet she was more relieved to be alive than sad that they were dead. It made her want to kill herself. She wanted to ask the other survivor how she felt, now that everything was over.
Nothing she ate had any taste, and nothing she imagined scared her anymore. She was simply numb.
The girl waiting at the steel tower by the beach was nothing like she'd imagined. She seemed like neither a veteran hero nor a blood-crazed murderer—the aura around her was more lonely than anything, and a sadness darker than her black clothes hung over her. But there was a brilliant glow in her almond eyes. A strong will burned within.
"Good evening..."
"... Good evening."
Ripple. That was the name of this other survivor.
"Swim Swim..."
"Huh?"
"If you know anything about her... I need you to tell me."
Why was she asking about Swim Swim? As if reading the question on her face, Ripple spoke.
"I have to... kill her..."
"Huh?"
"To avenge... a friend..."
"B-but they announced that the game's over."
"If you know anything about Swim Swim... I need you to tell me..."
The end had already been announced. They didn't need to kill or compete anymore. Snow White desperately searched for a way to convince her of this. Ripple, on the other hand, saw Snow White's silence, sighed, and turned her back to her.
"Well, bye..."
"Wait!"
Snow White had had enough. She didn't want to see or hear about anyone dying anymore.
"The scary competition's over! We don't have to knock each other out of the running now."
Ripple looked back over her shoulder.
"Let's just stop. I hated how we had to hurt others in order to survive. And now there's no reason to do any of that. If you kill someone now, you won't be acting as a magical girl... You'll be a murderer."
"I don't care... I'll just be a murderer, if I have to."
She didn't need to repeat herself. Her words and eyes communicated her iron will, and Snow White took a half step back.
"But I did once want to become a magical girl... like you, Snow White."
Ripple turned her back once again. Snow White realized she could not stop her. Nothing she could say would change her mind.
Everyone associated with Swim Swim had died—Ruler, whom she supposedly followed; Cranberry, who had gone to see her; even the Peaky Angels and Tama, who had been part of her team. Ripple would certainly die as well. She couldn't beat Swim Swim.
Snow White had never made a choice, had only let things happen as they did. But Ripple was making a decision. She knew it was the wrong path—that it would lead to her death—but it was her choice, and she would see it through. Ripple had said she was not a magical girl, but that was wrong. Ripple was a true magical girl. Snow White didn't want her to die.
"Swim Swim's weaknesses are light and sound, pon. She can pass through all matter, but not light or sound, pon."
A voice echoed from both of their magical phones at the same time. The high-pitched synthetic voice continued confidently in stereo.
"Well, if you aren't satisfied, Ripple, we can continue the game, pon. It'll be part of the competition, not a grudge match. So who will blame you, pon? Simple as that. Well, good luck surviving until the final two, pon."
Snow White glared at the phone in horror. Fav's cheerful tone never successfully masked the hellish things he spoke of.
"Fav! What're you—"
"Thank you... I'm grateful..."
Ripple thanked him and leaped from the steel tower. Snow White reached out her hand but only swiped at air, just inches from her red scarf.
"Girls like her will do what it takes even if you leave them alone. It's easier to just give them a push in the right direction, pon."
"Why... why did you encourage her?"
"Normally, Swim Swim would be my new master, pon. She killed Tama, who killed Cranberry, so she's more than qualified, pon."
"What are you talking about?"
"But she's just no good, pon. She's got too many fried circuits in important parts of her brain, so Fav can't partner with her. She has talent as a killer, but she's a failure as a master, pon. So if Ripple is itching to kill her, then Fav doesn't mind helping her out."
Snow White tore the magical phone from the makeshift leather utility belt at her waist, grabbed it with both hands, and raised it in the air. She glared at the holographic black-and-white mascot.
"Why are you angry, pon? Isn't this what you wished for, pon? If Ripple and Swim Swim take each other out, you'll be the only one left alive and the absolute winner! You'll become Fav's new master and win an invitation to the Magical Kingdom, pon!"
She let go with her right hand and balled it into a fist. She raised it up, then slammed it down. Her enhanced strength was enough to snap it in half, and the screen darkened.
"Oh dear. What a waste, pon. There's no point doing that just to cheer yourself up. Destroying your phone doesn't mean Fav goes anywh—"
The projected image faded.
Hardgore Alice had said that as long as Snow White existed, the town would always have one magical girl. Even on death's bed, she had thought of Snow White. Her own life had been about to disappear, yet she was thinking of others.
Snow White no longer considered herself a magical girl, but she'd rather die than disappoint Hardgore Alice.
She knew what she had to do. And with that in mind, she dived from the top of the steel tower.
They could have met anywhere they wanted. All the super-territorial magical girls were gone, and the city was littered with empty locations at night. Swim Swim chose Koujimadai Dam only because it was near her home—nothing more complicated than that.
The meandering mountain path suddenly opened up to the dam. About a hundred yards from the entrance was a hollowed-out circle, paved with stone and filled with wooden benches. People used them during the day, but at night it was another story.
Rolling mountains lay to the east and beyond the dam to the west. This area was created so people could enjoy the scenery. Though it was near the town, the mountainous terrain got very dark at night. The cosmos flowers blooming on one side were practically invisible.
The air had been humid, warning of the rain to come. The downpour wasn't particularly heavy. Droplets dotted the concrete with little spots of black that slowly connected and spread. The surface of the reservoir rippled. But no matter how strong the rain was, it never wet Swim Swim. It simply passed through her and splashed against the ground.
Swim Swim was now a master. She didn't know exactly what that meant, though. Fav had given her a lot of documents filled with words she still didn't know how to read, so she'd asked him to write out how to pronounce them and left it at that.
She had become a leader of all magical girls, just like Ruler had wanted to be. But she'd lost the Peaky Angels and Tama in the process. Ruler would have been able to become a master with everyone still alive.
Swim Swim looked up at the sky. The rain was about to get worse.
When Fav had told her Ripple wanted to meet, Swim Swim had accepted easily. Ruler had always said that a leader was not a leader without followers. They didn't have to kill each other anymore, and she needed followers.
Footsteps echoed through the rain droplets, rhythmic splashes of water. Whoever it was, she was at the entrance about one hundred yards away. She was like shadow—black clothes, black hair, black eyes.
Fifty yards. She seemed familiar. Swim Swim had seen her somewhere before.
Twenty. She was wearing a coat.
Ten. The wind whipped at the coat. Something was written on the back. The kanji characters were too difficult to read.
Five. She stopped. The light in her almond eyes was sharp enough to cut her when she met her gaze. Swim Swim remembered who she was. She flicked a pill into the air with her thumb, caught it in her mouth, and swallowed.
She didn't intend to waste time. The moment Ripple attacked, she glimpsed Swim Swim's magic. Everything passed through her, like a blade slicing through air. The first time they'd fought, she'd sunk into the building like it was made of water. She could pass through matter, so even if there was a time limit to her magic, Swim Swim could still escape easily.
There was only one way for Ripple to counter her.
Swim Swim produced her enormous weapon and slashed. Ripple attempted to dodge by spinning a half step to the right, but failed. Swim Swim's blade was faster and stronger than she'd expected. She was a different beast from when they'd fought atop the hotel. The left side of the ninja's face burned, and her vision turned red.
Ripple clicked her tongue. Stripping off Top Speed's coat, she threw it over Swim Swim. The coat met no resistance and simply fell to the pavement. By the time she realized Swim Swim had sunk into the ground, she could feel a thirst for her blood behind her.
She twisted around and sensed a rush of air coming at her—a blade. She glimpsed Swim Swim as something translucent to her left attempted to chop her in half. The weapon was almost invisible—there was no dodging it. Instinctively, she pulled back her arm. Something yanked at her skin, and pain soon followed. The wound was deep. But that had been her goal—she'd created her own opening.
Ripple kicked at Swim Swim's head, but not to damage her. Covering the other girl's eyes with the sole of her foot, she reached into the four-dimensional bag hanging from her hip—Calamity Mary's item.
Swim Swim couldn't pass through everything. According to Fav, there were some things she was weak against, like light and sound. Ripple's only choice was to take the mascot's advice.
With her magic, the weapons she threw always hit their mark. Even with a deep wound in one arm and a crushed eye, as long as she threw them, they'd land. She pulled the pin and gently tossed the stun grenade. It seemed to fly through the air in slow motion. Her ability made sure it hit the target, and it slid into her body.
The stun grenade was a specialized hand grenade for situations where casualties were not an option. It was a nonlethal weapon to render targets helpless with the intense light and sound it emitted when detonating. The temporary loss of sight and hearing caused its victims to panic and freeze. This was one of Calamity Mary's weapons, and though she was dead, it was still boosted with her magic.
Even with Swim Swim to cover the explosion, Ripple was so close that the impact nearly knocked her out.
The sound of the rain was gone. The world spun, and her feet felt unstable. There was a terrible ringing in her ears, and her vision was completely black. She almost fainted. But this was nothing compared to what Swim Swim was experiencing. Once she'd passed out, her magic would have no effect, and she'd lose her invincibility.
She focused her screaming senses to find Swim Swim—and felt a presence. Though she couldn't find her with light or sound, instinct served just as well. She raised her sword and hurled it.
It connected. She heard something collapse into a puddle and a violent, continuous spray. A large amount of liquid splashed against her. Blood, possibly. The rain washed away the warm mystery liquid.
It was finished. She'd finished it.
What would Top Speed say? She'd probably be mad.
Ripple was glad she got to meet Snow White. She'd been the kind of magical girl who lived to protect others—the kind Ripple had wanted to be. If she got another chance, she wouldn't click her tongue. She'd be a proper hero.
The energy from the blast made her stumble back a few steps. She tripped on the curb and fell into the bushes. The bleeding was heavier than she'd first thought. She needed to rest. The rain began falling harder, and the cold droplets pelted her body.
Her consciousness dimmed. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see Snow White crying. As far as visions on your deathbed went, this was pathetic. Ripple tsked, then closed her eyes.
She'd been too late. Snow White sank to her knees in the middle of a puddle.
To one side was a girl who looked to be in early elementary school, skewered by a Japanese sword. It ran through her back, out of her chest, and into the pavement. The girl was, without question, dead. A cross between a pole arm and a hatchet lay nearby, and farther away was a magical phone. This device was double the size of Snow White's.
On the other side, Ripple lay in a bed of flowers. Strands of skin and muscle barely held her right arm together, and the pool of blood flowing onto the pavement from her body was as big as the one from the skewered girl. It gushed out like a red river, slowly thinning as the rain came down.
"Congratulations."
Head bowed, Snow White ground her teeth until the voice made her look up. The oversized magical phone projected a holographic image into the air.
"Swim Swim and Ripple are gone, leaving only you, pon. Snow White, you are officially the winner, pon. Boy, to win without ever dirtying your own hands? Should have expected as much from you, pon."
Fav's tone was brighter than ever before.
"Things would get a little inconvenient for Fav without a master, pon."
"I won't..."
"Hmm?"
"I won't become a master."
"Why?"
Snow White stood, letting the rain and tears flow down her face. Silently, she approached the image.
"I can hear you... You said if I don't become a master, you'll be in trouble."
"Well, in a sense, yes, pon. But—"
The sound of splitting pavement cut off Fav's speech. Snow White stomped on the magical phone, breaking the surface beneath it. She didn't stop, driving the device into the concrete.
Wham! Wham! Wham! The smashing sounded through the rain.
"What are you doing?"
"I can hear your voice..."
"Huh?"
"You're saying you'll be in trouble if this master phone is destroyed..."
"Oh, that explains it."
Fav snorted.
"Right, you can hear the voices of those in trouble. Seriously, you're wasting your time."
Snow White retrieved the device from the hole in the ground and slammed it against the asphalt. It bounced thirty feet into the air, then as it fell, she smashed it into the ground again. She threw it, kicked it, wailed on it, bashed it, ground it underfoot.
"It's seriously no use, pon. The master phone is built tough, pon. It's not like the cheap knockoffs you all use. This is a super version people in the Magical Kingdom use every day. You're not nearly strong enough, Snow White."
Snow White panted with effort. Her target, however, was unharmed.
"Personally, Fav would like to be on better terms with you. So go ahead and hit the phone all you like. Once you're done, we can talk. Okay?"
Snow White sank to her knees before the device. She beat it relentlessly—left fist, right fist, over and over and over and over. Her knuckles split and blood covered her fists, but still she continued.
"Ha-ha-ha-ha-ha! When will you learn that it's pointless?"
She didn't care. She just needed to destroy this thing, no matter what. She ripped up a piece of pavement and bashed on it. She hurled a bench at it. Not even a piece of the stone around the flower bed had any effect. Did she have anything that would help? A flower hairpiece, a broken magical phone, an armband—nothing. She dug through her pockets and brushed against something soft. Pulling it out, she saw that it was the rabbit's foot.
"Magical girls have a bad habit of thinking they can solve anything and everything, pon. If La Pucelle and Hardgore Alice had realized that, they wouldn't have died like dogs. Even Top Speed, after all she did to survive, just died like a fool—"
"Shut up..."
Neither Snow White nor Fav had spoken. A shadow fell at Snow White's feet. She looked up to see a wounded girl, ready to collapse at any second, leaning on a staff of some kind.
"Ripple? You're alive, pon?"
"Don't laugh at Top Speed..."
Ripple shakily raised her support—not a staff, but the weapon that had been lying on the ground earlier. The pole arm–hatchet combo. The projected image flickered. Fav flapped his wing faster, scattering more scales than before. Snow White could hear his innermost thoughts.
The weapon Swim Swim was using...
From the Magical Kingdom...
That could be bad...
Really bad...
Gotta talk Ripple out of this somehow...
"Hold on, Ripple. You're mistaken, pon. Fav isn't making fun of Top Speed, pon. Fav respects all magical girls, pon. Maybe it seemed like Fav was picking on you, but it was all under Cranberry's orders, pon. She threatened Fav into helping her and made Fav do all the dirty work, pon. It was all her orders; Fav got these abilities to stop rampaging magical girls, but she used them to break the rules—"
"Don't listen to him!"
Snow White yelled as Ripple stepped back and swung.
|
Students on the way home from school packed into the fast-food joint. Among the crowd, two high school girls sat across from each other. One rested her chin on her hands, apparently bored, while the other swiped through her smartphone with practiced hands.
"It's tomorrow, isn't it?"
"You mean when Koyuki comes back?"
"Yeah."
"According to her e-mails, it's tomorrow."
"It's been two weeks since she left that letter and disappeared. Back in middle school, I never expected her to run away from home. She didn't seem like the type."
"Yeah, I totally agree, Yocchan. And she got worse when we started high school... Well, not really. But she got kinda crazy."
"Her parents were so worried... Like, they were just glad she came home. Uh, what are you doing?"
"Reading up on magical-girl sightings."
"Suuumiii, are you still going on about that?"
"Look, I know you don't see them as much anymore, but they're still there. Koyuki loved them, too, remember? So I was going to get all the sightings for when she comes back."
"Don't give me that. That... what was it, Magical Girl Raising Project? That game had to shut down because of some major bug. It was all over the news when their stock plummeted. Magical girls are, like, done."
"They're not 'done,' stupid! There are still sightings! See? Right here. This one-eyed, one-armed girl in black saved someone."
"She looks more like the grim reaper."
"And there was that thing in the Middle East."
"Oh yeah! Everyone had just given up on stopping all that terrible stuff going on because China and Russia wouldn't let other countries interfere..."
"... And then the revolutionaries caught the president and his officials and overthrew the government! They say the person who caught the officials and brought in the revolutionaries was just one girl her own. 'Like the wind, the girl in white appeared,' or so they say. It had to be a magical girl!"
"Or a tall tale or an urban legend. What she did was basically terrorism."
"That's beside the point! Magical girls are not done! Not in the least. I bet Koyuki will say the same thing once she gets back."
The sky was so blue, heaven so close. The sun seemed to be shining right next to her, and the clouds streamed boldly toward the horizon. Miles above the earth, there was nothing but clouds, sky, and sun.
Her fantastic journeys through the sky, relaxing against the tail of a jumbo jet, had begun after she'd applied to become a master. The battering of the wind, the freezing temperature, the roaring engines—none of it bothered her.
Free rides... no, I guess free flights, since I'm on an airplane. She corrected herself internally. As she could not fly, Snow White always used this method to travel internationally.
Normally, magical girls stuck to helping people in their small, town-sized territories and avoided straying too far from that. The Magical Kingdom would probably frown on interfering in international affairs according to her own morals.
After learning how out of control Fav and Cranberry's selection tests had been, the Magical Kingdom had immediately dispatched special envoys to Earth. They had apologized profusely to Snow White and Ripple, made them official magical girls, and granted them special rights as honorary citizens of the Magical Kingdom.
Snow White wasn't sure whether she was grateful for that or not. Whatever the case, the Magical Kingdom was having a little trouble keeping a handle on their selfish do-gooders who got angry at what they saw in the newspaper and set off for foreign lands.
She turned the master phone on, opened the mailbox, and saw she had an e-mail from her director in the Magical Kingdom.
Magical girls are more than capable of becoming assassins and terrorists, which is why we of the Magical Girl Division require self-control. Your dedication to upholding morality should allow you to suppress personal impulses. In fact—
She stopped reading there and deleted the e-mail.
Snow White knew all too well that small kindnesses would change nothing. Just watching from the sidelines would never bring about progress. Leaving it to others would never solve anything. She'd learned all this the hard way, which was exactly why she was trying to change. She wanted to change.
The magical girls she had known would have done the same. Up until their deaths... and even at death's door, they remained true to themselves.
Another e-mail popped up.
Memory alteration has been detected on testing grounds B-7098 and B-7243. Accidents appear to have caused deaths in both cases. Furthermore, they are caused by the same master. Said master will be holding a selection test soon on testing ground B-7511—
Unlike Snow White, who was a lone wolf, Ripple knew many people in various departments. They were more like fans than friends, though. How exactly that had come to be she didn't know, but Ripple was cute and cool, so it was probably inevitable, Snow White thought to herself.
"Don't regret not acting next time. Act before you regret it," she whispered to no one in particular.
|
Old Town was on the outskirts of the sprawling city on a sloping mountainside overlooking the sea near where the original harbor used to be. Amelia had been to Old Town only briefly years ago but she found its winding cobblestone streets and stately old homes virtually unchanged. Compared to the part of the city she'd just come from this area had a quieter more sedate feel to it as if the inhabitants were happy to go about life in a slower undisturbed pace. Even the storefronts with their high arches and old-fashioned gilded writing advertising their services looked like the remnant of a different era and Amelia found she liked it. On one of the side streets there was a group of young children playing a ball game that involved a lot of running and shouting and Amelia saw a grandfatherly old man had dragged a chair onto the sidewalk so he could watch while smoking his pipe. The children looked like they were having so much fun she would have liked to watch them play for a little while but kept moving so as not to draw attention to herself.
She kept angling upward. Drunn had said there was a giant tree in the back of Selene's new place and Amelia had a rough recollection of where she'd seen an exceptionally large tree. She smelled the tree long before she saw it. After the smells of the busy city the earthy forest scent of it wafted to her on the salty evening breeze like the perfume of an old friend and she was drawn to it. When she found it in the enclosed courtyard she stared up at it in wonder, amazed that such a magnificent old tree had survived the expansion all around it. The huge old multi-story house next to the tree was covered in ivy and had an abandoned feel about it but she heard the rhythmical thump of music from somewhere inside and found Selene's green Jeep in the back so she knew she was in the right place. She tried knocking at a door in the front first. When there was no response she circled round to the back where she found a door with a rusty knocker. The door, like the rest of the property, had been subjected to years of neglect and though not rotten yet, cracks in the protective coating had allowed water to seep in so the door was swollen in places. She knocked the weighted ring against the metal plate. The sound it made was surprisingly loud and she cringed at making so much noise. The music turned off and a few minutes later there was the sound of a key being turned in the lock. She heard Selene cursing on the other side as she wrestled with the unyielding door. It opened inch by slow inch until there was a gap wide enough for Amelia to see a petite woman with a mop of fiery red hair peer up at her. As soon as Selene recognized her she flashed a brilliant smile.
"Amelia! What a lovely surprise!"
"Need help with the door?"
"If you don't mind."
Amelia put a little weight behind her push and the door slid open easily.
"Show-off," Selene said cheerfully. "I usually use one of the other entrances because this door is way too much of a workout for me."
Amelia opened her mouth to reply but she found herself staring in fascination at the peculiar sight in front of her. Selene had a harassed look about her of someone who'd been interrupted while doing important work. Her short hair, the shade of a well-stoked fire, stuck up in all directions like a series of exclamation marks and her face was covered in inky smudges. She wore a frayed green turtleneck jersey, faded jeans and a full-length leather apron that was stained with various dyes, chemical burns, and grease. What was most striking however was the shotgun the size of a small cannon strapped to her with a padded sling. Selene's right hand rested loosely on the barrel, her fingers within easy reach of the trigger. Instinctively Amelia moved to the side so Selene would have to turn to get a clear shot at her but to her relief her friend didn't make a threatening move. Amelia cleared her throat and said, "I knocked on the other side but you didn't hear me."
Selene shrugged. "It's a big old place with lots of weird noises. I thought I heard knocking but there is something on the roof that makes a tapping noise at the slightest breeze so I assumed it was that blasted thing again."
"It didn't help that you had your music playing so loudly," Amelia couldn't help point out.
"I like my music loud. It helps me concentrate when I'm working and I need it to drown out all the creaks and groans this old place makes. I swear if I didn't know the walls and foundations were sound I'd think it was going to crash down on me at any moment. But never mind all that. It is good to see you, Amelia!"
"Are you sure?" Amelia pointed at the weapon. "I've had warmer welcomes."
Selene looked at the huge gun strapped to her side as if surprised to see it. "This is not meant for you. Obviously. I was working on it when you knocked."
Selene moved the weapon so the barrel pointed at the floor then she straightened and in a formal tone said, "Come in, my friend. Be welcome in my new home. My food is your food. My sanctuary, your sanctuary."
Amelia made a small bow of acceptance then said, "You may not want to offer me sanctuary, Selene. I tried to be careful about not being followed here but there are so many eyes in this city there is bound to be unpleasant company on my heels. I don't want to cause you trouble."
Selene's eyes narrowed and a shadow of something hard and dangerous flitted across her face then she smiled and the cheerful young woman was back. "You know me, Amelia, if trouble doesn't find me, I find it. If anyone comes here hunting for you it will be an excellent opportunity for me to test my new toys. I've just finished altering this girl on my arm and I'd love an opportunity to try her out on something more lively than stuffed dummies. Come in and close that cumbersome door behind you."
Without waiting for a reply Selene disappeared inside. Amelia closed the door, turned the oversized key in the lock and followed her friend into a wide hallway.
"Selene, that weapon is almost as tall as you and it looks heavy. How do you fire that thing without getting knocked on your ass or getting your arm ripped out of its socket?"
"Trade secrets, my friend, trade secrets. All I'm willing to say is it is amazing what adding the right kind of rune magic can do for a weapon." Selene gave a wide impish grin and winked. "Truth be told I'd only fire this weapon as a last resort because even with the improvements I've made she still kicks like a mule. She's not meant for me; I'm sprucing her up as a special thank you gift for Drunn. I've been sending him all over the place by boat and you know how much he hates those things. I worry about him running errands for me. He relies too much on his huge size and strength to keep him safe. He doesn't consider quick enemies could easily surround him and if they keep out of reach of those massive paws of his he could be in serious trouble. The way I see it with this big girl by his side he'll have an edge. Drunn can't shoot for shit but with this he only has to aim in the general direction and he will hit the target. I also strengthened the barrel and added a custom grip so he can swing her like a cudgel. Versatility is important in a weapon, don't you agree? I've been working hard to surprise him with it when he gets back."
"If you meet him at the door with it as you did me, I'm sure he will be very surprised."
"Yeah, ha-ha very funny. Here on the right is the kitchen. Put your things down and take a seat at the table. I'll put on a pot of tea. So just to warn you that aside from my work area, the bedroom and bathroom, this is the only other place that is currently clean enough to inhabit. If you decide to go for an exploratory wander be warned you are likely to end up covered in spider webs. The previous owner really let this place go. Amelia, what are you doing here? I'm happy to see you but there is a huge price on your head. This is not a good time for you to be in Porta Belua."
"I know. Drunn told me when I ran into him."
"If you know about the bounty does it mean you've come to root out the source to shut this thing down? If that's the case you will need someone to watch your back. I nominate myself. If you give me a few hours I can call in a few favors and get backup. Give me a day and with enough coin I can hire a company of elite mercs so we can blow this thing out of the water with style. If it's going to go down in Porta Belua we might as well use it as a stage and make a statement that reminds everyone, loud and clear, that you are not to be messed with. I know a guy who runs a clean operation and once he's committed he and his mercs stay bought. He's not cheap but the good ones aren't. How are you for money? If you are short I can loan you. I'd give it to you but this place is draining me dry. I swear builders and plumbers are worse than loan sharks. There is no way replacing rusty pipes and rotten planks can cost as much as they are trying to charge me! Do you perhaps know a good plumber who's not a rip-off artist? Would you like cake? I have a big chocolate cake begging to be eaten freshly baked this morning. Silly question, of course you'd like some. Here let me cut you a big piece. It's a gift from the grandmother of the young guy who's trying to convince me to hire him. Well, it's more like an attempted bribe than a gift. I told him he wasn't what I was looking for but he's been turning up anyway offering to help. I have to admit I admire how tenaciously persistent he's been and using his grandmother's baking to soften me up is a stroke of genius."
"Selene, slow down. You're going a mile a minute. Do I get to reply to any of that?"
"Oh, sorry. I'm a bit hyped, I've been living off pots of coffee trying to get through the hundred and ten things I've got going. I know I should squeeze in a few hours' sleep sometime soon but there is so much to do!"
"Sit down, Selene. Eat some of that cake and give me a chance to talk. I have something to tell you."
"That doesn't sound good."
"It's not good or bad. Not really. Sit down because you're fluttering about like a hummingbird and you're making me dizzy."
Selene gave Amelia a speculative look and sat down at the table. She lay the gun down so the barrel faced the kitchen door and helped herself to a big slice of cake. "What's going on?"
"I'm leaving Nordarra."
"As in leaving, leaving?"
"Yes."
"When?"
"As soon as I can arrange passage."
"Why? Is it because of the bounty on your pelt? That's never fazed you before. I know it's a fortune but we can figure out how to shut this down."
"I always planned to leave Nordarra once I fulfilled my vow and in this past week, I finally did it. It's time for a fresh start. Now I can finally go see what it's like on the other side. This latest bounty has reinforced it's a good time to leave. It's getting harder, Selene. They are using high powered sniper rifles now. I'm good but it's difficult to defend myself against an enemy that hides under cover and shoots from a mile away."
"You got shot?"
"Yeah."
Selene inhaled sharply. "When?"
"A few months ago."
"Where?"
Amelia tapped her chest. "The bullet just missed my heart and clipped a lung. I thought I was going to suffocate in my own blood. I've had close calls before but as I lay there I honestly thought that was it. That the hunters had finally got me."
"But you made it..."
"Yeah. I managed a shift and regenerated enough to get myself up and moving before they could get to me but it was a harsh wake-up call. It used to be about skill, preparation and remaining vigilant so I had an edge. Now every time I leave the forest it feels like I'm rolling the dice. It is just a matter of time before my luck runs out."
Selene, her hands clenched into fists, stared up at the ceiling for a long minute. When she looked back at Amelia her eyes were shiny dark pools of anger.
"Did you kill the bastard who shot you?"
Amelia nodded. "It was a four-man team. Once I was well enough I tracked them down and we played a little game of cat and mouse. I won."
Selene bared her teeth in a feral grin. "Excellent! That's what I want to hear. How about I make us dinner? I bet you're hungry after your trip."
"I could eat a little something."
Selene laughed and gave Amelia's hand an affectionate squeeze. "That, my friend, is a massive understatement."
They ended up making dinner together. Or rather Selene washed and chopped while Amelia did the actual cooking. Selene's initial plan was to throw something in a wok and use her little one ring camp cooker since she hadn't gotten around to cleaning the ancient wood stove. There was some good-natured arguing and Amelia got the stove cleaned out, stoked and working in record time. Soon it was radiating heat into the chilly high-ceilinged kitchen like a mini-furnace. Selene extracted pots and pans from the boxes marked 'kitchen' that stood in the corner of the room while Amelia scrutinized the meager ingredients in the cupboard and cooler. After some deliberation, they agreed Amelia would make a goat curry with rice and naan bread. While Amelia cooked Selene disappeared for a time. She came back freshly washed, smartly dressed for an evening in the city and shivering. She headed straight for the stove to warm herself. Standing beside Amelia she barely came up to her chest.
"What's wrong with you? What's with the shivering?"
"There is no hot water and the bathroom is like a slippery freezer with those awful tiles underfoot. Well, there is hot water but only a trickle. The plumber said something about lack of pressure and rusted valves so until that's fixed I have to endure brisk cold showers. That's what you're getting too unless you want to boil water on the stove for a wash."
"A cold shower doesn't bother me, Selene. As long as I can get clean I'm happy. I have to ask, what's with you buying this place? It's big and in a great area but it needs a ton of work."
"It does," Selene agreed. "But it has great potential, the location is perfect for what I have in mind and I got it at a fraction of its actual worth. Now I just have to ride out the bumpy stretch and fix things one item at a time. When I'm done with this place it will be amazing. Don't worry, I have a plan. Several actually."
Amelia nodded thoughtfully as she carried the food to the table. "That tree in the courtyard is massive."
"That it is. That tree is also the reason this side of the house is so cold. It is always in the shade. I dread to think what it is going to be like in winter."
"You won't cut the tree down, will you? It's very old."
"I wouldn't dare. Protecting the tree was the main condition of sale. That was the reason I could afford this place at all. I'd tell you how it all went down but it's a long story with lots of boring details and not important right now. What is important is the bounty on your head and getting you safely out of Porta Belua. I've been trying to find out who's behind it since I heard about it. I have a few good leads but it's been hard going to get the information because everyone knows we are friends. I'll head out after dinner to follow up. Until we know exactly who we are dealing with I suggest you stay out of sight. I'll make all the travel arrangements for you. Anything else you need just tell me and I will take care of it."
"But, Selene, you told me how busy you are."
"There's nothing that can't wait until you are safely away. This is more important."
"But—"
"No buts. Let me do this for you. Please, Amelia. We've never talked about it but I haven't forgotten that I owe you my life. This is hardly repayment but it is something I can do for you. Let me help you. Please."
Amelia gave a slow nod. "Thank you, I'd appreciate your help. You have to let me work around the place while you're out. I can't do nothing while I wait. I need to stay busy or all the things I've got on my mind are going to drive me crazy. My knowledge of plumbing is very basic but I can have a look at the shower. I'm better at building and making things. Point me toward what you need fixed most urgently, give me some tools and supplies, and I'll see what I can do."
Selene beamed. "You have a deal. I feel like I'm taking advantage of you but for hot showers I'll do pretty much anything at this point."
Amelia returned Selene's smile and for the first time since she dropped off Emily felt a little better. It was good to feel useful and have a friend who was concerned about her. She dished herself a hearty plate and started to eat. Across the table Selene dished herself a sizable portion as well and dug in enthusiastically.
"Yum, this curry is so tasty! I'd forgotten how well you can cook. Now I find out you can build and fix things as well. You've got the goods, girl. It's a mystery that some woman hasn't snaffled you up yet. You're a keeper." Selene paused with the fork halfway to her mouth to squint at Amelia. "What's with the look you just gave me?"
"What look?"
"The one that said I'm trying to sell you rotten fish."
"Those things aren't enough to make someone want to be with me."
"Not by themselves perhaps but you've got the whole package going. You just need to put yourself out there. Get to know new people, mingle with the ladies. How else are you going to meet that special someone?"
"I did meet someone special." The words were out before she could stop them and Amelia instantly regretted it.
"You did? What is her name?"
"Emily."
"That is wonderful, Amelia! I'm so happy you finally found a mate."
Amelia shook her head and kept her eyes on her plate. She resumed eating even though the food had become thick and tasteless in her mouth.
"Oh. It didn't work out. I'm so sorry."
"Yeah. Me too."
When they were done eating Selene did the washing up and Amelia went for a quick shower. When she got back to the kitchen Selene was pouring hot milk into two large mugs.
"I made hot chocolate. Something to warm you up from the inside after the cold shower."
"I actually found it refreshing but I'll never say no to hot chocolate," Amelia said and took an appreciative sip. "Selene, I have a favor to ask. Three actually. I'd do it myself but as you pointed out its better for me to remain out of sight."
"What do you need?"
"A voucher for the Royal Hotel's luxury couples' package."
"For you?"
Amelia snorted, "I wish. It's for Oswald of clan Swift Foot. He did me a favor."
"Sure, that's easy enough."
"Yeah, I thought I would start with the easy one first. You're not going to like my next request."
Amelia put a black ledger onto the table. "I took this off a cutter. It was his personal log and he kept meticulous notes. In addition to noting the type of shifters captured, what he harvested and how long each person lasted, he also wrote down their names and clan affiliations. She slid the ledger across the table to Selene. "Can you see to it that the relatives of the people in this book are notified they are dead? It will give them no peace of mind but at least they can stop searching."
Selene glared at the ledger as if it was a venomous snake. "Where did you get that?"
"In the ethian mine near the Black Paw trading post. There was a hidden section set up with cages and a harvesting room. It's a human operated mine but I picked up the scent of avians."
"This is going to cause a shit storm of epic proportions, Amelia. Heads will roll over this. Literally."
"I know. It might be better if you keep what I said about the avians to yourself. I don't know who they were and I'd hate for an innocent flock to be accused."
Selene opened the book with the tips of her fingers as if she was loathed to touch it. She leafed through it expressionless, turning the pages faster and faster. She paused at a page as something caught her attention. Her jaw clenched and she slammed the book shut.
"Someone you know?"
Selene nodded wordlessly.
"I'm sorry."
"Yeah. Me too. I only met him a few times but he seemed like a likeable guy. What a horrible way to die. Where you able to rescue anyone?"
"Two wolves and Emily. The wolves were in bad shape especially the female but I did briefly see them in the forest so hopefully they both survived and made it home.
"Emily as in your Emily?"
"She's not mine but yes, the same Emily. Her full name is Evangeline Aquilar."
"Wait I know that name...do you mean Lord Augustus Aquilar, the head of House Aquilar's oldest daughter?"
When Amelia nodded Selene gave a low whistle. "From what I've heard he adores his daughters and Evangeline is his right hand. When he finds out another avian House grabbed her and stuffed her in a cutter's cage he will go feral on whoever is responsible. Was she badly hurt?"
"Fortunately she'd not been there long enough for anything bad to happen but she did get shot in the wing while we were leaving. To make things worse she broke that wing in a bad landing. She couldn't fly while the wing healed so I offered to get her back to Porta Belua. We spent the last week together and I dropped her off at her home before coming here."
"She's one lucky lady."
"This brings me to the other favor, Selene. I'm very fond of Emily. She said something I didn't like as we were saying goodbye and I stormed off. I don't want that to be how she remembers me. I'd like to send her a gift so she knows I'm not angry with her."
"You want me to deliver the gift for you?"
"I want you to get it made for me first. What I want is very specific."
"What do you have in mind?"
As Amelia explained Selene's eyes grew wide. "That will cost a fortune. If you want to have it done right with those kinds of materials, I'll have to employ a master jeweler of exceptional skill. I can think of only a handful of people that good and only one I trust to be totally discreet. You have to understand with such a tight time frame there will be no room for negotiation on the cost."
"I don't care about the cost. Offer whatever you have to get it done."
"Amelia, are you sure? Is that girl worth something like this?"
"To me she is."
"Wow, you don't mess around. Okay, if this is what you want I'll make sure you get it. You've given me plenty to do tonight so I'd better get moving."
"Thanks, I really appreciate you doing this for me."
Selene gave a dismissive wave. "I told you I'll help you with anything you need. Oh, I almost forgot to tell you, I put fresh sheets on my bed. You're welcome to use it. It's unlikely I'll make it back till morning so you will have it all to yourself. Tomorrow I'll hunt down the box that has the extra bedding in it and you can help me assemble the spare bed for you."
Amelia thought of Emily's reaction if she found out she'd slept in Selene's bed, albeit innocently, and she could hear the agitated rustling of her wings as clearly as if Emily stood right behind her. It made her smile.
"That is generous of you but I'll be all right. It's such a lovely night I prefer to sleep in the tree."
"Are you sure? My bed is comfortable and big enough even for you."
"Once I get underway I'll be cooped up on a ship for weeks so I'd like to sleep outside while I can. It will also give me an advantage if an enemy comes here looking for me."
Selene's lips twitched in an amused smile. "In other words, you're planning to lie in wait for potential prey."
Amelia saluted Selene with her mug. "You know me well."
Selene squeezed her arm and said, "I wish you good hunting my friend. Please try not to scare my neighbors while you're at it. I'm still trying to make a good first impression."
"Don't worry, unless I want to be seen your neighbors won't know I'm out there."
|
Emily shut the door to her suite with a relieved sigh. She was finally alone. Since arriving home she'd had to deal with endless questions and people trying to monopolize her time. She only shared the bare bones of what happened to her, making it sound like she got blown off course and injured during a severe storm so she'd had to make her way back on foot and by boat. She had intended to tell her flock everything that happened but when she heard that her uncle Marcus was entertaining Raven of House Ravir as his personal guest it had sounded multiple alarms and she had decided full disclosure could wait. She didn't trust Lord Raven's daughter and every time they met her dislike for the avian woman grew more intense. Which was a shame because when they were children she had liked Raven and thought they would become friends. Unfortunately, over the years Raven had become more like her father and she now had the same hard eyes and a way of watching that reminded Emily of a vulture waiting to swoop down at the first sign of weakness. Her father's lingering illness was drawing predators and as his successor she had to appear strong. Anything she said to members of her flock would reach Marcus's ears and he would tell Raven. For the time being, she didn't want either of them to know she'd been caught and stuffed in a cage or that she had needed the help of a beast-shifter to escape. It had only been a few months since she turned down House Ravir's offer of an alliance and publicly humiliated her uncle for trying to strong-arm her into a marriage with Lord Nero's son and she had no doubt they were looking for ammunition to use against her. Emily was pleased that on arrival at the gates she'd had the foresight to insist the sentinels escort her straight to her suite so she could quickly wash, shift her wings and change into attire fitting to her status before the rest of the flock saw her. She could imagine the derisive comments her uncle would have made and Raven's superior smirk had they seen Emily wingless and rumpled from traveling.
It was only when she was alone with her father and Oriana that she revealed how she'd been captured and talked about the things she saw in the cutter's lab. Her father had been so furious he immediately wanted to gather a squadron of warriors armed with explosives to fly to the ethian mine so that they could level the buildings to the ground. Her father tried to hide the extent of his illness but Emily had felt him tremble from the effort of standing to give her a welcoming hug and she worried his pride would compel Lord Augustus to accompany the squadron. She had argued for caution. She'd described the heavy artillery at the mine and told him of her suspicions that an avian House was involved. He had reluctantly agreed with her they had to find out who their adversaries were so they could plan accordingly before making a move.
Once her father calmed down enough to stop rustling his wings she told them about Amelia. She told them about their first encounter in the mine and the agreement they made to work together to get away from that place. She explained that she got shot in the wing as they were escaping and broke it on landing and how, instead of abandoning her, Amelia had taken care of her and promised to get her safely home. It was at this point that her father mentioned that he had heard stories about Amelia the tigress but he wouldn't say what, urging Emily to continue her story. Her sister gasped when she told them about going into the village of wolves hostile to avians and she had to reassure Oriana she'd never been in any real danger because she'd been under Amelia's protection. She told them that Amelia commanded so much respect among clan Swift Foot that most of the wolves had given her a wide berth and that she had almost killed the woman who scared and insulted Emily. She described their stay with the friendly humans of Ingvild. She made it clear that Amelia had become a dear and trusted friend in the short time they were together. What she carefully omitted was how close they'd become, to where Amelia shared Old Blood secrets with her and they'd become lovers. Some things she knew she could never share with anyone because of her promises to Amelia. As for the intimacies they'd shared she felt too protective of those precious memories to share them with anyone. Not even with the two people who meant the most to her in the entire world. Her father, always a perceptive man, had watched her with sharp knowing eyes and she got the feeling he knew she was keeping secrets. She also knew he respected her too much to pry into his daughter's private affairs, trusting that she would not withhold anything that could put their House at risk.
In her suite, Emily opened the door to her balcony and stared out over the familiar sight of the city. Her eyes drifted towards the night market where ethian lamps were being lit. It was open day and night but only truly came alive after sunset. Unlike many other businesses in the city the night market was run almost exclusively by shifters and was as much an entertainment and neutral gathering hub for shapeshifters in Porta Belua as it was a place to buy and sell. The gathering clouds promised rain later but it was such a warm evening she knew the market would be bustling with all kinds of shifters and gawking tourists hoping to see the nocturnal beings that rarely ventured out before dark. She wondered if Amelia would be there. It was unlikely as she was trying to keep a low profile but if she needed to get supplies for her trip that would be the best place to go. Emily considered flying to the market in the hope of finding Amelia but quickly dismissed the thought. The night market was a sprawling labyrinth with lots of hidden corners; she could walk right past Amelia and never see her. Besides, she was physically exhausted and emotionally drained after all the ups and downs of the day. She desperately wanted a hot bath and then she needed to go to sleep. Tomorrow she would have a ton of work because of her absence and she would have to be up at the break of day to join her flock in singing the dawn song.
Glancing at her bed it occurred to Emily that it would be the first night in a week she would sleep without Amelia beside her. She knew that the bed was going to feel cold and empty without her. Where was Amelia sleeping tonight? Was she alone or perhaps with that Selene woman who was so eager for Amelia to stay with her? Amelia said there was no chemistry between them but for a smart woman she could be oblivious about some things. Just because she wasn't attracted to Selene didn't mean the other woman was equally unaffected. Emily slammed the drawer shut that held her sleepwear and marched off to the bathroom. Enough already. That kind of thinking would drive her crazy.
Emily had just finished toweling off and slipped on a top when she heard Oriana's voice at the bathroom door.
"Emily, you in there?"
Before Emily could ask Oriana to wait she pushed the door open and came inside.
"There you are! Emily, I..." Oriana paused mid-sentence and her eyebrows shot up. "Wow. How did you get those bruises on your butt?" Oriana tilted her head sideways to get a better look. "Are those bite marks? Emily did you know you have bite marks on your butt and between your—"
Mortified Emily quickly yanked on her pants. "I know."
"Who did that to you? I mean..." Oriana paused to stare at her face. "Wow, I don't think I've ever seen you blush that hard. Not even that time when I caught you and your girlfriend about to—"
"Never mind that, Oriana," Emily quickly interrupted. "How many times do I have to tell you to wait for an answer after you've knocked? You can't just walk in!"
"But if I waited I would have missed out on seeing your love-bite riddled ass. So the woman you mentioned, I assume this means you two became more than just good friends?"
"Yes."
"A beast-shifter...oooh la-la, I didn't know you liked your girls that wild. She didn't hurt you, did she? She must have gotten rough to leave bruises."
"No, Amelia didn't get rough with me. Not that it's any of your business but she's an incredibly gentle and passionate lover. She just got excited."
"And bit you all over your ass?"
"It wasn't really bites even though she used her teeth a little. She also used her tongue to..." Emily stopped suddenly and held her hand up in a warding gesture. "Oh no, this is not happening. I'm not sharing sex details with my little sister. It's just something she does when she's excited and she was very excited. It didn't hurt at all; in fact, it was very erotic the way she did it." Emily could feel the heat on her cheeks spread down her neck.
"Oooo, very excited. You don't say. By the look of you, she wasn't the only one."
Emily giggled and threw a wet towel at her sister. "You're too young for this kind of conversation."
"Oh please, I'm seventeen and we've always talked openly about stuff. We're best buddies remember? Or has that changed?"
"No, of course not. Actually, I do need to talk about Amelia and I trust you not to blab to anyone."
"Never. What's said between us stays between us. That's our thing. My ears are your vault. Tell me more about this girl. Is she pretty?"
"Amelia is a woman not a girl and she's stunning. Taller than me and very strong. Don't you dare tell anyone but she carried me down a mountain in the dark while it was raining. That was just after we escaped and I broke my wing. There were people with dogs searching for us and I kept falling on the slippery rocks. I would never have gotten away on my own. She was amazing, Oriana, so sure-footed and graceful even with me on her back and she was tireless. That woman has so much stamina she can literally go for hours." As she said this Emily thought of the way Amelia smiled when she promised to pleasure Emily until she begged her to stop. She bit her lip and wished Amelia would magically materialize in her bed. What she wouldn't give to find her naked between the sheets waiting for her.
"Emily, you really have it bad for this woman."
"I do. I think she might have been the one . I know we weren't together that long but we spent almost every moment in each other's company. I've never connected with anyone like I did with her and she made me feel so safe. I knew she wouldn't let anybody or anything hurt me while she was around. The way she kissed and made love to me made me feel like I was the most precious person in the world. I've never felt so adored and desired." Emily sighed heavily her expression becoming troubled. "I'm rambling and not making sense."
"You're making perfect sense. You're in love with her."
"I am."
"What did she say when you told her?" Oriana asked.
"When I told her what?"
"That you're in love with her."
"I...I never told her."
"Why not?"
"She was leaving and I...it all seemed so quick."
"But you told her how much she means to you, right? I'm still new at the whole dating and love thing but I kind of assumed that's how this works."
"She knows I care about her but now that I think about it I never actually said..." Emily trailed off as she frantically searched her memories. Emily grabbed her sister's shoulder to steady herself as the realization hit. "Oh no. I never told Amelia how much she means to me. I didn't tell her how amazing she made me feel. She asked me to go away with her and I said I couldn't. When she told me she wanted me as her mate I was so stunned I said nothing. I wouldn't even agree to stay an extra week with her. Oriana, this is bad! I know how Amelia thinks. She would have brooded over this and concluded I wasn't interested in a serious relationship with her. After everything we shared that would have hurt her so badly. But I am. I want her! Oh...was that why she cried after we made love on the boat? Did she think it was just sex to me...that she was only a fling?" Emily groaned. "Yes, of course, she would think that because that's what she's learned to expect and I never told her I loved her. How did I fuck up so badly? I feel like I'm going to be sick."
|
To Amelia's delight she found that the height of the giant tree combined with the position of Selene's property meant she could literally see for miles in every direction while she herself was hidden from view by the dense foliage. She had taken her tiger form to stay dry in fur as it rained intermittently and it also allowed her to take full advantage of her tiger's superb hearing and night vision. Occasionally, just to make sure she didn't miss anything she would snake out a long tongue to test the air gathering scents that were too delicate for her tiger to detect. Amelia felt at home in the ancient tree with its familiar forest smell. The branch on which she lay was thick and sturdy so once she felt she was reasonably familiar with the sounds and smells of the neighborhood she put her head on her paws and relaxed into a light doze. Just before sunrise she moved to a different part of the tree from where she could see the top half of Emily's tower. It was too far away to identify Emily among her people but she could see the gathered flock on the balconies raise their wings as the sun rose. For a moment as the wind blew from the direction of the tower she thought she heard snippets of a dawn song but it was likely only her imagination. She watched as the avians of House Aquilar launched into the air until the sky around the tower was filled with winged figures circling higher and higher. Even from so far away it was a magnificent sight and she wished she knew which one was Emily.
It was with a mixture of regret and relief that she made herself look away when she heard Selene return. She watched Selene get out of the Jeep and pretend to stretch a stiff back so she could look up at the tree. Amelia lay flat and motionless, the predator in her delighted in knowing she blended so well into the background it would be near impossible for Selene to spot her. She was tempted to jump down beside her friend as a joke but she didn't. It was not a good idea to give Selene a fright. She had lightning quick reflexes and her years of surviving as an orphan on the streets of Porta Belua taught her to lash out first and ask questions later. She once had to dodge a hot pan filled with scrambled eggs because she came up behind Selene too quietly. Whatever weapons Selene had concealed under that jacket of hers would do a lot worse than a pan.
Amelia moved to where she would be visible and once Selene saw her she stretched her long body to give her friend a moment to get used to the sight of her before she jumped down. She padded over to Selene who had gone very still. She watched Amelia warily and took care not to make direct eye contact while she embraced her beast so completely. Amelia remembered wistfully how boldly Emily studied her the first time she saw her in tiger form. If Emily was here she would have strode up to meet her and had her hands buried in her fur by now. She never realized how much she enjoyed being touched until Emily had touched her all the time. Why had none of her friends ever felt so free with her? Was it her fault for being physically aloof or was it that Emily played by her own rules and totally ignored all Amelia's boundaries? Not that she wanted just anyone to touch her the way Emily did but Selene was such a good friend she should not be this cautious to avoid acting in a way that could be perceived as a challenge for dominance. Acting on impulse Amelia lowered her head and rubbed her cheek affectionately against Selene's shoulder. Selene made a startled noise and became rigid. Amelia remained motionless, waiting for her friend to make the next move. After a few seconds she relaxed and cautiously rested her hand on Amelia's massive head. Amelia chuffed to show her approval.
"We are friends, Selene. No matter what form I'm in you do not have to be afraid of me. I hope you know this?"
Selene gently worked her fingers into Amelia's fur. "I know. I was just being respectful and cautious. When you're in beast form you are magnificently terrifying."
Amelia turned so she could see Selene's expression and this time her friend did not look away. What she saw was genuine affection and sincerity but no fear. "For the record, I feel the same way when I see you carrying a weapon that could blow a fist-sized hole in my chest. Respectful and cautious." This made Selene grin like a kid who'd just been given a box of candy. Amelia huffed in amusement and headed toward the house. "I hope you brought lots of food because fixing that shower of yours has given me a monstrous appetite."
Behind her Selene laughed delightedly and went to the Jeep to grab a crate of groceries. Inside Amelia quickly shifted back to human. Once dressed she joined Selene in the kitchen.
"Did you really get the hot water going?"
"I did. The pressure is more like light rain than a downpour but the water will run as hot as you want it."
"That's amazing! You've made my day."
Amelia grinned happily and set about brewing a pot of tea.
Selene got a cake tin from the cupboard and popped it open to offer Amelia the biscuits inside. "I have good news for you."
"Yeah?"
"I got the jeweler to accept your commission. I thought he was going to faint from excitement when he saw the materials he got to work with and he was already furiously busy when I left. I'm not sure he will get it done before you leave though. I got your ticket and paperwork sorted. You're leaving tomorrow."
"So soon?"
"Everything fell into place. You did say you wanted to leave as quickly as possible?"
"I did."
"In other news – that ethian mine shut down."
"It has?"
"For now. Apparently, someone threw a freezer full of shapeshifter body parts along with the cutter responsible off the mountain to go splat where everyone could see it. Was that your handiwork?" When Amelia nodded Selene grunted in a manner that said that's what she suspected. "The miners had a look-see up top and found a lab with cages and all the guards dead, their necks snapped like dried twigs. It made a powerful impression. The miners are third to fifth generation Nordarrans, many have a shapeshifter somewhere in the family tree and most have shifter friends so they were furious to discover a cutter's nest right under their noses. What you did to the cutter and the guards they took as a warning from an angry shifter that bad things would happen to anyone who continued to work at the mine. The remaining guards tried to prevent the workers from leaving and things got ugly. By the time all was said and done the miners raided everything they could from the site and made a run for Porta Belua. They've been arriving for the last two days telling everyone they knew nothing about the existence of a cutter's lab, pointing fingers firmly at the owners."
"Who are the owners?"
"Good question. I had to grease a few palms to get all the juicy info. On the surface everything looks legit. According to official records the mine changed hands two years ago and was bought by a company registered here in Porta Belua. All good so far. However, when I tried to find out who actually owns the company it quickly became clear someone put a lot of effort into obscuring the trail."
"Why such secrecy for a legitimate operation?" Amelia asked.
"Precisely. My contact told me the majority shareholder is a human named Carlos. He is a native of Nordarra who left to go make his fortune in the human world. According to my contact he only returned recently but he's had agents quietly at work for him for a few years now buying into all kinds of investments in preparation for his homecoming. Now here comes the intriguing part: House Ravir's people have been acting as his agents. They negotiated the sale of the mine and wait for it...House Ravir owns a third of the shares in the company that bought the mine."
"Our mystery human and House Ravir are business partners? The plot thickens."
"If you think that's interesting wait until you hear the rest. Word is House Ravir leveraged themselves hard to buy into the mine because they assumed they would recoup their costs quickly. What the avians didn't realize because none of them could go down those narrow passages to have a look was that all the big crystals were harvested just before the mine was sold. That left the little ones that would take years to grow to profitable size. In the meantime, the ethian veins had to be nurtured and the mine maintained and protected if they didn't want to lose their claim."
Amelia mused on this. Now she understood why the crystals in the mine were so small. She'd only found the large crystals because she crawled into a spider's nest in desperate hope of finding something decent. It was ironic that the cutters that owned the mine never knew what great riches lay within their reach. The miners, very sensibly, would have avoided the nests of the venomous creatures. Why risk their lives for set wages? It was only her promise to Yutu that had driven her to venture where no one else would go. She might be able to neutralize toxins but spider bites still hurt like crazy and having them crawl all over her had been nasty.
"So, you're saying House Ravir was in debt and losing money?"
"They were hemorrhaging thousands of credits a month. House Ravir, unlike House Aquilar, is not known for being business savvy and they were struggling financially even before the mine deal. They raked up debt everywhere and my contact said he heard a reliable rumor that House Ravir was perilously close to losing their tower because they couldn't repay their loans. The only thing that kept the creditors at bay was the logistics of trying to wrestle the tower away from such a militant flock. Then about a year ago their fortunes miraculously started improving."
"I can guess why."
"Yeah. It's an ugly business but extremely profitable for those with the stomach for such things. House Ravir has a long history of getting their hands bloody for profit. I heard they have ties with Black Paw and, for the right price, will act as scouts for hunters. There hasn't been a rumor of them working with cutters but desperate people will do desperate things."
"Emily told me House Ravir pushed hard to create an alliance with House Aquilar. She said her father didn't trust them and she couldn't stand to be in the same room as Lord Nero or his psychotic children so she deliberately derailed the negotiations despite her uncle Marcus advocating for the alliance. I'm so glad she did. Once word gets out anyone associated with House Ravir will be ruined."
"Unfortunately, once the business at the mine and the content of the ledger become widely known it is going to taint every avian flock to some extent. It's a real shame. The avians were just beginning to shake their reputation as sky-hunters for the slavers and cutters. Now, because of one greedy House, they're all going to be dragged back into the mud."
Amelia frowned. "I hope this won't affect Emily's House too badly."
"I wouldn't worry about it. Augustus Aquilar has worked hard for many years to distance his House publicly from any flock that still carried a whiff of involvement with those kinds of practices. House Aquilar should be fine. It will help their cause that Evangeline Aquilar was seen with you in the city and that according to rumors in the night market you almost bit a wolf who tried to get cozy with her. There is even a rumor you marked her as your mate?"
"Ah...so much for sneaking undetected into the city."
"Care to tell me what happened?"
"Emily and I had been intimate shortly before we had a run in with a male wolf. He propositioned Emily. It made me so furious I started shifting without even being aware of it. If he hadn't backed off I would have killed him."
"I see." Selene picked up her cup and took a sip of her tea. "How did Emily react to this?"
"She wasn't upset or afraid if that's what you're asking. She helped me calm down. Emily is very good at that."
Selene took another sip of her tea her expression thoughtful. "Most avians would be too afraid to go near an upset beast-shifter and when you get angry it's no joke. Your Emily sounds like a remarkable woman. Are you sure you two can't work things out?"
"Don't poke at this, Selene. It is what it is."
Selene put her cup down and patted Amelia's clenched fist where it lay on the kitchen table. "I'm sorry. It is just that I've never seen you like this about anyone but you're right, it's none of my business. I'll leave it alone."
"That would be for the best." Amelia sighed and gave Selene a rueful smile. "Did you manage to find out who put the big bounty on me?"
"Not yet, but it wouldn't surprise me if it's connected to what happened at the mine. The timing is just too coincidental."
"Well, it hardly matters now. I'll be leaving tomorrow."
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In her sitting room Emily lowered herself wearily into a chair. It was after midnight and aside from stretching her wings for a short flight during the dawn song that morning she'd been stuck inside all day. She wanted to go look for Amelia but she'd been unable to leave. She'd had a quick tour of the mira gardens to check on progress. After that she'd had a marathon of meetings and endlessly dealing with people who should be able to take care of the House business assigned to them without needing so much input from her. It was good to have her opinion valued but on more than one occasion she'd had to bite her tongue to not give a sharp reply. Her people had fluttered around her like nervous children in need of reassurance. She had never experienced anything like it and on a day she so badly wanted to be elsewhere it had been particularly trying.
Emily knew it was her father's illness that had the flock so unsettled. Lord Augustus had always been such a powerful presence, a figure to look up to. At the same time, he was an approachable leader who knew his people well. Under his leadership the flock had prospered and through his shrewd but fair dealings with other shapeshifters and humans, built a reputation for House Aquilar that gave its members respectability and a measure of protection that didn't rely on squadrons of armed warriors circling their tower. By shapeshifter standards her father was still a man in his prime and it had been shocking for Emily to see her father go backwards so quickly over the course of one year. The progressive illness had eaten away at the once vigorous man reducing him to a husk of what he used to be. His plumage was dull with bare patches and the fire in his eyes that had always shone so brightly had become dimmed by pain and frustration at the weakness of his body. The physicians had tried everything but since none of them could diagnose the cause of his illness all they could offer were remedies to alleviate his symptoms. As her father weakened he had handed more responsibilities over to her, to where she had to juggle more than either of them expected her to have to take up so soon. Despite how difficult it had been she thought she had done a reasonable job. Not as good as her father but she genuinely cared for her people and did her best. In her unexplained week-long absence the flock seemed to have developed a new found appreciation for her and it had taken her by surprise how many people had come to tell her they were happy she got home safely and seemed genuine about it.
Emily knew she was generally well liked and respected but she suspected in this instance it had more to do with the flock's concern with Marcus's behavior in her absence. Emily had had many complaints about the way he strutted around like he was Lord of the Tower. Mostly it was his arrogant and disruptive behavior that had ruffled feathers but there were two incidents she could not overlook. The first incident was financial and the other involved a serious breach of security. That morning the head accountant, a steely-eyed woman named Reva, told her she'd received a request for repayment on a substantial loan underwritten by House Aquilar on behalf of Marcus that she swore had never been authorized. This followed on the heels of Emily blocking his access to credit tokens only the previous month after she found out he'd been pressuring one of the junior accountants into letting him have those without going through the proper channels. When she had an audit done on what the tokens had been used for it turned out House Aquilar had been footing the bill for his extravagant parties and debt raked up at several gambling halls. She had made it clear to him then that House Aquilar was not his personal bank and that she would take serious action if he tried to pull another stunt like that again.
The accountant had just gone when she'd been told that Marcus had taken Raven on a tour of the tower and tried to bully the sentinels into letting them into restricted areas that contained the armory and the research laboratories. Fortunately, the sentinels had stood fast and refused, citing breach of House protocol. Emily had been speechless with fury when she heard what he'd done. In her eyes, he had gone from being a puffed-up peacock with delusions of grandeur and an occasional menace to a danger to the security of House Aquilar. Only a few members of House Aquilar were granted access to those areas and yet her idiot uncle thought it would be a good idea to take the heir of a rival avian House for a guided tour. As far as she was concerned it was the last straw. She would not tolerate such behavior from other members of her flock and he'd been allowed to get away with too much for too long. Marcus had to go.
She had already spoken with the head of security to make sure his eviction would be handled quietly and efficiently. She would not allow the man to upset the flock or her father with a dying swan act. She would have had him thrown out after dinner but her father had already been asleep when she had gone to his suite and she owed him an explanation before she kicked out his half-brother. Once she spoke with her father in the morning Marcus would be removed from his luxury suite and not be allowed back into the tower. As much as she was tempted to strip him of all support, she wouldn't touch the monthly allowance her father gave him because it wouldn't do for the Lord of the Tower's half-brother to live in squalor. He would, however, be cut off from all other House resources. If he curbed his extravagant spending he could live in comfort. If not, well, he was an adult. It was time he acted like one and faced the consequences of his actions.
Emily rotated her neck to get rid of the stiffness brought on by the stresses of the day. Tomorrow as soon as she dealt with Marcus, she would go look for Amelia. No matter what. She knew from experience it was a slow process organizing passage to leave Nordarra but she still felt the clock ticking and it was not a good feeling. She couldn't afford to let another day slip away without actively trying to find her. She would start with that friend of hers, Selene. The one who had a place in Old Town. She probably knew where Amelia was or could get a message to her that Emily wanted to see her. Even with how busy she'd been her thoughts had never been far from Amelia and she'd felt her absence like a constant ache. After her mini-breakdown in her bathroom the previous evening she'd felt utterly miserable. She'd spent hours replaying their time together and she had been appalled that she'd missed so many of Amelia's subtle and not so subtle signals that she was interested in a serious relationship with her. She had been so blinded by Amelia's plans to go away and the worries of what was happening back home that she had suppressed her desire to tell Amelia she loved her and wanted them to be together. She would not make that mistake again. When she saw Amelia she would tell her how much she meant to her and that she wanted to become her mate.
As soon as she'd made the decision to fight for Amelia Emily had felt the rightness of it. She knew there would be some in the shapeshifter community who would be outraged by their joining but she didn't care. As long as Amelia still wanted her she knew they would make it work. The way she saw the future she was bound to a lifetime of service for the good of her House. Despite being groomed for the responsibility, giving up so much of her freedom had never sat easily with her but she'd thought she had a lot more time to play before her wings were clipped. If she was to become ruler of House Aquilar years ahead of schedule she wanted at least one thing just for herself that made her truly happy. She wanted Amelia. Her flock would accept it or they could go pluck their own feathers for all she cared. She hoped she'd be able to convince Amelia to stay. She spent every free moment working on her arguments. She even worked out a plan to keep the hunters off Amelia's trail permanently. If Amelia wouldn't listen to reason she planned to seduce her. She would do whatever it took. Not that it would be a hardship to drag Amelia off to bed to convince her they belonged together. Fantasies about the many ways she could show Amelia just how well they fit together had pleasantly distracted her during several of the more tedious meetings she'd had to endure.
Emily got out of the chair and went inside to get ready for bed, locking the balcony door behind her. She was almost at her bedroom door when she heard a knock. Emily frowned; who would bother her so late? She had given strict instructions that unless there was an emergency she didn't want to see anyone until morning. The knock repeated and to her surprise, Emily realized the sound was not coming from the door to her suite but the balcony. That must mean it was Oriana because the guards would allow no one else near her balcony this time of night. Emily came to an abrupt halt when she saw the balcony door she just locked was wide open. Made from reinforced glass and spell crafted to withstand severe weather and physical attacks, it was also meant to have a tamper proof lock. In addition to her door being open several of the lights that had previously illuminated her sitting room were out so the room had more shadows than she liked.
"Hello? Who's there?"
There was movement on the darkened balcony and she saw the figure of a woman dressed in a long flowing robe. She had her hood drawn so her face was cast in shadows.
"A friendly visitor. If you will treat me as such."
"Who are you?"
"You should invite me in."
"Since you've already opened the door you hardly need my permission to enter. However, if you wish to be treated like a friendly visitor you will tell me your name and give me the opportunity to decide if you are welcome here."
"You know my daughter Amelia."
"Lady Adelind?"
"You may call me that."
Cautiously Emily approached the doorway. "How do I know you are really Lady Adelind? I don't know what Amelia's mother looks like."
The woman studied her for a moment then produced a folded piece of paper and opened it for Emily to see. Emily recognized the paper and her own handwriting. It was the note she had written to Amelia's mother.
"If that is not enough proof I can mention that I saw you in a library. Although at the time you were preoccupied with my daughter and unlikely to have noticed my brief presence."
Emily felt her face go red hot with embarrassment. She desperately wanted to look anywhere but at the woman who had seen her having sex with her daughter but she stiffened her back and said, "Lady Adelind, I welcome you as a guest to my home. Please come in."
Lady Adelind inclined her head, accepting the invitation and came inside. As she came into the light Emily saw her more clearly and felt her mouth go dry. She had the face of a statue, perfectly sculpted and equally chilly. Her grey eyes shone with razor-sharp intelligence and the haughty confidence one saw in those accustomed to wielding great power. Movement on Lady Adelind's robe caught her eye. At first, she wasn't sure what she was seeing then she realized that the midnight-blue robe shimmered with silver runes woven into elaborate patterns that seemed to be moving. Curious, she focused, trying to see one of the patterns more clearly but the runes immediately changed shape and she felt a sharp stab behind her eyeballs. She quickly looked away. When Amelia said her mother knew advanced rune magic she wasn't kidding. What the heck was she dealing with? More importantly, what the heck was Lady Adelind doing here in the middle of the night? Trying not to show how unnerved she was Emily schooled her expression and drew on her polite hostess persona. She offered Lady Adelind the first choice of chairs and took a seat across from her.
"Would you like refreshments? I can call for tea to be brought up if you desire?"
"No. I do not wish my presence here to be known. We have important matters to discuss, Evangeline Aquilar."
"We do?"
"Yes. I want to know how you came to be in the sanctuary and who you told of its existence."
"I told no one. Amelia made me give an oath that I would never speak of it. As for why I was there, why not ask your daughter? She was the one who took me there."
"I am asking you ."
Emily could not think of a good reason not to answer Amelia's mother and plenty of reasons why withholding the information could be a bad idea so she gave a brief summary of how they met and their journey together.
When Emily was done Lady Adelind sat quietly as if reviewing what Emily had told her. She nodded and said, "What you told me explains the foundation of your relationship. Amelia is cautious when it comes to intimate relationships and I know for a fact she has never taken anyone else home. Therefore, you must be dear to her and someone that she trusts. Amelia is a good judge of character but I had to meet you for myself to make an assessment. Call it parental concern if you like. Now on to the other matter I've come to discuss with you. The note. In it you said things I found curious."
"Curious how?"
"You implied my behavior has alienated my daughter. You urged me to speak with her and make things right before she left Nordarra. What behavior are you referring to?"
"Are you sure this is a conversation you want to have with me? Wouldn't it be better to speak to Amelia directly?"
"It pains me to admit there are things amiss in our relationship. I have no idea how to broach the subject with Amelia and even if I could find the right words to ask her why she acts towards me the way she does it is likely she wouldn't tell me. You, on the other hand, seem to be privy to information I am not. I demand you tell me."
Emily felt herself stiffen at the woman's impertinent demand. Lady Adelind was clearly a woman accustomed to getting her way but if she thought she could bark orders and have Evangeline Aquilar blindly obey she would be sorely disappointed. Her magic robe wasn't that impressive. Emily locked eyes with Lady Adelind and said, "I won't share what Amelia told me in confidence just because you demand it."
Surprise and a hint of approval showed on Lady Adelind's face. She gave Emily a long thoughtful look. "It was my understanding from your note that you hoped to see a greater closeness between me and my daughter. Correct?" At Emily's nod she continued. "Have you considered that what you know may be the key to us reconnecting?" She waited a moment for that to sink in. "Tell me what you know, Evangeline. Please." It sounded like the proud woman almost choked on the please. Emily felt herself soften.
"Lady Adelind, what I have to say will not be easy to hear. Amelia never spoke badly of you but the picture she painted of your relationship wasn't pretty."
"My daughter is often a mystery to me. She doesn't scream or shout, she holds things inside. She is my only child. I wish to understand her. I want to hear everything."
"Amelia told me how she was captured and how her father died. She told me of the things that happened and the vow she made. She said you became cold towards her after her father died. That you could not stand to touch her and were rarely around. She thinks you blame her for his death as she blames herself."
"I see. Amelia has it wrong. The truth is so much worse."
"I don't understand?"
Lady Adelind sighed like she carried the weight of the world on her shoulders and said, "To understand what I mean I have to tell you a story. It's both a love story and a tragedy. Of lovers who were never meant to be together but defied the odds and did the worst thing possible; they had a child. Amelia's father came from a lineage that has been tied to the magic of this land for centuries. His people strive to keep their line pure so as not to dilute the power that was gifted to them. This is something Valen's people and mine have in common. To stay pure his clan stay secluded in one of the ancient forests. It is a vast place inhabited by great beasts the likes of which I've not seen elsewhere and the winters there are the most terrible I've ever experienced. It is truly a place only the strongest survive."
"Is that where you met Amelia's father?"
"Yes. I was passing through the area. I'd been warned about the unpredictable weather but I was only meant to be there briefly, a few days at most. I thought I could handle whatever weather came my way but I got caught in a snowstorm of epic proportions. Total white out so that I couldn't tell up from down. The rivers froze solid, ice weighed me down so it was difficult to move and every breath felt like swallowing razor blades. Lost and half frozen I stumbled into what I thought was a cave looking for shelter only to find it was someone's home."
"Amelia's father?"
Lady Adelind nodded. "Valen was in beast form but I recognized what he was and asked for shelter and hospitality in the tongue of his people. His people and mine have clashed in the past. It does not translate well but we are the equivalent of honored enemies. We have been at peace a long time but we do the best we can to avoid one another. It's a courtesy and a precaution. I expected his response to be as cold as the frozen lands he called home but he was nothing like I expected. He laughed and told me my pronunciation was terrible but I was welcome all the same. He offered me a place by his fire, a seat at his table and safety in exchange for stories from the world outside his people's territories. It was a relentless, bitter storm that lasted weeks. He changed to man so he could tend the fire I needed for warmth and so we could talk more easily. His tiger was huge and magnificent but as a man, he took my breath away. He was so big and powerful but so gentle. He moved carefully so he wouldn't frighten me with his size. He was so easy to talk to and had such an inquisitive mind, we spoke for hours and it felt like mere minutes. He wooed me and before long we became lovers. More than lovers. I knew I had found the one person who made me feel complete. Valen wanted me to stay and become his life-mate but that was impossible for so many reasons." Lady Adelind paused and stared off into the distance retrieving old memories. "Valen told me he would follow me anywhere. He said he would abandon the great forest and frozen shadow lands of his clan to be with me. I didn't believe he would really give up that much for me. I told him if he was willing to do that I'd find a way for us to be together. But he did it. He threw a pack on his back and followed me halfway across the continent. Then he built us a home and grew my favorite flowers outside our bedroom window so I'd smell the sweet scent drifting in on the evening breeze. Those years with him, those precious days and nights were the happiest of my life. I've never known a love like that and no matter how long I live it is unlikely anyone will love me half as well as Valen loved me."
"So, Amelia really was a product of your love?"
"Yes. He wanted us to have a child so badly. He begged me. I knew it was a bad idea. Our bloodlines are ancient and carry too many things that could mix badly. There was a lot that could go wrong. Even if we produced a normal child our offspring would not be welcomed by his people or mine. Our child would be an outcast destined for a lonely life. He said he would make it his mission to make connections among the tribes of younger shapeshifters and humans so that our child could mingle with their children and make friends among all of them. For every concern I had he would come up with a counter argument. He wore me down. I took so much from him that I could not deny him a child."
Lady Adelind went quiet again but Emily sensed the story was far from over. There was something about the way the woman held herself that reminded her of Amelia when she was contemplating what to say next, if anything at all. Emily didn't try to fill the silence waiting instead for Lady Adelind to decide how much she would share.
"As soon as Amelia was born and Valen handed her to me to suckle I knew I had made a terrible mistake. She was mostly in human form but her little hands on my chest kept changing: hand, paw, claw and then a hideous mix. I was terrified. I knew that meant our child was a chimera. Normally a child of mixed lineage takes after either parent when it comes to shifting with the human form as the base. This is how it should be and even that can be too much for some to handle if the heritage is a rich and powerful one. You would not have experienced this yourself but beast-shifter children are taught to have disciplined minds and to create harmony between their human and beast selves. This is so they can harness the strengths that come with the ability to shapeshift without being swept away by the more primal impulses that come with it. Chimeras can access everything that comes with their mixed lineage. Not only can they make a full shift to another form they can also draw parts of it like just claws or fangs or whatever they have learned to do. Some powerful shifters of the Old Blood can still become a creature that is half man half beast but what makes chimeras unique is that they can draw from several forms at once to become something entirely different. However, in doing so they open themselves to a raging torrent, with all they carry within fighting for dominance with the carrier's consciousness. That is a terrible onslaught that few minds can survive intact. Thankfully a chimera is rarely conceived and even less likely to make it to term. If one survives in most instances it becomes a ferocious, crazed monster in a nightmarish body that is in a perpetual state of hunger and bloodlust. For this reason, if Amelia had been born among my people, they would have killed her instantly."
Shocked, Emily struggled not to let her dismay show. "Would you really have killed your child? Your own baby?"
"I saw a grown chimera once. It was a hideous, rampaging, crazed thing that had to be put down and it was not easily done. So yes, I would have smothered my own child rather than risk having to hunt her later."
"But you didn't."
"I could not." Lady Adelind took a deep shuddering breath. "Valen was beside me the whole time and all he saw was his beautiful daughter, the result of our love. He thought it was cute she could shift like that. He didn't understand what it meant. His happiness was my weakness, I could not take that joy away from him. I could not kill her and I could not tell him that she was an abomination. I was desperate."
"What did you do?"
"I did the only thing that made sense at the time. I suppressed her ability to shift, locking her in human form to at least give her a chance to develop normally. All she could do was alter small parts of herself like fingers or eyes but she could not hold it for long. Valen was so distressed about that. He longed for his daughter to run with him in beast form and he hoped it would be just a matter of time until she managed it. He was convinced her part shifting was proof she would. Knowing she couldn't and that I was the cause was a terrible burden but I consoled myself it was either that or kill our daughter. I told myself over and over I'd done the right thing. I was even proud of the complexity of the spell I wove. Amelia could feel her beasts calling to her so she kept trying to break down the barrier she felt but did not understand to connect with them. She fought so valiantly but she never stood a chance. She was only a child and I had set my considerable magic against her." The padded chair on which Lady Adelind sat groaned and Emily saw the metal of the armrest squeeze through her fingers like putty. "So good was my binding that when those men took turns to rape my little girl, she could not break free. When they broke her bones and burned her, she was helpless to defend herself. They tortured her and she could do nothing but suffer and bleed because of me. Valen died trying to save our daughter because I withheld from her the power that was hers by birth out of fear of what she might become. I was so arrogant, so superior in my conviction that I'd done the right thing. I was the worst kind of fool. For years I've wondered if Valen suspected what I had done. If that was why he chose to bleed all over Amelia knowing the power of his blood, so old and powerful made even more potent at the time of his death, would set her free from my binding so that she could save herself."
"They raped Amelia?" Emily's voice was barely a whisper.
"She didn't tell you? No, of course, she wouldn't have. What was I thinking? Yes, they raped her. I don't know if it was just to draw out her father or because she was such a beautiful child. Whatever the reason it scarred her. I think next to her father's death, being violated like that was what damaged her the most."
"That's horrific. No wonder she went out of her mind for a while."
Lady Adelind nodded. "Indeed. When I found her and saw the state she was in I feared the worst. For some time after I worried she was not entirely sane. She endured so much and she had to learn to cope with such a complex heritage. It is a testament to her immense strength of will that despite all of that she managed to become the woman she is today. I am so proud of her."
Emily felt sick after hearing Lady Adelind's account of what happened to Amelia. What Amelia shared about what happened to her and her father had been awful to hear but that had not been the worst of it. It had either been too hard for her to speak about or she had tried to spare Emily the full horror of what had been done to her. Emily tasted bile in her mouth and wondered if she would have to excuse herself to go throw up. Before she could make up her mind Lady Adelind continued speaking.
"Now you know the truth you must see I never blamed my daughter for her father's death and not for a moment have I stopped loving her. Amelia means more to me than you can possibly comprehend. It is simply that I hate myself. Every time I look in her eyes and see the scars on her soul I know that was my doing. It is unbearable."
"So, what? You wouldn't touch Amelia because her pain made you uncomfortable? You were all she had left and she needed you to be there for her. She desperately needed her mother. Instead, you left her all alone in that so-called sanctuary to fend for herself. That, lady, is called abandonment." Emily knew her anger bled into her voice but she didn't care.
Lady Adelind gave a dismissive flick of her fingers. "Amelia was always an independent child and much closer to her father than me. They spent so much time together and I was the mother who visited but never stayed. He was warm, patient and easy to be with. Affectionate. I'm not. He found ways to make us work as a family. He made everything all right somehow. After he died she became so wild and obsessed with vengeance that it was difficult to find her, getting near her in any meaningful way was near impossible. Without Valen I didn't know how to bridge the divide. I never abandoned her. I saw her whenever I could. I taught her whatever she would accept from me. I taught her how to shift and how to contain the beasts so they did not control her. I showed her the secret places of the ancient ones and how to use that knowledge to keep hidden. I made sure she had a safe place to return to and that she had access to plenty of food, resources and knowledge. I shielded her from my people. I kept her safe to the best of my ability."
"You kept her safe to the best of your ability? Really? If that's true then your ability is severely lacking." Emily's voice dripped with sarcasm.
"What is that supposed to mean?" Lady Adelind's expression hardened and there was a dangerous gleam in her eyes.
"Do you know why she's leaving Nordarra?"
"She's after adventure and discovery – Amelia has always been curious about the world beyond the portal."
"No! It's because she's tired of being hunted like her father. How can you not know this?"
"What are you talking about?" Lady Adelind demanded. Shock and disbelief warred on her face. "Who dares to hunt my daughter?"
"The cutters and exotic animal hunters. They are after her because she is an Old Blood tigress."
"How long has this been going on?"
"Years. From the sound of things since her father's death."
"That's not possible. She would have told me. Someone would have told me! I knew Amelia had the occasional pursuer but I assumed it was because of her hunt for her father's killers."
"At one time that was probably the main reason but not anymore. Dead or alive she is worth a fortune on the black market. She has killed so many hunters but the price keeps going up so the cycle continues. I tried to persuade her to find a way to make that stop but it has been going on for such a long time I don't think she can see it ever ending. It's too much. Constantly being on guard for traps and hunters has worn her down. She can never relax. She wants to settle down with a mate and have a normal life but she doesn't think that's possible in Nordarra. She thinks she must leave or eventually what happened to her father will happen to her. Can you imagine what that must be like for her? To live in fear she will one day find herself back in a cage at the mercy of cutters? Or even worse, to have someone she loves tortured and killed because of her? She barely survived what happened the first time and she's still plagued by horrific nightmares."
"You've painted a grim picture, Evangeline."
Lost in thought Lady Adelind sat expressionless and motionless as a statue and Emily knew instinctively not to speak to her. If Amelia's mother breathed or blinked Emily couldn't see it. The only thing that moved was the hem of her robe where the evening breeze stirred it but only slightly as if it too was afraid to disturb the woman. When Lady Adelind finally spoke her voice was low and thoughtful. "You have given me much to think about. You were bold to speak to me the way you have little avian but that is the way when love stirs the heart – it makes one reckless. However, since you did it on behalf of my daughter, I will overlook it."
"I was reckless? How so?"
"I can tell you have no idea who or what I am. Normally I wouldn't tolerate being lectured by the likes of you. Clearly Amelia kept her word and said nothing. Either that or you're not just reckless but stupid as well and my daughter would never fall for such a woman."
Emily bristled at the arrogance of the woman but she decided to bite her tongue. She had a personal question she wanted to ask Lady Adelind and she wouldn't get an answer if she antagonized her more. "Lady Adelind, Amelia said you are a direct descendant of the Old Bloods as well but wouldn't tell me what kind of shapeshifter you are. Would you mind telling me?"
Lady Adelind regarded her impassively, the blue light of the moon making her look even colder. "What else did Amelia tell you about me?"
"Aside from what I already shared? Very little. Odd snippets of conversation. Like when I asked her if you were joking about tearing off my wings if I betrayed her, she said you were serious and when I wrote you that note she said hopefully I'd been polite because your people used to eat avians. I honestly don't know if she was just messing with me. Sometimes Amelia's sense of humor can be a little odd."
Lady Adelind smiled showing a mouth full of teeth that gleamed unnaturally and looked too pointy to be entirely human. "My daughter does have a peculiar sense of humor and in her roundabout way she did tell you what I am. Think about the old stories. Do you recall which Old Bloods used to hunt avians for food and sport? Who filled your little hearts with such terror you sang with joy to see the dawn? Think about it. Tell me when it comes to you."
Emily inhaled sharply and her eyes grew wide. "Nooo, you're not a...you can't be a..."
"I can't be what? Say it if you dare." Lady Adelind tilted her head, one flawless eyebrow raised in challenge.
"A dragon. Are you a dragon?"
Lady Adelind blinked and suddenly Emily found herself pinned by cold reptilian eyes. "Well done, little avian. You would do well to keep this and everything else I told you to yourself. I like you, Evangeline, but my daughter's secrets are not to be shared. If you break her trust or breathe a single word of what I've told you to anyone you will witness first-hand the wrath of a dragon. I will annihilate your entire flock so that when I'm finished only blood, ash and feathers will remain. I'll make you watch the destruction of everything you hold dear and when I'm done, I'll eat your treacherous heart. This I swear to you on my scales."
Lady Adelind flashed Emily a terrifying smile full of sharp teeth and menace. Then she walked out on to the balcony and disappeared over the side. An instant later a massive dark scaled dragon whooshed up into the sky. The power of the creature's wings caused so much backdraft it made the curtains flap and staggered Emily back several feet. Emily raced to the balcony craning her neck to find where the dragon had gone. There was no trace of Lady Adelind anywhere, even though the evening was bright and clear enough for her to see for miles.
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Emily rarely felt the need to fortify herself with a drink but after Lady Adelind's dramatic departure she went over to her drinks cabinet and poured herself a brandy. After a sip of the smooth liquor she was pleased to note her hands shook only a little. Not bad considering she'd just had a dragon threaten to kill her entire flock and rip out her heart. She had a lot to think about and no one she could talk to about any of it. She'd been shocked to hear Lady Adelind call Amelia a chimera. Emily recalled reading about chimeras when her tutor delved into ancient Nordarran lore. Most of the creatures described in those old texts were so outrageously powerful or strange that she had always assumed the writers embellished or made up the mythical beings. She still struggled to accept that Amelia was a chimera but why would her mother lie? That would explain why Amelia said she didn't intend to have children and on more than one occasion had alluded to being called a monster. If those old books were to be believed chimeras could morph into such powerful monstrosities even the mighty dragons feared them.
Amelia is a chimera. Emily poked at the revelation a little more to see if it changed how she felt about her. It didn't. So, the woman she wanted as her mate had an actual dragon for a mother and hid how powerful and dangerous she truly was. That was hardly surprising all things considered. What really upset her and brought her to the verge of tears was Lady Adelind's description of the torture Amelia had suffered at the hands of her father's killers. She'd never been the kind to fantasize about killing but if she had it in her power to turn back time she would personally lead an aerial assault against those evil people and command her warriors to show no mercy. At least they were all dead. No...not all of them. Amelia said that their leader escaped to the human world and she lost his trail. After so many years he would not be easy to locate but she would hire agents to continue the search and if he was found she would have that despicable man killed and his heart brought back as a gift for Amelia. Emily grimaced at her bloodthirsty thoughts and downed the rest of her drink. Less than an hour in the company of a dragon and she was already thinking like one.
Emily was still standing with the glass in hand contemplating if it was wise to have another brandy when she heard a noise at her door. Glancing at her clock she saw it was almost two in the morning. Odd. Even Oriana wouldn't come to her this late, not unless there was an emergency, and then she would be shouting and pounding on the door. Emily registered with alarm that the sound she was hearing was someone unlocking her door. She looked around frantically and just had enough time to grab a corkscrew from the cabinet when the door swung open. As if in slow motion she saw a tall avian male with a hawkish nose enter her sitting room. She really should have backed into the shadows but she was so outraged at seeing Marcus sneak into her suite in the middle of the night that she blurted out, "What are you doing here?"
Her uncle paused and looked startled to see her standing in her sitting room when he probably expected her to be sound asleep. He got shoved out of the way and behind him Raven Ravir appeared holding a needle-gun. As soon as Emily saw it something clicked in her mind and she was on the move towards the closest exit, her balcony. She veered towards her room when she saw her escape blocked by an avian in sky-hunter garb landing on her balcony. She heard the whoosh behind her and deflected the first dart with a blast of air from her wing so it fell harmlessly to the floor. There was cursing behind her as Raven reloaded. Emily made it to her room and rushed to slam the reinforced door shut so she could engage the locks but a foot got shoved into the gap at the last moment. Terrified, Emily cried out and slashed blindly with the corkscrew. Marcus wailed in pain and to her relief he withdrew his foot. Just as she was about to slide the lock in place the door got rammed and she flew backwards with the force of the impact. Staggering and struggling to regain her balance she saw the avian male from the balcony come at her with outstretched arms so she whipped out a wing aiming for his head. Convinced she was fighting for her life she held nothing back and connected to his temple with a satisfying thump that vibrated through her wing. Dazed, he slumped to the floor. She picked up a heavy glass figurine of a dragon and threw it at Marcus but he ducked and she heard it smash to pieces in the room behind him. Raven darted through the doorway and Emily saw her level the weapon and pull the trigger. She tried to get out of the way but there was nowhere to go and she felt the sharp sting as the dart hit her chest. She yanked it out immediately but she knew she was in serious trouble. If the needle was filled with something similar to what she was shot with at the mine she had seconds before her muscles turned to jelly. She tried to fall back to the bathroom but her desperation wasn't enough to overcome the drug and she stumbled on numb legs. There was another sharp sting as a dart grazed her shoulder in passing. The world tilted and the floor came flying up at her. Emily tried to move but her body felt like it was weighted down with boulders. She tried to scream but all that came out was a low moan. Her face pressed into the thick carpet, she struggled to breathe and her uncle's voice sounded like a distant echo over the drumming of her own heart. She closed her eyes when she saw a woman's boots and braced for a kick in the head or a crushing blow to her ribs but to her surprise, Raven only gave her a sharp poke in the side. She didn't react. If they thought she was unconscious she might be able to use that to her advantage. If she was going to survive whatever this was, she couldn't afford to panic. Emily fought against the haze trying to claim her mind and honed in on the angry voices above her. It sounded like her uncle and Raven were having an argument.
"Quietly in and out. That is what you said, Raven. Your man knocked over a table and there is glass and blood everywhere!"
"Blame it on your own incompetence, Marcus. You said she would be asleep. The mess we made is minimal and most of it is you dripping blood on the floor. Wrap that wound, you fool! Don't just stand there and look at yourself like you expect someone else to do it. I'm not sticking around for the clean-up, that's your responsibility. You'd better do a good job if you don't want someone to become suspicious."
"I can't believe the little cunt cut me. Take her away. Get rid of the bitch. Make sure it looks like she had an accident. She recently had an injury to her right wing so it shouldn't be hard to make it look like it gave in while she was having one of her solo flights."
"I know why we are here. Remember, you owe us. Oriana's hand in marriage to my brother, an alliance between our Houses and a half share in the profits from the mira products."
"Aquimar wasn't part of the deal! I will never be able to sell something like that to the flock!"
"It is part of the deal now and you will make it happen. Did you think you could just keep asking for help and the price would remain the same? It doesn't work like that. Don't try to wiggle your way out of this. You know if you cross my father he will do a lot worse than pluck your feathers."
"All right I'll do it. No need to threaten me, Raven. As soon as I'm Lord of the Tower I will deliver on my part."
"You keep saying that. Lord Nero is out of patience and he wants what you promised him. Up the dose. Finish it."
"It will look suspicious if Augustus dies now."
"Nonsense. It's perfect timing. Lord Augustus is a sick man, the grief and strain of his beloved daughter's second disappearance is exactly the kind of thing that would finish him off. As soon as he is dead her corpse will be found in a ravine. For this to work the timing must be right, no more than a day or two delay or it will look suspicious."
"That wasn't the plan! She was supposed to die immediately and then I kill him."
"Marcus, you talk big but you're weak on delivery. You've been poisoning Lord Augustus for a year and he's still not dead. I'm keeping Emily alive until he is. How's that for motivation?"
"But—"
"Stop whining, you pathetic worm! We've done everything but hand House Aquilar to you on a plate. Grow a pair and do your part. Kill Lord Augustus. No more excuses."
Emily felt as she was rolled into a net but what was happening to her seemed inconsequential now that she knew her uncle was going to murder her father and she was helpless to prevent it. Emily's last despairing thought before darkness claimed her was that she was going to die and Amelia would never know she loved her.
|
Amelia stared at the pendant in the box. "This is beautiful, Selene. So elegant. I like how all the elements were incorporated. This is even better than I imagined. Your jeweler friend truly is a master."
"Not to mention a miracle worker getting it done so quickly. I expect the bonus you offered on top of the asking price was a great motivator."
Amelia held the pendant up by the chain so she could see it from all sides and Selene whistled appreciatively. "Wow...that's exquisite."
"Do you think Emily will like it?"
"If she doesn't the woman is blind or has no taste. That is a work of art. If someone had that made especially for me I'd count myself incredibly lucky."
Amelia smiled and admired how the play of light brought out various colors in the design. "I really want her to like it. I hope she'll wear it and think of me." Feeling embarrassed she'd spoken so openly Amelia carefully put the pendant back into the box. She added the note she had written, engaged the lock adding a little magic so only Emily could open it and then she carefully wrapped the box in the pretty paper Selene had the foresight to get for her. Her hands felt big and clumsy wrestling the slippery silk ribbon into a tidy bow and trying to do it on the dashboard of Selene's vehicle didn't help but Amelia was pleased with the end result. When she looked up she caught Selene studying her thoughtfully.
"You are in love with her."
Amelia saw no point in trying to deny it. She gave a helpless shrug and carefully placed the package in the vehicle's glove compartment.
Selene sighed and said, "If I'd known that I wouldn't have pushed so hard to get you a ticket out of here. If the boat wasn't leaving shortly I'd make you go see her. Even if you two couldn't get past whatever is keeping you apart at least you would have been able to take the necklace to her yourself. A gift like this...you deserve to see the expression on Emily's face when she sees it for the first time."
"I would have liked that but at least I got to see what the necklace looks like. You'll make sure she gets it?"
"Of course. You have my word I will put it in her hands."
"Thanks, Selene. Do I get a hug goodbye?"
"You just try and leave this vehicle without giving me a hug!" Selene leaned into Amelia's chest and said, "I'm going to miss you."
"I will miss you too. Thank you for being such a good friend."
Selene made a noise against Amelia's shoulder that sounded suspiciously like a sob and hugged her harder. After a few seconds Selene pulled away and said, "I'm going to show you how good a friend I am by kicking you out of my vehicle and driving like a pack of feral wolves are chasing me to get this gift to your Emily. The Aquilar Tower is only a short distance from here so I can probably get there before your boat leaves."
"You don't have to do that."
"Amelia, would you say you and Emily had something special?"
"I thought so."
"Do you think she cares about you?"
Amelia thought about how Emily had used her hands and words to soothe her after her nightmares and how upset and worried she'd been when she heard there was a price on Amelia's head. She remembered the affection in Emily's eyes when she looked at her and wished she had tried to see her again. If she turned up at her tower surely Emily wouldn't have turned her away? Perhaps they could have had another night together. What she wouldn't give to get drunk just one more time on Emily's intoxicating scent. For a moment Amelia thought she smelled the familiar blend of feathers and sensuous woman that was so distinctly Emily and she had to suppress a shudder at the intensity of her longing.
"Yes. Emily cares about me. I know that much for sure."
"That is good to hear. Amelia you said you stormed off because you two had a disagreement. You said the gift was your way of letting her know you're not upset with her?"
"Yeah?"
"It sounds to me like you are trying to make things right with her before you go?"
"Yes. And your point is?"
"My point is that she probably also feels bad about the way you two parted ways. What if Emily also wants to set things right between you two but she can't because she doesn't know where to find you?"
Amelia frowned and her expression became troubled. "That was the second time in one day I felt overwhelmed and ran off on her instead of staying to talk things through. Emily is big on talking and listening and getting things resolved. You're right, she will be unhappy about the way we left things. At the very least she'll want to tell me off for running away again. Okay, Selene. Go give her the necklace and tell her where I am. Hurry. The boat is leaving soon and I intend to be on it."
|
From the deck of the Mary-Jane Amelia watched as the anchor was lifted and the fishermen used oars to push the little vessel away from the wooden jetty. She scanned the air and road for what felt like the hundredth time but still no sign of Emily or Selene. She fought the waves of disappointment and told herself it was for the best. She missed Emily so much all it would take right now was the merest suggestion Emily wanted her and she would postpone her trip. Which would be a silly thing to do so late in the game. She was already on the boat and Selene had gone to a lot of trouble getting everything organized for her. The crew of this vessel was giving up an entire morning's fishing so she didn't have to take the ferry taking tourists through the portal to the ship waiting on the other side. Despite the late booking Selene had even secured a single cabin with a balcony for her on that vessel. Something for which Amelia was incredibly thankful as she would need frequent respite from the other passengers to keep her beasts calm.
Amelia heard the engine start and the distance between the dock and boat slowly grew as the captain eased them away. She swept the skyline one last time hoping to see golden wings but aside from a few seabirds drifting high above the skies remained conspicuously empty. With a heavy heart she put her hand into her jacket and touched the case that held Emily's feather.
"I would have liked to see you one more time but I suppose this is it. Goodbye, Emily."
Another quick glance towards Aquilar Tower then Amelia pushed off from the railing and made herself move to the side of the boat that obscured her view of the city so she couldn't keep looking for someone who wasn't coming. Amelia had just made herself comfortable against the wheelhouse wall when she heard the urgent honking of a vehicle. Peering around the corner she saw Selene's Jeep speeding toward the dock. Inside the wheelhouse the captain throttled down to an idle, stuck his head out of a little side window and said, "What has gotten into that girl? She's driving like a mad woman and making enough noise to wake the dead."
The Jeep came to a screeching halt and Selene flew out of the vehicle. The moment her feet touched the ground she was running. "Wait! Stop! Amelia! Amelia, where are you?"
Amelia quickly stepped into view and waved at Selene.
"What is it?"
"Amelia you have to get off! I need to talk to you."
"Too late. We're leaving."
"It is about Emily. She's in trouble."
"What kind of trouble?"
"Her sister will be here in a moment and she will explain everything. Joel, come back. Amelia needs to talk to someone."
"We're gonna run late, Selene," the captain protested. "We're already cutting it close."
"You can make up the lost time. Drinks on me for the crew and a six-course dinner for you and the missus at the Royal. That's a fancy place; you know she's been dying to go there for your anniversary. What will she say when she hears she missed out because you turned me down, Joel?"
"You drive a hard bargain. Fifteen minutes on the clock and not a second more or your friend won't make her connection."
Amelia saw movement in the sky and watched as an avian girl dove to land beside Selene. She was tall, willowy and fine boned with long hair the color of sun-kissed wheat done up in an intricate braid similar to the kind Emily favored. Her features were sharper and her curves less full but her resemblance to Emily was unmistakable. Amelia took a running leap to clear the boat's railing and the watery expanse to the dock that had grown to several meters. Behind her there were shouts and curses from on deck. She ignored it. Her focus entirely on the girl who looked so much like a younger unfinished version of Emily.
"Are you Emily's sister Oriana?"
The girl stared up at Amelia in wide-eyed wonder. She blinked and said, "I am. You must be Amelia. Emily tried to describe you to me. I thought she was exaggerating but wow...I totally get it now. I'm so glad we got to you in time."
Exaggerate about what? Amelia wanted to ask but dismissed it as unimportant. "I still have no idea what's going on. How is Emily in trouble?"
"My sister is missing."
"Are you sure about that? Perhaps she went for a solo flight to stretch her wings?"
Oriana adamantly shook her head. "She's been way too busy for that kind of thing and the sentinels would have noticed her taking off. I know something bad has happened to her. Emily told me to come get her just before daybreak so we could stand side by side during the dawn song but she wasn't in her room or anywhere else in the tower. That's not like my sister. If she makes plans with someone she doesn't change her mind and take off without saying anything. I think someone kidnapped her."
"Why?"
"When I went into her room there were little things out of place but it wasn't until I saw her bowl of fruit was untouched that I knew something was seriously wrong. Emily devours fruit like other people breathe air. She can't get enough. If she didn't touch her fruit that must mean she wasn't there to eat it. No one saw her leave so she must have been taken. I've got the sentinels and everyone else looking for Emily but I have a feeling they won't find her. I told my dad she's missing and he got very upset but he's so sick this morning I don't see him being much help. My uncle said I'm overreacting and stirring the flock into a frenzy for nothing."
"You are right to be concerned. You did well to get your flock looking for Emily."
"Will you help me find her? She said you saved her life and protected her. She trusts you. The way she talked about you made it sound like you could do just about anything. Emily said you're a beast-shifter. Some kind of cat? That must mean you're good at sniffing things out and tracking. I need you to come to her room and use that nose of yours to figure out what happened."
Selene stiffened and gave Oriana a sharp look. "You mind your manners when you speak to Amelia. I don't know how you talk to people in that tower of yours but you would do well to remember that you're not in it now. Didn't anyone tell you to be respectful when you address a beast-shifter, especially when you don't know what you're dealing with? Calling Amelia a cat would be like me calling you a fat pigeon and telling her to come sniff like she's a dog...are you out of your bloody mind? You pull that crap with the wrong person and you'll get your wings torn off."
Oriana stared at Selene with teenaged indignation. "No one would call me a pigeon, that's just stupid. I'm nothing like a pigeon and I'm definitely not fat." Oriana gave Amelia a speculative look. "I apologize. I didn't mean to be disrespectful, it's just that right now I couldn't care less what you are. I'm frantic with worry about my sister and the last time Emily disappeared it was because she'd been captured and shot. All I'm interested in is if you think you can find my sister and bring her home. Can you do that?"
"I will find Emily even if I have to tear this city apart. If she was taken out of her home against her will or harmed in any way whoever is responsible will die by my claws."
"That's the best thing I've heard all morning. Finally, someone willing to do something not just flap their wings and talk, talk, talk like that's going to get her back. I can see why Emily is crazy about you – you're a woman who gets things done. I like that."
"I'm glad I meet with your approval," Amelia said dryly.
"It's a relief for both of us. It would have been really awkward if I didn't like my sister's girlfriend."
"She told you I'm her girlfriend?"
"No, but you are clearly her something. Her very serious something. I've never seen my sister in such a state over losing someone and you put love bites on her butt and she let you. Plus, you hear she's in trouble and you jump off a boat to find out what's wrong. If that doesn't mean you two have something special I don't know what does."
Amelia cocked her head and gave Emily's sister a thoughtful look. "Oriana, how old are you?"
"I'm seventeen," Oriana said hands on hips, her wings arching just a little. She tried to meet Amelia's intense stare and lasted all of three seconds before she got flustered and looked away. Amelia smiled.
"What's so funny?"
"You remind me so much of your sister. She does the same thing with her wings when she tries to boss me around."
"Does it work?"
"Sometimes."
Amelia turned to address Selene. "Can you get them to unload my gear and take it back to your place? Looks like I'm not leaving today."
|
In Emily's bedroom, at the place she had fallen and other avians had stood around her, Amelia knelt and inhaled deeply, committing all the scents to memory. Even if these avians hid in a crowd she would be able to identify them as surely as if she had a photo. Amelia clenched her fists and fought to contain her anger. Emily was supposed to be safe in her den among her own people and yet avians had come into her most private space and taken her away. Emily must have been so afraid especially at the last when she lay helpless at her attackers' feet but how valiantly she fought before they took her down. When she found who did this to Emily she would make them pay.
Amelia strode to the sitting room where she had made Oriana wait. Some of her anger must have shown because the young avian took one look at her face and took a step backwards.
"Is she dead?" Oriana whispered.
"No, Emily was alive when she was taken. Her attackers came in the early morning hours. They probably expected to find her helpless in bed but she was awake and put up a fight. Two came through the main door, a male and female and another male through the balcony. Once they subdued her the female and the male from the balcony flew away with her. The other male went back into the tower but not unscathed. Emily cut him with something. He tried to clean up the drops but there is no hiding the smell of blood."
"Can you tell where they took her?"
"If they left on foot I could track them but they flew away hours ago and since I'm not familiar with the scent of those two I can't guess where they might have taken her."
"Then what do we do? Now I only have confirmation my sister was kidnapped but I'm no closer to finding her."
"Not true. We are going to ask the traitor who let the attackers into Emily's suite. Or rather I will ask the questions and if you have the stomach for it you can watch."
"What do you need me to do? How can I help?"
"Get your people to stay out of my way. I'm scared for Emily and furious she was taken from the place she was supposed to be safe. As far as I'm concerned anyone in this tower who is not you or your father is a potential enemy. I will tear to shreds anyone who tries to stop me from getting the answers I need to rescue Emily."
"What? No! You can't do that. I didn't bring you here to hurt my flock."
"I told you before you brought me here I would kill whoever is responsible for Emily being taken from her home."
"Yes, but I thought it would be people out there. Not my people."
"Oriana, there is something rotten in House Aquilar. Someone with a key unlocked her door and let her attackers in. Emily would have screamed while she fought but no one came to her aid or saw two avians fly away with her. That means the sentinels on guard were either incredibly lax in their duties or they were in on Emily's kidnapping. I don't have the time to figure out which it is and frankly, I don't care. They let her be taken and in my eyes that makes them guilty by default."
"But—"
"Oriana, we are wasting time talking. Emily could be in a cutter's cage as we speak. Moving through the tower will be quicker if I don't have to clear a path to my target but I will do whatever it takes to get my claws into the person who betrayed Emily." Amelia held her hand out to Oriana palm up. "Oriana Aquilar, will you help me save your sister or must I do this on my own?"
Oriana had been nervously watching Amelia, her wings drawn tightly around herself in a protective gesture. Now a change came over the young woman. Her feathers puffed up and she arched her wings aggressively. She took a step forward and clasped Amelia's hand squeezing hard.
"Find the traitor and save my sister. I'll fly by your side and clear the way."
On hearing Oriana's answer Amelia bared her teeth and said, "Let's hunt."
Honed in on the traitor's scent Amelia wove her way through the tower at a fast walk while Oriana hovered near. She wanted to run but they were already drawing attention and she heard the word 'beast' rustle in the air. The word was like a spark in a dry forest, not quite a flame but it would take very little for the mild alarm she sensed in the avians to ignite into full-blown panic. Four armored sentinels appeared and headed straight for Amelia with steely looks. Oriana immediately flew to intercept and spoke to them in an urgent whisper accompanied by sharp hand gestures. While Amelia waited she kept her eyes averted and tried to look as harmless as possible. Standing still when everything in her strained to be moving was difficult but she had to give Oriana a chance to avert confrontation. Amelia heard murmurs of protest but Oriana proved to be as formidable as her older sister because despite their misgivings the sentinels motioned for them to continue. Inwardly Amelia sighed with relief. A fight now would have been a waste of valuable time and despite the impression she gave Oriana to get her to cooperate she wanted to avoid bloodshed. This was Emily's flock. These avians were Emily's family and friends, her entire world revolved around them. She had to keep her claws sheathed because she was so angry if she fought now she could lose control of her beast and if that happened there would be carnage in Emily's home. She was here to save Emily, not destroy her world in the process. With that in mind, Amelia continued her hunt for the traitor. She stopped when the scent trail went beyond a locked door. Amelia pressed the tips of her fingers against the grain and said, "He lives here."
"But...these are my uncle's rooms."
"Your father's half-brother Marcus? The one with a Ravir woman for a mother?"
"Yes."
"Emily doesn't like him."
"Neither do I. Very few people do because he's an obnoxious pain in the butt but I find it hard to believe he's involved in Emily's kidnapping."
"Let's find out."
The door was locked but a swift kick sent the heavy door flying off its hinges. A quick look inside confirmed what her ears already told her; Marcus wasn't there.
"Are you sure?" Oriana's voice was uncertain and the way she huddled under her wings made her look very young. She wanted her to be wrong Amelia realized. Even though she didn't like Marcus Oriana also didn't want a family member to be capable of such a terrible betrayal.
"I'm sure. Do you remember I told you Emily made one of her attackers bleed?"
"Yes?"
Amelia followed her nose and found stuffed in the clothing hamper a torn, bloodstained shirt. She held the shirt out to Oriana who took it reluctantly. "The blood is only a few hours old. See how it hasn't gone black yet." Amelia was heading back towards the broken door to continue her search for Marcus when she caught the hint of a familiar smell. She stopped so abruptly Oriana almost ran into her. Amelia inhaled deeply rotating her head to pinpoint the smell.
"What is it?" Oriana whispered. She was watching Amelia closely, the bloodied shirt dangling from her fingers.
"I smell poison."
"Here?"
Amelia nodded and pointed at a wall panel. "The poison is there. Oriana, can you think of a reason why your uncle would keep poison in his room?"
"I can't think of a reason for anyone to keep poison in their room. What kind of poison?"
"I'm familiar with this smell. It is faint but it is the toxin excreted by a little yellow frog that lives in some forests. They are abundant where I live and the lynxhawks eat them as a delicacy but most animals are warned away by that scent. They know that even a touch can cause a severe reaction and make them sick for days."
Oriana paled. "What kind of reaction?"
"It would depend on the creature and how much toxin we're talking about but in humans and avians I'd expect seizures and muscle weakness. There would be other symptoms too but those would be the worst."
"My dad has been sick. What you describe sounds like what's been happening to him for the last year. He just comes right then he has another attack that leaves him weaker than before."
"If Marcus has been poisoning your dad with that toxin for a year it's a miracle he's still alive."
"He's been taking large dosages of our most potent mira potion every day."
Amelia nodded. "That explains why he's still alive. This toxin isn't lethal in small dosages but there is a cumulative effect, without the mira potions speeding up his healing he would have gone into a coma and died after the third or fourth application."
"When my father hears—"
Before Oriana could finish Amelia grabbed her by the shoulders and moved her away from the open balcony. "Oriana, we are about to have company."
As if on cue armored sentinels burst into the room with the loud stomping of feet and rustling of wings. The ones that entered through the door angled to train long metal spears on Amelia while the two who flew through the balcony drew wicked looking swords. Amelia stood still with her hands by her sides and tried once again to look as harmless as possible. Kicking the door in probably wasn't her best move. If there had been any doubt she was a beast-shifter, breaking a reinforced security door with a single kick would have dispelled that. Avians rarely let beast-shifters into their towers and here she was destroying things and alone with the youngest of Lord Aquilar's daughters just hours after her sister disappeared. No wonder the avians were in a flutter. Amelia watched as a sentinel rushed to draw Oriana away from her side and had to resist the urge to snarl and shield the girl with her body. Emily's sister wasn't in danger. If she acted rashly now the situation would quickly escalate into violence. To her surprise, Oriana flicked her wing at the woman's face when she tried to grab her so she had to jump to avoid being struck.
"What is the meaning of this?" Oriana raised herself up to her full height and arched her wings aggressively. "Who authorized this?"
"I did."
There was the sound of a cane tapping on the floor and an avian male with dull, patchy plumage appeared in the doorway. He was immaculately dressed and wore a red and gold sash around his hips that bore the crest of House Aquilar and the hand on the cane bore an elaborate signet ring. His clothing was of the highest quality but hung loosely on his tall frame. There were beads of perspiration on his forehead and despite the liberal application of cologne to Amelia the stench of sickness was unmistakable.
"Daddy!" Oriana rushed to her father and wrapped her arms around him. A little tension went out of Lord Aquilar's shoulders and he stroked Oriana's head in a gesture that spoke of affection and relief.
That was all the confirmation Amelia needed. She made a small bow in his direction and said, "Greetings, Lord Augustus Aquilar. I had hoped to meet you someday but not under these circumstances."
"You have me at a disadvantage. Who are you and what are you doing in my tower?"
"Dad, this is Amelia, Emily's beast-shifter friend, the one she told us about. She was on a boat leaving Nordarra but when she heard Emily was missing she came to help find her."
Lord Augustus gave Amelia a questioning look. "You are the one who rescued my daughter and brought her home?"
Amelia inclined her head slightly. "I am."
Lord Augustus nodded thoughtfully and told the guards to put their weapons away. "You match the description of the Old Blood tigress I've heard about and Emily spoke highly of you but you still need to explain yourself. Why did you break into Marcus's suite?"
"He was in on Emily's kidnapping, Dad. She was taken from her bedroom last night. Amelia followed his scent all the way here and look at this..." Oriana held up the blood-stained shirt. "Emily fought him and cut him. That's not all. Amelia said she can smell poison behind that wooden panel. She said she recognizes it because it smells like a poisonous frog that excretes that scent as a warning to be left alone. Did I get that right, Amelia?"
Amelia nodded. "You got the gist of it."
"Amelia told me what that poison does and it sounds like what happens when you have an attack."
Lord Augustus swayed like he'd been struck. He stared from the bloody shirt in Oriana's hands to Amelia.
"This is true?"
"Yes. The man you call brother is a snake."
"The poison...show me."
Amelia went to the wooden panel and slid it back to reveal row upon row of different colognes, oils, and lotions. She pushed them all aside and carefully removed from the back a small green glass bottle. She held it up for everyone to see. "This is it. It was opened recently. The odor still lingers on the rim."
The sentinel who had not sheathed his sword when Lord Aquilar told them to put their weapons away but merely lowered it to his side, stabbed it in Amelia's direction and shouted, "What a load of dragon dung! That is just cologne. You are nothing but a filthy beast come to mire the good name of Lord Marcus. He is worth ten times the likes of you!"
"You dare call me a filthy beast and a liar?" Amelia bared her teeth in a vicious smile. "Such an insult can't go unpunished." In a smooth motion she removed the glass stopper and splashed some of the liquid into the man's face. The entire room went so quiet one could hear a needle drop, all eyes fixed on the sentinel. For a moment nothing happened. Then his eyes rolled back in his head, he collapsed and started seizing, the back of his heels drumming on the wooden floor in a staccato beat.
Lord Aquilar stared at the man for several seconds and when he looked up his face was suffused with rage. "Get him. Bring Marcus to me. NOW. If he tries to fly away break his wings!"
Two sentinels promptly disappeared to fulfill his command. The woman who had tried to drag Oriana to safety was staring at the convulsing man in horror. "I'll get a healer, my Lord."
"You will do no such thing." Lord Augustus rustled his wings and wearily lowered himself into one of the seats.
"But...why not?"
"He made it clear where his loyalty lies when he called my bastard half-brother Lord. That is a title only used for the current Lord of the Tower. I'm not dead yet and even if I was my daughters are next in line. I smell treachery. Might as well begin the purge. You can, however, take him away. I have experienced what is happening to him many times and I have no desire to sit here and watch it. Everyone except Amelia wait outside. You too, Oriana."
Oriana opened her mouth as if to object, cast an eye at the seizing man being carried away and scurried out of the room with the rest of the sentinels in tow.
Once everyone was gone Lord Augustus lowered his voice to a whisper and said, "There is very little time to speak freely. Getting Emily back is more important than whether I live or die but I need to know if there is hope for me. You seem to know this poison. Tell me, Amelia, is it enough that the poisoner has been stopped or is it too late? Am I a dead man walking?"
"Lord Augustus, if you were a human your organs would have been irreversibly damaged by now and stopped working. Fortunately, you're a shapeshifter. Given enough time your body will purge the poison and you will recover fully. Keep taking the mira potions. It has kept you alive thus far and it will continue to aid you."
Lord Augustus bowed his head and let out a shuddering breath. "Thank you. I feel like a man who's just had his death sentence repealed. Now tell me honestly, can you find Emily?"
"Will you allow me to question your brother as I see fit? No interference."
"Snake of a half-brother. Yes. You may do whatever you see fit but don't kill him. Whatever his involvement in this he's still family."
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Emily's uncle was escorted in by two stone-faced sentinels. Marcus looked like he was at least twenty years younger than Lord Augustus. His beautiful silver-grey plumage shone with health and vitality, he had a fine-boned almost delicate look about him that some avians had and it was only his beak-like nose that tipped him towards handsome rather than pretty. He was dressed in what looked like an imitation of courtly attire of some bygone era. Whereas Lord Augustus dressed elegantly but simply and only wore a single sash and the ring of office to denote his position Marcus was decked out like a peacock in full preen. His clothing tailored to perfection, he was swathed in layers of rich fabric embroidered with the red and gold motif of House Aquilar. Even his bootstraps were embossed with the Aquilar crest. Marcus strutted into the room with an air of righteous indignation, his feathers puffed up to show his displeasure. Comparing the two men Amelia noted that despite his prolonged illness Lord Augustus radiated confidence and authority whereas Marcus swaggered like he had something to prove. If Lord Augustus was a sixteen-pointer stag well established in his domain, Marcus was a new horn trying to muscle into his territory by making a flashy display.
Putting all the pieces together Amelia concluded that Marcus was, despite his delusions of grandeur, smart enough to realize he was no match for the old bull in an open challenge. Even if by some miracle he managed to overthrow Lord Augustus he would still have to deal with the daughters and an angry flock. Staging his brother's murder would raise suspicion. On the other hand, if Augustus wasted away slowly from a mystery disease a cunning person could use that as an opportunity to establish himself more firmly. This raised the question: How devious was Marcus? Emily had dismissed him as a puffed-up peacock and an occasional trouble maker but he had been poisoning her father for a year without anyone suspecting a thing. He also presented an offer of alliance from House Ravir when House Aquilar desperately needed more wings in the skies to patrol their trade routes. Coincidence or something far more sinister? Perhaps Marcus was a more cunning predator than Emily realized. His mistake was to think he could manipulate his niece. Amelia knew first-hand how strong-willed and determined Emily was. She wouldn't meekly do as she was told and despite being an avian she could act as territorial as any beast-shifter. Emily might look sweet and gentle but her claws, when she chose to unsheathe them, were lethal. From what Emily told her Marcus found this out the hard way when he'd tried to undermine her authority during the negotiations and tried to strong-arm Emily into marrying Titus Ravir. Her response had shut the door on the deal and left Marcus publicly humiliated. For someone who seemed to put a lot of stock into how he appeared to others that must have been a brutal blow. Yet another reason for him to want to get rid of Emily. It wouldn't surprise her if he had a plan in the works for Oriana too. Amelia fought the urge to snap Marcus's neck. The man truly was a snake. Lord Augustus had welcomed him into the tower and allowed him to use the Aquilar name even though he was an illegitimate child but instead of showing gratitude he had tried to get rid of his own family. Bitterness rose to fuel her anger. What she wouldn't have given to be offered such a gift. If her father's clan or her mother's people had offered her even a fraction of the welcome Marcus had been given by the Aquilars she would have given her life to protect them.
Marcus came to a standstill in front of Lord Augustus and said, "There you are, Augustus. What is the meaning of this? Why did you have me dragged away from my meal? I was just about to have a slice of warm honey cake. The cream would have gone runny by now."
Lord Augustus's grip on his cane became white-knuckled. "Your niece is missing and you whine about missing your dessert?"
Amelia's anger towards the man who helped kidnap Emily flared into rage and she pounced. She saw the shock and disbelief in Marcus's eyes as he lay sprawled on his back with her weight pinning him down. She bared her fangs and roared into his terrified face. "WHERE IS EVIE?"
"I don't know what you are talking about!" Marcus screamed. "Guards, get her off me! Oh god, someone get this beast off me!"
"Sentinels stay where you are. No one moves unless I say so." Lord Augustus's voice rang out loud and clear.
"Augustus, what are you doing? Brother, why have you let this animal loose on me?"
"I have reason to believe you have been up to no good. I'd advise you to answer the young woman. She looks very angry to me."
Angry didn't even come close to describing the inferno of rage clawing at Amelia's insides. She wanted to tear out Marcus's throat but instead, she tore open his shirt to reveal the bandage on his chest. She ripped it off and the cut that ran from below his collar bone to his navel started bleeding again.
"Emily cut you good but this is nothing compared to what I will do to you if you don't tell me where she is." Amelia lifted a hand for Marcus to see and elongated her nails several inches, the tips honed to a razor's edge. She stroked his cheek lightly and blood ran in streaks.
"No, not the face! Oh god, not the face!"
"I want you to know that Lord Augustus asked me not to kill you so I won't. I will do something worse. I'm going to bite and tear pieces off your body bit by bit. I'll start with your hands then move to your feet. The wings will have to go, as will your nose and ears. But don't worry I'll leave your eyes so you can see the pity and revulsion on people's faces when they see the stump of a man you've become. Everything will grow back eventually. That's assuming you have someone to feed you and keep you alive that long. Now that you know what I plan, how many body parts you lose is up to you. Tell me what I want to know and I'll stop. Lie to me and I will take an extra-large bite." Amelia lifted Marcus' left hand to her mouth and bit off all but the thumb with a sharp snap. She spat the bloody fingers into his face.
"You took all my fingers!"
Marcus was screaming hysterically so Amelia slapped him. The force of the impact left him momentarily dazed and silent.
"You lied to me. I know you were in her suite when she was taken – your stink and blood were all over the place. You are the one who let in the avians who took her. Are you going to call me a liar and deny it?"
"You're right, I was there. I let them in. Please don't bite me again!
"Let who in?"
"Raven Ravir and her man."
"Why? What kind of deal did you strike with them? Tell me everything."
When Marcus hesitated Amelia lifted his other hand to her mouth and peeled back her lips to show him her teeth. Wanting to hurry the interrogation along she let her tiger come close to the surface so he could feel its presence and see it looking out of her eyes. Staring up at her Marcus pissed himself and squealed like a dying rabbit.
"No, no, no please don't! I beg you! It was just business! They take Emily off my hands and when I'm Lord of the Tower I will give them the alliance they want and Oriana's hand in marriage. It benefits both houses and I need money. I have debts, large ones. I borrowed from people that take the saying 'paying in a pound of flesh' literally. This House is so wealthy and the Aquilar personal fortune is huge but Emily wouldn't let me have a measly cent; she kept blocking me at every turn. It's not right! I should be the next Lord of the Tower when Augustus dies, not her! I got a tiny inheritance and have to live off the scraps my brother gives me. It's not fair!"
Amelia tossed Marcus into the air and spun him around so she stood behind him. She grabbed hold of his wings, lifted them away from his back and struck at the connecting joints. Her claws cleaved through bone and flesh as easily as a hot knife through butter and wings fluttered to the ground. Marcus clutched at his back and fell to the ground screaming. One of the sentinels ran out of the room and there was the sound of vomiting.
"Why did you take his wings?" Lord Augustus asked from his seat. "Was he lying?"
"No, he was telling the truth."
"Then why?"
"He admitted to betraying Emily. He doesn't deserve to fly." Amelia poked Marcus with her boot. "Where did they take her?"
"You took my wings. You goddamn bitch you took my wings." Marcus was blubbering like a small child. "Do you really think I care what you do to me next?"
Amelia lifted his chin with a claw so he could see her face. "You have plenty more to lose. You can still walk and piss like a man. If you don't tell me what I want to know by the time I'm done you will beg for death. Answer my question. Where is Emily?"
Marcus stared at her through a haze of pain and hatred. He sucked in his cheeks and Amelia was ready to avoid a glob of spittle when he spat, "Dead! She's dead! That was my price. I wanted her dead. Right now she is worm food or better yet, getting sliced up and bottled. One day some wealthy prick is going to rub his dick with 'Cream of Emily' to get a hard-on. Fat rendered from a female avian is supposed to cure impotence, did you know that?" Marcus was laughing hysterically. "Oh, the irony. I hope that happens, it's what that bitch deserves."
Amelia stumbled away from Marcus. The world was spinning and it felt like she couldn't get enough air. She heard the tap of the cane as Lord Augustus got up from his seat and walked over to the man he once called brother. She watched through a haze as he raised his cane and struck the fallen man so hard Amelia heard Marcus's skull crack. Lord Augustus grabbed Marcus by the bloody stump of his wings, dragged him to the balcony and with the strength of a man possessed threw him off the building. Amelia shifted her hands and face back to human shape and went to stand beside him. Together they stared at the mangled remains of Marcus where he lay shattered in a pool of crimson on the marble paving far below. An avian rushed to land by the fallen man while others hovered in the air staring at the balcony where Lord Augustus and Amelia stood side by side.
"It was too quick a death," Lord Augustus said as if speaking to himself. "I should have kept him alive and made him suffer for the rest of his life." Lord Augustus slumped against the wall, his head bowed over his cane. "My daughter is dead. My Emily, my beautiful golden angel is dead."
"No."
"No?" Lord Augustus's head snapped up.
"No. I refuse to believe that. She was alive when they took her away. I smelled the sedative they used to knock her out. Why bother to sedate her? Why not kill her right there and then if that was their intent all along? There is no difference between carrying a dead person or an unconscious one. Marcus might have made an agreement with Raven to kill Emily but until I see a body I'm going to believe she's still alive. What he said before he died was the desperate last strike of a man who knew he was doomed. He knew he could not escape me and when I was done with him, he would still be faced with your wrath. Life as he knew it was over."
"Yes. I see what you mean." Lord Augustus raised himself up to his full height and said, "I will ready warriors, fly to Ravir Tower and demand my daughter's release."
"What if they won't give her back or deny they have her?"
"Then I will declare war on House Ravir. I will decimate them!"
"Could you win in an armed battle with House Ravir? They are a very militant flock. I've seen their tower. It's heavily fortified and always swarming with sentinels."
"Are you suggesting House Aquilar is weak?"
"I'm saying you need to think of this as a hostage situation. We don't know where they are keeping Emily or what they will do when you confront them with an armed force. Best case scenario they demand a ransom. Worst case they kill her. Our priority is to find Emily and rescue her. Open dialogue with House Ravir and let them know that you know they have her. From what I've heard you are a savvy negotiator and a brilliant businessman so now would be a good time to pull out all the stops. Give them incentives to keep her alive and buy me time so I can find out where they have her hidden."
"What are you going to do?"
"There is someone I can ask for help to locate Emily. As long as Emily breathes this person will be able to pinpoint her exact location."
Lord Augustus gave Amelia a hard stare. "Why didn't you do that right from the start?"
"I'm not on the best footing with this person and honestly, it didn't even occur to me until now to ask her for help. She's a very powerful Old Blood and she doesn't like to get involved in the affairs of the lesser races so this is a long shot. However, we have a history and mutual obligation. I think she'll help me if I ask."
"How can I assist you? What do you need? The considerable resources of House Aquilar are at your disposal. Just ask and it will be done."
"Have the roof cleared and draw all your people inside. If you value the lives of your people do not come out until I say so. If she thinks this is a trap or that I've been taken captive by avians it's going to turn into an epically bad day for House Aquilar. Once the roof has been cleared I will send out a call and see if she'll come to speak to me."
"And if the Old Blood doesn't heed your call?"
"Then I'm going to tear Ravir Tower apart floor by floor looking for Emily."
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Lord Augustus had the rooftop cleared in record time and the avians were inside their tower with all the shutters closed. Before the tower went into lockdown he sent avians speeding off in various directions on what Amelia assumed were important errands. Amelia found a sheltered spot and used a borrowed charcoal pencil to draw the summoning spell that would call her mother. She had a good memory but she still had to think carefully about the alignment of the overlapping circles and had to redraw one of the runes. Her mother would no doubt scold her when she saw the sloppy work. In the middle had to go the offering to identify the person seeking an audience. That is where she would place her hair. Her mother had said she should use more hair if the call was urgent. How much exactly did this situation call for? Amelia sighed in frustration; what a terrible time to rely on a spell she'd never tried before. It was a miracle she remembered it at all since she'd been adamant she would never call on her mother for help.
After a short contemplation she decided she would rather create a bonfire than a measly smoke signal. Time to go all out. Amelia pushed her fingers through her short hair, gathered it in a bunch and cut so close to the root she felt the cold metal of the blade glide against her scalp. She lay the hair carefully in the designated space and repeated the process until she couldn't find anything long enough to cut. She checked all the runes and interlocking patterns one more time to make sure there weren't any glaring mistakes then activated the spell using her magic. The runes glowed a dull yellowish green but the hair did not ignite like her mother said it would. Disappointed and wondering what she'd done wrong Amelia was about to remove her hair and start again when her hair turned into a seething mass of green flame. Good. Now she would wait to see if her mother turned up. She would wait an hour, no more.
Twenty minutes later Amelia heard a thud behind her. Turning she saw her mother stride towards her with billowing robes. She was scowling and she somehow managed to look worried and annoyed at the same time.
"Amelia, what is going on? What is the emergency? Why have you called me here of all places? If these avians have harmed you I will reduce this tower to rubble." Adelind paused in her tirade to look at the summoning spell and its contents with disgust. "I said use a few hairs if you need me not shave off all your hair. I thought you must be dying. I stormed out of an important meeting I—"
"I need your help mother. Emily has been kidnapped."
"Emily?"
"Evangeline Aquilar, the girl who was with me at the sanctuary."
"Ah, your avian lover."
"Yes, my avian lover. Mother, you were in her rooms last night. What were you doing there?"
"I did not take the girl. I had questions in regards to the note she left me. We spoke and then I left. It was an informative conversation and I was impressed with Evangeline. She has courage for one of her kind and she cares about you a great deal."
Amelia sagged with relief.
"Did you think I harmed her?"
"No. But it was baffling to find your scent in her sitting room and it's been bothering me. I had to know why you were there for my own peace of mind. I called because I need your help to find Emily. I could do it but it would take a lot longer than if you looked for her and the people who took her have had her for hours already. I don't even want to think about what they may be doing to her. The thought of someone hurting or violating her is terrifying. I have to save her!"
Amelia had grabbed hold of her mother's arm while she spoke. Adelind looked at the hand on her arm then studied Amelia's frantic face. "This girl must be very important to you. It's been so long since you've asked me for anything and you've never called me like this."
"Please, Mother. If you want me to beg I will. Is that what you want? Do you want me to go on my knees?"
"No!" Adelind glared at her daughter. "No, don't you dare. I'm not trying to make you beg, I am just trying to understand your behavior. This is so out of character for you. Tell me, does Evangeline feel about you the way you do about her?"
"I don't think so but that doesn't matter. I would tear this world apart for her. Please, will you help me?"
"Of course, I will help you. I will find your girl and accompany you on this quest to rescue her. Do you have something of hers I can use?"
Amelia reached into her jacket and removed a slim flat case. She carefully unsealed it and showed her Emily's feather nestled within. Adelind removed the feather and twirled it slowly between her fingers.
"Ah, this will do nicely. A primary feather is a precious thing. Did Evangeline gift this to you as a token of her affection?"
"She didn't really give it to me," Amelia admitted. "She left it in my bed."
Adelind's mouth twitched in a smile. "I think that counts as 'giving it to you'. The way you two went at it no wonder the girl left feathers behind."
Amelia's stared at her mother in stunned silence. She cleared her throat and asked, "Mother, did you just make a sex joke at my expense?"
Adelind gave a dismissive wave. "Amelia, we are both adults. I walked in and straight back out when I saw what was happening. You two were in the library for goodness sake and you have never brought anyone home before so there was no way I could have known. Next time I'll listen before I enter although I'd like to point out, that's what the bedroom is for."
Amelia was staring at her mother as if she had never seen her before. She absently ran her hand over her shorn head and said, "Mother, I really don't want to have this kind of conversation with you. Especially right now. But for what it is worth I had no idea you have such a wicked sense of humor."
"There are a lot of things you don't know about me, like there are a lot of things I don't know about you. We should really try to remedy that, this distance between us...it pains me. Once you've gotten Evangeline home we should have dinner and talk. Is that a deal?"
"Is what a deal?"
"I'll find your Emily and you'll repay me with a meal. You haven't cooked for me in years. I always loved your baking. Can you make those little tarts with the cherry filling, the ones your dad used to make? I've craved those."
"Um...sure. If that's what you want. We can have dinner and I'll even bake the tarts, just like Dad used to make."
"And talk," Lady Adelind added urgently. "We really need to talk. There are things I have to tell you." Her right hand darted from the robe and she tentatively touched Amelia's cheek. Amelia barely had time to register the slight tremor in her mother's fingers before she snatched her hand back.
"Sure..." Amelia drawled out the word and wondered if she looked as startled and confused as she felt. She couldn't remember the last time her mother had touched her. "I don't know what to make of your sudden desire to spend time with me but we can talk about that. Later. Right now, I need you to concentrate on finding Emily."
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When Emily woke she felt confused and disorientated. She couldn't understand why she was lying on her sore wing and wrapped in a net. When her sluggish mind finally recalled the kidnapping she felt vaguely surprised that she was still alive. After the initial relief came panic and she had to fight her instinctive response to struggle against the bindings. Emily's thoughts went to her father and she wondered if he was still alive. She was determined to believe that he was. Her father was ill, not stupid. Her disappearance would make him very suspicious especially when he heard she planned to have Marcus expelled. She had to believe he would figure out in time that his half-brother was a traitorous snake. The alternative was unthinkable. Emily told herself not to dwell on what was happening at home. She had to save herself before she could help anyone else. She had to focus on escaping.
The pep talk helped to make the panic recede and Emily felt her mind clear. The first thing she did was to take stock of what condition she was in. She was nauseous, her head felt like it had been stuffed with cotton and her mouth tasted like bile. She was hot and her sweat drenched clothing stuck uncomfortably to her skin as though she'd been left to bake in the midday sun but it was probably just her body trying to flush out the sedative she'd been injected with. She felt bruised and battered as if she'd been roughly treated but nothing seemed broken and since she was still fully dressed and wrapped in a net at least no one had taken liberties with her body while she was unconscious. In comparison to not being dead or having parts of her body missing she knew it shouldn't be important but Emily almost cried with relief.
Peering through her lashes Emily saw it was day and she was in a stone structure with a sturdy door, reinforced walls and lashed down roofing. It was the type of design she'd seen in buildings meant to withstand extreme weather. The floor against her cheek had a metallic feel. She turned her head a fraction and her heart almost stopped when she saw the thick metal bars inches away. Emily's queasy stomach flooded with acid when she realized she was once again in a cage. She made herself lie motionless while she fought to bring her uneven breathing under control. Straining to listen over the pounding of her own heart Emily heard nothing aside from wind howling over the roof so she took a chance and slowly lifted her head to get a better look at her surroundings. She was in a small storeroom. The door on the far side was closed and presumably locked and she was in a cage but the cage door was slightly open. Whoever dumped her here probably thought it was overkill to lock the door of the cage when the captive was unconscious and wrapped up tighter than a turkey about to be stuffed in the oven. Either that or it was an oversight. Whatever the reason if she wanted to escape she had to get out before someone locked her cage or she'd be at the mercy of whoever held the keys to that door. To get out of the cage she first had to get out of the net. She knew how to do that. She would shift her wings away and that would give her a lot more room to move. Once free she would find a way out of the storeroom and fly away. Emily suspected it wasn't going to be that easy but it gave her hope and that was something she desperately needed.
About fifteen minutes later Emily staggered out of the cage. Her limbs were shaking, she was panting and sweat-slicked. Aside from the time her wing was broken and Amelia forced her to shift this was the worst shift she endured. The sedative Raven put in those darts did not play nice with shifter physiology and a week ago it was unlikely she would have been able to overcome the side effects of the drug to shift at all. Emily wiped the sweat from her brow and felt ridiculously smug that she'd not only managed to shift but she'd done it in such a short time despite being drugged. With her wings gone and her everything lubricated with a copious amount of sweat she had practically slipped out of the net.
Emily made her way to the storeroom door and found it was locked. No real surprise there. She went over to one of the tiny windows and cautiously peeked out. What she saw made her heart drop. She was not on the ground like she suspected but on the roof of a building. On the roof of an avian tower to be exact. Outside she saw a winged sentinel dressed in House Ravir's flight armor perched on the edge of the roof, his gaze cast outward as he scanned the skies and surrounding mountains. Emily swore silently. She recognized the area and the sentinel confirmed she must be at Tower Ravir. The place was fortified to the teeth and according to reports there were always dozens of sentinels on patrol. She was an excellent flyer but she didn't like her odds of evading that many pursuers out in the open. Emily stared at the sky and what she saw made her smile as another plan started to take shape. Thick grey clouds clustered above, the heralds of an impending storm. It wasn't raining yet but it would soon pour down and that would drastically reduce visibility. She would fly into the heavy cloud cover, a dangerous thing to do during a storm but it would give her a fighting chance. But first things first, bar the door so no one could get in. Hopefully, that would make her captors think she'd fortified herself inside when in fact she planned to squeeze through one of the tiny windows. A child would have difficulty getting through but she was fined boned, slender and highly motivated. She would get through even if she had to scrape her boobs raw.
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Some time later Emily found herself hiding in a gap between the roofing and what might be an old chimney flue. She had congratulated herself on spotting the small opening but now she was trapped. The roof had become a hive of activity as sentinels landed to get out of the sky before the storm hit and Raven had turned up with company. The wind was picking up making it harder to hear but Emily caught snippets of conversation when the wind blew her way. From it she deduced the man with Raven was eager to see the captive Evangeline Aquilar. Emily didn't know why the man was interested in her. She knew for a fact she had never seen him before because he was not someone she would forget. He was bald with bronze skin, built like someone who worked out so he could break things with his bare hands and he had a sneer on his face that looked like it lived there permanently. He was smoking a black cigar that gave off a sweet cloying stench. This told Emily he had to be human because it was rare for a shapeshifter to smoke and no beast-shifter with a half-decent nose would be able to tolerate that sickly smell. He was the type who at first glance looked like a common thug but the cut of his clothing spoke of wealth and he had two huge bodyguards shadowing him. The guard on the left sported a bulge under his jacket so Emily assumed he was a human carrying a firearm. Firearms were on the list of items not allowed through the portal but that didn't mean there were none around, just that the few who possessed such weapons had to pay a fortune to own one. The guard with the greasy hair tied into a ponytail radiated a different sort of danger. He tracked the movements of the sentinels with an unsettling gleam in his eyes and the way his lips curled in a half snarl gave him away as a wolf-shifter. The presence of a wolf in their tower caused an agitated stirring among the sentinels and they watched him with equal interest, their wings arched in readiness to spring into motion at a moment's notice.
Emily drew her eyes away from the silent battle to focus on what was happening between Raven and the angry man. She couldn't make out everything that was being said but she gathered he wasn't happy about the barred door and Raven was on the receiving end. He was ranting at her, standing so close that spittle flew into her face. Raven's feathers were puffed up with fury but instead of lashing out as she so clearly wanted to she stood in stone-faced silence. Emily found this astounding. Raven was infamous for her vicious temper and acid tongue and Emily couldn't believe she was allowing a human to speak to her like that. The only time she'd ever seen Raven silently endure verbal abuse was when it came out of the mouth of her father, Lord Nero Ravir. By all accounts, Lord Nero ruled his House with an iron fist and she wouldn't be surprised if Raven was afraid of him. What Emily was afraid of was that Raven's people would break down the door and find out she was missing and start looking for her. From her teenaged encounters with Raven she knew to be wary of her but her trepidation about being at Raven's mercy had nothing on the primal dread caused by the sight of cigar-man. It wasn't just that he was a large aggressive male, he radiated so much menace it triggered every one of Emily's flight instincts. She knew without understanding why that she should do everything in her power to stay away from him.
The breeze blew her way again and Emily heard Raven say, "She can't go anywhere, she's trapped. Marcus may try to weasel out. Alive she is leverage. If the plan goes to crap she can still be used for ransom. House Aquilar is one of the wealthiest flocks in Nordarra and Lord Augustus will pay handsomely to get her back."
"I don't care. Bring her to me. She is mine now."
There was a flash of thunder and the dark clouds tore open. From her little hidey-hole, Emily watched in disbelief as the sentinels, instead of seeking cover inside, squatted all along the edge of the roof and arched their wings into canopies to shield themselves from the deluge while they guarded their flock. She didn't expect such dedication. The sentinels from her own House were not this vigilant. Belatedly Emily realized this was probably why she was in this mess. She eyed the sentinels sourly; they had just derailed her plan to escape during the storm. At least the downpour had chased away Raven's odious companions. Unperturbed by the rain Raven watched the human and his bodyguards run to get off the roof. Even through the rain Emily could see hostility radiate off the woman. Raven's dark eyes bore daggers into the man's back. There was so much loathing on her face Emily knew if she was capable of such magic Raven would have called down lightning to strike him and his companions dead.
She was still standing in the same spot when a sentinel approached her and said something to her. In response Raven turned to look towards Emily's hiding place. Crap. One of the eagle-eyed sentinels must have spotted her. As if to confirm her fear several avians moved into view blocking her only exit. She'd been caught. She had nowhere to go and even if she had her wings she could not slip past that many avians to attempt escape. Emily closed her eyes for a moment to gather her courage, took a deep breath then scrambled out of her hiding place to stand in the open under an overhang. She was wingless and filthy but she held her head high and glared defiantly at the other avians. She was Evangeline Aquilar, daughter of Lord Augustus Aquilar and she would not shame her flock by being dragged out of her hiding place like a drowned rat.
When Raven saw that Emily couldn't fly away she made a hand signal and the sentinels immediately returned to their previous positions. She joined Emily under the overhang, looked her up and down slowly and said, "So this is how you got out. No wings. I didn't think you'd wake for several hours never mind shift and manage an escape. I'd applaud your effort but since you're still a captive there really isn't any point."
"Hello, Raven. I'd say it's good to see you again but it really isn't."
A ghost of a smile flickered on Raven's lips. "Hello, Emily. You're as fiery as I remembered. Good to see that hasn't changed."
"Unfortunately, you have. I would never have imagined the girl I used to play with when we were kids would one day kidnap me out of my room and stuff me in a cage."
Raven shrugged. "We're no longer children. In the game of life we do whatever we must to win. There are no rules to protect the weak from the strong, only the cunning and ruthless survive. I tried to tell you that."
Emily studied the woman in front of her. Raven had dark hair, dark wings and eyes as inscrutable as the night. Hard lines were edged in around her mouth and eyes making her look years older than she was. It felt like a hundred years since they had laughed as they rode the breeze, testing their new wings. What happened to that girl she knew? Why did she become a woman with eyes full of bitterness and rage? They hadn't been friends exactly but she'd liked Raven and during the annual gatherings they had always teamed up when it was time for the games where the boys were pitted against the girls. The boys were bigger and faster but between the two of them they often came up with a plan that gave the girls enough of an edge to win. That was before the games became too serious to be fun and Raven turned into a certifiable bitch. Mentally Emily shook herself. What was the point of musing about the past? It wouldn't change what Raven had become or help her get free and she needed to focus on the now to try to gather as much information as possible while Raven was still talkative.
"So...I assume I'm here because my uncle struck a deal with your father?"
"Yes. That and you wouldn't become Titus's wife. My father took that rather personally."
"Can you blame me? I know he's your brother but he's so not my type."
"Titus isn't anyone's type. No one sane anyway."
Surprised at the venom in Raven's voice Emily decided to push for more and asked, "Who's the human with the stinky cigars?"
"You don't know him?"
Emily shook her head.
Raven's mouth turned down like she tasted something bad. "That's Carlos. He is a wealthy business associate."
"I overheard some of what was said. Why does he want me?"
"I'm not sure why that bastard wants to get his paws on you, aside from the obvious. He wasn't even supposed to be here today but when my father told him we have you he got very excited. He called you 'Amelia's mate'."
Emily blinked in surprise. "Why would he call me that?"
"You haven't become the mate of a female beast-shifter?"
"No. But I do know Amelia. What I don't understand is how he knows I know her or why he would call me her mate. I only met her about a week ago."
"It's unfortunate Carlos thinks you're important to her because he was foaming at the mouth like a rabid dog when he said Amelia's name. Their bad blood is about to spill all over you. I've argued to keep you alive to give us options if Marcus tries to renege on the deal but Carlos wants you and what Carlos wants my Lord Father gives. That's what happens when one person owns the debt of an entire House. My father calls him our golden goose but he's the one who holds the noose around our necks." Raven turned her head and spat.
"I take it you're not a fan of Mister Golden Goose?"
"He 'entertained' himself at the expense of one of my friends and the arrogant fucker struts around our tower with a semi-feral wolf in tow. That, Emily, isn't even the half of it. While you were my responsibility I had some say about what happened to you but once you're in his hands there is nothing I can do for you. For what it's worth I'm sorry I didn't give you an overdose when I had the chance."
"How about instead of being sorry you didn't kill me you apologize for kidnapping me in the first place."
Raven shook her head. "I was following orders. I do as I'm told like everyone else. That's how it works. I'd have nothing to do with this mad scheme if it was up to me. We are going to be hit with a shit-storm if the other flocks find out we supported the poisoner who knocked off Lord Augustus and we abducted and killed House Aquilar's golden princess. Your father is highly respected and you've always been popular, Emily. No one likes my family. The other flocks fear us but we can't force them to do business with us or entice their young to join our House just because we have a formidable air-force. A show of force or the murder of the heads of a rival House might have been how success was measured in my grandfather's days but that is not what appeals to the younger generations. The world has changed, we have to as well if we want our House to prosper. I can see it clear as day but my opinion doesn't matter."
"Of course your opinion matters. Raven, why are you acting like you're a powerless puppet? You are Raven Ravir, heir to House Ravir. When you speak your people obey. You just made a hand motion and all the sentinels did as they were told. Whatever you may think, these people look to you for leadership. I bet if you let me fly away they wouldn't question you."
Raven was quiet for a moment when she spoke her voice was laced with bitterness. "You really have no clue. Yes, the sentinels would obey whatever order I give but I don't dare defy my father's wishes. In your world, you are the beloved oldest child and your father a benevolent ruler who adores his daughters. Not everyone can live in a fairytale. In my world, my father has already chosen his preferred heir and it is most definitely not me. I'm only insurance in case his perverted shit of a son dies or he needs to breed me for offspring to maintain his bloodline. He'd try for more sons himself but he's been firing blanks for years and thus far Titus hasn't been able to sire a single child despite fucking anything he can shove his dick into. That is my reality. As long as I toe the line and continue to prove my usefulness Lord Nero lets me be. However, if I give him even the slightest excuse he'll have me strung up by my wings and whipped to within an inch of my life, just like anyone else. I've learned that lesson the hard way."
"Raven...I had no idea. That's dreadful."
"Very few people do. Certainly no one outside of House Ravir."
"I must really be doomed if you're telling me this."
"Pretty much. I hoped if I kept you alive long enough something would happen to allow you to go home again but now it would take a miracle to save you. As soon as it stops raining Carlos or one of his men will come for you."
"Why did you try to save me, Raven? I thought you don't like me."
"I liked you plenty when we were kids. You were one of the few people who were genuinely kind to me. You and your mother when she was still alive."
"Then why did you start treating me so badly? You were horrible. Always saying nasty things and trying to hurt me. You plucked out my feathers and pushed me into a river. I almost drowned!"
Raven shrugged and looked a little sheepish. "I was a messed up angry teenager and you had the life I wanted. I was a vindictive bitch. I still am."
Realizing that was likely to be the closest thing to an apology she'd ever get from Raven Emily decided to play a hunch and asked her next question. "Does your flock own shares in the ethian mine near the Black Paw trading post?"
Raven gave her a suspicious look. "Why do you ask and why in that tone?"
"Why do you hesitate to answer? There is great prestige in owning an ethian mine."
"There is...but you know I can't talk about House business."
"You already have and as you pointed out I'm a condemned woman. What's the harm in telling me?"
Raven nodded and said, "We do own shares in the ethian mine but Lord Nero decreed it had to remain a secret. He wanted to buy it outright but the best we could manage was a third of the shares, the controlling two-thirds belong to a human. It rankles his pride that House Ravir could not even buy equal shares. He thinks if the other flocks find out it'll look like we are subservient to a human."
"I see. I had a stopover at that mine about a week ago after I got blown off course in a storm. Did you hear about that?"
"Titus was there checking that everything was running smoothly but he didn't mention seeing you. Not that we talk unless we have to. He doesn't tell me anything about his business and that place has been his responsibility from the start. The only time I hear anything is when he gloats about how much money the mine is making for the flock. What's the big deal about you being there anyway?"
Emily studied Raven thoughtfully. "You don't know, do you? Either that or you're a very good liar."
"Don't know what?"
"About the cutter's den operating inside the mine. Cages, a processing laboratory and until last week captives as well."
Raven did a slow blink and said, "No. That can't be. You must be mistaken."
"It's the truth. I got stuffed into a cutter's cage just for landing there. I was just resting my wings but I assume someone thought I saw more than I did. Or perhaps since the agreement with Marcus was to get rid of me Titus thought that was a golden opportunity to make me disappear. It would have worked. I was so far off course no one would have thought to look for me in that area. The only reason I escaped is because Amelia, the beast-shifter you asked about, discovered the cages and freed me and the captive wolves."
Raven was staring at her in stone-faced silence, a muscle twitching in her cheek.
"You really didn't know?"
Raven shook her head and said, "Un-fucking-believable. Now so many things make sense. I knew something fishy was going on when I heard Titus was flying boxes of chemicals and laboratory equipment to the mine but I assumed they were powdering crystal shards to turn into drugs. It's nasty stuff but the high is unbelievable and worth a fortune on the black market. But a cutter's lab? That's madness! If the other shifters find out about this our flock is going to be in a world of trouble."
"That business will taint every flock, not just yours. It is going to turn the other shapeshifters against all of us again. It's only been in the last few years that we've been able to visit the night markets without being harassed or attacked."
Raven's mouth set in a bitter slash. "Do you think I don't know? Operating a cutter's den is suicide."
"You said House Ravir owns a third of the shares so who owns the rest?"
"Carlos owns the majority shares. He's our wealthy business partner, remember? His men run the mine. Ah...now I understand why he got so feral about that Amelia woman. He must have found out she was the one who let you and the others escape. If she hasn't spread the word by now the wolves will howl it to the moon. That operation is blown."
"What can you tell me about Carlos?"
"Trying to get to know your enemy? It won't be much use to you but I'll tell you everything I know. Carlos grew up in Nordarra and from what I've picked up my father used to do business with him even then and they were drinking buddies. I think Carlos used to go by a different name and there was something about him having to leave in a hurry because he ran afoul of a crazed beast-shifter. Apparently, it all worked out because he hooked up with 'the right people', whatever that means, and made a fortune in America."
"Do you think Lord Nero knows what they've been doing at the mine?"
"Of course, my father's spies are everywhere. There is no way my brother would do something like this without clearing it with him first. He may be the chosen heir but that doesn't mean he's immune from punishment."
"This is messed up, Raven. Really messed up."
"Welcome to my world."
"No thanks. I'd rather be out of your world and back in my own. Preferably soon."
Raven snorted and said, "I can still go find the needle gun and give you an overdose? That would get you out of here fast."
Emily gave Raven a dirty look letting her know exactly what she thought of that suggestion.
"I'm trying to be nice. It's a serious offer and you should take it. It will be a quick, painless death."
"That is a definite NO. You need more practice at being nice. Offering to kill me really doesn't fill my heart with warm feelings towards you."
Raven shrugged. "You made your choice. Remember I offered to give you an out. I've done some bad things but I make my kills quick and clean. That bastard gets off on making people scream and from what I've heard with women he takes twice as long and lets his men join in. I don't need to tell you what that means."
Emily wrapped her arms protectively around herself but it did little to ward off the deathly chill of Raven's words. She felt her hands trembling and hoped Raven wouldn't see through the thin veneer of her bravado. Swallowing hard she said, "As long as it's raining I still have time. Something good can still happen to turn things around. This can't be how my life ends – I have so many things I still want to do."
Raven shifted making herself a little more comfortable under the overhang. "What sort of things?"
"You really want to know?"
"Sure. Let me live vicariously through you for a few minutes. Like you pointed out it's pissing down. We have a little time."
"First, I'll make Marcus pay for what he's done."
"That goes without saying. What else?"
Emily stared into the rain that was coming down so hard she could barely make out the edge of the roof and had a feeling of déjà vu. The last time it rained this hard she was on Amelia's back while she ran down a mountain to get them to safety. What she wouldn't give to feel Amelia's warm strong body carrying her away right now. Emily closed her eyes for a moment then said, "There's a woman...I didn't tell her I loved her when I had the chance. I should have told her I want her in my life permanently but I didn't and she went away. If I die without seeing her again that will be my biggest regret. What makes this doubly tragic is if I had told her she probably would have been with me last night and you wouldn't have been able to abduct me even if you had a squadron of warriors with you."
"You reckon your avian girlfriend is that tough?" Raven asked with a smirk.
"She's not an avian."
"Beast-shifter?"
Emily nodded. "A tigress. She's so sleek and powerful that just watching her walk into a room is an experience."
Raven whistled and said, "A tigress? That's an audacious catch even for you. You don't do anything by half. Now I want you to live just so I can witness the drama when you try to introduce something as predatory as that into your flock. Talk about letting the cat loose in a tower full of birds. So, what's your tigress like?"
Emily tried for a smile and said, "I'd invite you for dinner so you could meet her yourself."
"As your guest or as her meal?" Raven asked with a grin.
"That's funny. I'd laugh if I wasn't so stressed. Who knew you had a sense of humor? It's a shame you were such a bitch because I think we could have been friends."
"I'm still a bitch."
"True. You're also deranged with the offering to kill me every few minutes but if you let me go I'll overlook it. It's not too late to turn things around, Raven, all you have to do is give the word and I'll be gone. If you let me go I vow that only Marcus will be held accountable. It can all stop now – there is no need for more bad things to happen."
"Good try, Emily, but this is out of my hands."
"Please let me go? I beg you."
Raven folded her arms across her chest and looked away from Emily. "I can't."
They stood in uncomfortable silence after that. Emily expected Raven to leave but she remained where she was, her face an inscrutable mask. Emily figured she was either guarding her or standing vigil like for someone condemned to death. Neither thought comforted her but she was thankful Raven was delaying her handover to Carlos.
Raven obviously didn't want to talk to her anymore so Emily decided instead of trying to draw the other woman into conversation she would use the precious time to shift her wings. It was something one only did in private but she wasn't likely to get privacy any time soon. She needed the options her wings would give her; a chance to fly away or fight if she had to. Shifting was easier this time, which let her know the lingering effects of the sedative was wearing off, but it still took her five agonizing minutes to shift. When her wings whooshed into existence Raven gave a startled grunt. She recovered quickly and at her barked command sentinels surrounded them. Point made. Even with wings Emily wasn't getting away.
"You're full of surprises. How did you shift so fast?"
"It wasn't that fast. I've been working at it since we started talking," Emily lied.
"That's still very quick and it's the second time you've shifted today. How did you manage it?"
"Let me go and I'll let you in on the secret."
Raven gave her a sour look. "I'd forgotten what a pain in the ass you can be."
Emily ignored the comment and flexed her wings. Her golden color and wingspan always drew admiring gazes and now was no different; she could feel the weight of multiple eyes as the sentinels looked at her with more interest. She knew her wings were beautiful but she wasn't trying to impress the other avians. She wanted them to see her wings and think, "She's an avian. She's one of us ." She wanted that image firmly planted in their minds when the human and his bodyguards tried to drag her away. There was more than one way of fighting and she was going to play the distressed pretty avian female to the hilt. It might not make the least difference but she was out of options. Next to her Raven shifted uncomfortably. Glancing at her she saw that Raven was looking at her with narrowed eyes.
"Emily, what are you doing?"
"What does it look like? I'm stretching my wings. Don't you stretch your wings after you've shifted?"
Raven gave a non-committal grunt. With nothing else to do Emily studied the sentinels more closely. Between the rain and the hoods they wore drawn low over their faces it was difficult to see them properly but Emily recognized one of the women as someone she danced with at a club and two of the males looked familiar to her. She was still wondering if she could use any of this to her advantage when the rain that had been pouring down stopped as suddenly as it started. Emily looked up at the skies that were still dark grey with clouds and hoped it was just a brief pause. Raven swore and when Emily followed her gaze she saw Carlos and his men coming through the door. He paused to take in the scene on the roof then bore down on them to stop a few feet away. His eyes went from Raven to Emily and his lips peeled back in an ugly smile. He looked Emily up and down letting his eyes drift across her wings and linger on her breasts.
"Evangeline Aquilar, I heard you were a lovely thing but the rumors didn't do you justice. Good. It's so much fun to play with pretty things and avian girls are a special treat."
Behind him, the human snickered and the wolf leered at Emily with undisguised lust. Emily shuddered and drew her wings tightly around herself. Next to her Raven's mouth drew into a thin hard line.
Carlos leaned in and said, "I couldn't have asked for better bait. I'm going to take lots of photos and spread it everywhere to make sure Amelia sees how much fun we are having with you. If she's got as much of a soft spot for her little avian as I've heard it will flush out the elusive tigress and when she turns up to rescue you...BOOM, she's dead."
Emily reacted without thinking, she lashed at him with her wing and only missed the strike to his temple because the wolf-shifter yanked his boss out of reach.
Carlos angrily shook off the wolf's hold. He stabbed an accusing finger at Raven. "Why haven't you tied her up? I want that bitch's wings bound."
Raven unhinged her jaws and said through tight lips, "No. If you want to bind her wings do it yourself. I will not lay a finger on her to help you and neither will any of my people."
"Lord Nero commanded you to obey me," Carlos snarled.
"No, he did not. My Lord father instructed me to let you take her, nothing more. There she is. Take her if you can."
Emily grabbed Raven's arm as she started walking away. Pitching her voice so everyone could hear she said, "Raven, please don't hand me over to this cutter. I beg you. Lord Augustus will pay handsomely to have me returned unharmed and our Houses can put this disagreement behind us. There will be war with my flock and no peace with any of the other flocks if you hand over the heir of House Aquilar to be tortured by humans and wolves."
Raven shook off Emily's arm and went to stand some distance away with her back turned so she couldn't see what was happening behind her. Her wings were arched aggressively and the sentinels beside her shifted uneasily, their eyes darting between Raven, Emily, and Carlos.
Realizing she was on her own Emily bolted to the side of the building and tried to take flight. The wolf jumped on her from behind and brought her down hard. She tried to scramble away from him but he grabbed her by the wings and started dragging her to the waiting Carlos. Emily screamed in pain and terror. She tried to dig in with her legs and clawed at the grooves in the rock trying to get away but she was no match for the wolf's strength. She got yanked to her feet by her wings and she saw several of her golden feathers strewn along the path she'd been dragged. She struck at Carlos when he came into view but for a human he was surprisingly quick and avoided her blow. There was a thud and Emily doubled over in pain. Winded and in shock Emily realized Carlos just punched her in the gut. No one had ever hit her with such clear intent to inflict pain and her mind struggled to cope with the horror. Before she could recover she got yanked upright by the wolf. He held her from behind and Carlos pressed his face into hers. His eyes were filled with so much fury she knew he was beyond reason. Perhaps it was his anger that made him forget he still had an avian audience or perhaps he was so used to doing whatever he wanted he thought no one would dare to object when he grabbed hold of Emily shirt and tore it open. He had long unkempt nails and the vicious force with which he tore Emily's shirt meant he also left a bloody trail down her chest and across one breast. Emily screamed and tried to cover herself but Carlos was all over her. She tried desperately to dislodge his hands from painfully squeezing her breasts but the wolf pinned both arms along with her wings. Emily threw her weight back against the wolf and kicked out with all her strength. She felt vicious satisfaction when her kick landed solidly and she heard the agonized grunt of a man who'd been hit where it hurt most. Her victory was short lived as an instant later a blow struck the back of her head. She went limp as stars flickered in the dark before her eyes and she was dimly aware she could taste blood from where she bit her own tongue.
From somewhere to her side Emily heard Raven roar, "ENOUGH! Get that feral mutt off her!"
There was a flurry of wings and angry shouts but Emily couldn't follow what was going on over the din in her head. She got shoved to the side and with no time to brace herself she hit the roof hard. Her stomach heaved and in a daze she pushed herself up into a sitting position expecting to throw up but nothing happened. As soon as she had her wits about her Emily tied her torn shirt as best she could. It hurt to turn her head but she forced herself to look around. It took her a moment to comprehend what she was seeing. Carlos lay on his side clutching his crotch, the human guard kneeled with his hands tied behind his back and the wolf lay on the ground with unseeing eyes, a thin trail of blood seeping out from under him. Standing over the wolf with a bloody spear in his hands was one of the males she had thought looked familiar. She recognized him now from a brief meeting when her cousin Innes had shyly introduced the new man in her life to the flock.
"Hello, Lorenzo."
Lorenzo nodded but kept his eyes averted. "Hello, Emily."
Emily heard raised voices and saw Raven was having a heated discussion with half a dozen sentinels. Emily unsteadily got back to her feet. She tentatively flexed her bruised wings and almost wept in relief to find they were still in working order. Good, that meant she could fly and that was exactly what she would do while everyone was distracted. She walked to the edge of the roof intending to launch herself over the side but a firm hand grabbed her wrist. Panicked she tried to shake off the hand but it was no use, Lorenzo held fast. Feeling oddly betrayed she stared up at him. Lorenzo looked uncomfortable and very grim.
"You can't leave, Emily. Not unless Raven says so. Please don't struggle I don't want to hurt you."
Raven broke from the gathering, she skirted around the downed Carlos and grabbed hold of Emily's other arm.
"Come, Emily. Move . Quickly now!"
Before Emily could open her mouth to ask what was happening she was force-marched off the roof by Raven and Lorenzo. When she tried to dig in her heels Raven yanked her hard. "I'm trying to help you!" Raven ground out through gritted teeth. Seeing no better option Emily followed.
As they passed through the guard room Lorenzo scooped up a discarded flight jacket and wordlessly stuffed it into Emily's arms. She shot him a grateful look and wrestled her wings and arms into it on the move. She felt less exposed with her torn shirt covered but she still had to resist the urge to draw her wings around herself protectively. So many curious eyes tracked her movement and none of it felt friendly. Wordlessly they hurried down several flights of stairs. Raven stopped in front of a locked door, fished a key out of her pocket to unlock it and pushed Emily inside. It only took Emily a moment to notice the barred windows and that access to the balcony was blocked by a metal gate bolted into the floor and ceiling.
Furious she turned on Raven. "How is stuffing me into another cage helping me?" Emily hissed.
"This is for your own protection. I'm the only one who has a key to this room. It's true you can't leave but no one can get to you either. Trust me right now that's a good thing. It will buy time while I figure out what to do next. If you believe in any deity now would be a good time to pray for help."
With those parting words, Raven shut the door in Emily's face and there was the sound of a key turning in the lock. Emily stared at the metal door and told herself firmly she wasn't allowed to cry. She rested both palms on the door and listened with her ear pressed to the door but the metal was either too thick or the room had been made soundproof because she heard nothing aside from her own pounding heart and rapid breathing. Turning away from the door Emily surveyed her new prison. It was empty, not even a chair to sit on or a rug to cover the bare floor. On the upside, she didn't see manacles on the wall or torture equipment either. Emily strode to the other side of the room to inspect the gate that blocked access to the balcony. It was odd that a prison would have a balcony but it was probably already there when the room got repurposed to serve as a holding cell. Rather than remove the balcony it was easier to add the gate. Experimentally Emily pulled on the lever in the wall. She didn't really think anything would happen but to her surprise, it retracted the balcony screen. If her circumstances weren't so dire she would have marveled at the sight that greeted her. Ravir Tower was on a high mountain that could only be reached by flight and Emily saw stretched out before her majestic snowcapped mountain ranges, rain swollen clouds and far below a valley with a river writhing through it like a thick green snake. A blast of cold wet air ruffled her feathers; it was raining again. Emily gripped the thick metal bars that kept her from flying away and stared longingly at the dark skies beyond. As she watched lightning fork in the distance she automatically counted down the seconds until she heard the accompanying boom. If only she could get out she'd happily throw herself into that storm. No matter how dangerous it was to fly in such bad weather she'd give half her feathers to be out there rather than remain a captive of House Ravir.
|
Despair washed over Emily and she closed her eyes against the sting of tears. As soon as she did the scene on the roof replayed in her head and she started to shiver as the shock of what almost happened hit her. She opened her eyes and stared up at the stormy sky willing herself not to think of the fate that awaited her if she got handed to Carlos. Emily was so lost in her dark thoughts it took her a moment to register the low whisper of her name. At first, she thought she imagined it but then she heard it again. Scanning the balcony she saw the top of a head and a pair of familiar green eyes staring at her. Emily's jaw dropped and she stared in disbelief. Amelia? Here? How was that possible? Amelia looked between the room and Emily, her eyebrows raised in question.
"It's just me," Emily mouthed at her.
Amelia nodded her understanding and pulled herself up onto the balcony. She put a finger to her mouth cautioning Emily to be quiet and made her way to the barred doorway. She took a quick peek into the room behind Emily then took hold of two bars bending them out of the way like they were made from rubber. Amelia squeezed through the gap and Emily immediately touched her to make sure she was real.
"Amelia, I can't believe you climbed all the way up here. It's so high, what if you fell?"
Amelia gave her a mischievous grin and said, "I told you I can climb really well. Getting up here wasn't difficult, the challenge was getting to you without being seen." Amelia turned her attention back to the bolted gate and as thunder rumbled in the wake of another lightning strike she ripped out the metal bars so a person with large wings could get through.
Emily stared at the effortless display of power. She knew Amelia was strong but this was on an entirely different scale. It reminded her of the way Lady Adelind destroyed the armrest of the chair she'd been sitting on. She had squeezed the metal frame in a fit of anger so it pooled through her fingers like putty. Amelia must really have dragon blood in her veins, Emily thought. Wow...and they had made love.
Emily waited impatiently for her to finish. As soon as Amelia turned to face her Emily threw herself into her arms. The moment she felt the familiar comfort of Amelia's embrace the fear that had gripped her like a vice released and she blurted out, "You came for me. I didn't think anyone knew where I was but somehow you found me. I'm so happy to see you."
Amelia scooped her up so Emily ended up with her legs wrapped around her waist. Amelia kissed the side of her neck and murmured into Emily's hair, "I was so worried about you. I thought I was going to lose my mind when Oriana told me you were missing. I was so angry with Marcus for what he did. Your father was furious."
"My father is alive? Marcus planned to kill him."
"I know. Don't worry he is very much alive and he will get better now he's not being poisoned."
Emily whimpered with relief. "When I get home I'm going to have Marcus's wings clipped for the suffering he caused."
"That may be a bit redundant...your uncle is dead."
"You killed him?"
"No, your dad did that. I just ripped off his wings and bit off a few fingers to make him talk."
Emily's eyebrows flew up and she said, "Sounds like you and my father had a very interesting bonding session."
"Something like that. You are precious to him and he wants you home safe. We have that in common."
"I'm precious to you?"
"The most precious thing in the world."
Emily tilted her head and claimed Amelia's mouth in a hungry kiss. The kiss only lasted a few seconds but it was intense with Emily trying to convey so many complex emotions at once.
"You really are happy to see me," Amelia said a little breathlessly when she pulled away. "I'd like nothing better than to have you kiss me like that all day but not here. We are still in enemy territory and your kisses are very distracting."
"I know but I had to kiss you. I was so afraid I'd lost you and would never get to do that again. When I thought I was about to die all I could think of was you."
Amelia's arms tightened around Emily. "If you say things like that to me I won't be able to let you go."
"That's good. I don't want you to ever let me go. We have a lot to talk about but you are right this is not the right place or time. Let's get out of here."
As Amelia set her down she said, "I got your clothing wet and dirty. Sorry about that."
"I was already like that and even if I had been in pristine clothing I wouldn't have cared because that greeting was totally worth it." Something that had been nagging at her since Amelia's arrival finally registered and she exclaimed, "What have you done to your lovely hair?"
Amelia grinned and stroked what little remained of her hair. "I know it looks bad but I was in a hurry and no scissors."
"Typical. I leave you alone for two days and you go back to hacking your hair off with a knife." Emily glided her palms over Amelia's head tugging at the uneven tufts of hair. "You made such a mess."
"It was for a good cause; I was trying to find you."
"How did cutting your hair help you find me?" Emily asked incredulously. This I've got to hear."
Amelia's grin froze and her body became rigid with tension. "Emily...I smell blood on your wings and chest. You've been injured."
"It's nothing. I lost a few feathers and it's just a scratch in the front."
Unconvinced Amelia opened the loaned jacket and reached for the knot Emily tied to keep her shirt closed after Carlos tore it open. Emily blocked her.
"Please let me see. I need to know how bad it is."
Emily relented and moved her hands out of the way. Amelia gasped when she saw the ripening bruises and the ripped bra. She gently traced the red finger marks imprinted on Emily's creamy skin and stared at the swollen breast with the bloody cut. Looking down at herself Emily had to admit it looked bad. Feeling ashamed despite knowing she had done her best to prevent the man from touching her Emily retied the knot with shaky fingers. She didn't realize she was crying until Amelia cupped her face and tried to wipe the tears away with her thumbs.
"Emily, who did this to you?" Amelia's voice was low and dangerous. Where her hand rested on Amelia's arm Emily could feel the spike of power nip at her fingers as Amelia's beast surged close to the surface.
"It's nothing. It looks worse than it is. I wasn't raped. I'm all right. Really I am."
"How can this be nothing? Someone tore your clothing and hurt you." She pressed her face against Emily's chest and inhaled deeply. Emily felt Amelia's arm ripple and had to yank her hand away as it suddenly felt like she was touching red-hot steel. When Emily saw her face she almost took a step back. Amelia's inhuman eyes were amber slits with only the barest traces of green and filled with so much anger it terrified her even though she knew none of it was directed at her.
"The man who put his hands on you...tell me everything you can about him. Tell me what happened. It is important that you leave nothing out."
Emily tried not to show how alarmed she was at the way Amelia's features were becoming more beastly by the second. She already had fangs, her shorn hair was growing into a thick mane and Emily knew from the way the air around Amelia shimmered that she was moments away from making a full shift. She worried what she was about to tell Amelia would only make her angrier and push her closer to losing control but she couldn't withhold information from her. Especially not when Amelia looked at her like that . Emily told her everything that happened. She described the man with the stinky cigar and told all she had learned about him from Raven. When she was done Amelia covered her face with her hands and said nothing for several long seconds. When she finally spoke her voice sounded odd and Emily had to strain to understand her.
"It's been so long. I thought I was mistaken. How could it be the same man? He escaped. Gone without a trace. Why would he be here now after all this time? But it is the same scent. Impossible to forget. In my nightmares I still smell the stink of him all over me like the spray of a rutting animal. I hear his voice jeering the others on. The smell of my burning flesh and the reek of those fucking cigars are seared into my mind. He took my father from me and destroyed my world. As if that wasn't enough just as I'm finally ready to put it all behind me he comes back and puts his stink on my beautiful winged angel. He hurt my sweet Emily." Amelia's breathing became uneven and her hands turned into massive paws with gleaming claws that resembled curved daggers. "How dare he touch my Emily. Die . He must die . I'm going to rip his fucking heart out!"
Amelia dropped her hands and this time Emily did take a jerky step away, she couldn't help it. Amelia's amber eyes glowed with rage akin to madness and hatred contorted her face so that Emily hardly recognized the woman she thought she knew. Amelia blinked and the last of her human features disappeared. The beast before Emily had a tiger's facial structure and black horns the texture of polished stone grew out from beside her temples curving past her ears and over her scalp. Her bare feet had grown to balance her bigger bulk and sprouted nails like that of a giant cat. Amelia tore off her clothing just as massive arms and legs burst the seams. Emily stared in shock at the scales that covered Amelia's body like living armor. As Emily watched it spread up around her neck and over her face like dark ink and disappeared into her hairline. A long thick tail covered in barb-like protrusions appeared; it uncoiled like a living thing and whipped the air behind Amelia's back.
The chimera opened its massive maw and in a voice that rumbled like thunder declared, "Blood debt is owed. Today I will kill my father's murderer. For allying with the cutter and aiding the traitor who tried to kill you and your father I declare war on House Ravir. They put the one I love in the hands of my greatest enemy and for this I will show them no mercy. I will bathe in the blood of Ravir's slain and piss on what's left of their corpses. When I'm done this great tower will be reduced to a burial mound."
The beast picked up one of the bars it had torn off the window and threw it like a spear at the door. It went right through the solid metal and there was the sound of a muffled scream from the other side. Lightning quick the beast charged the door taking a section of the rock wall with it as it burst into the hallway beyond. Its roar was so deafening Emily had to clamp hands over her ears. There was a moment of utter silence as if the world was holding its breath then there was a scream, high pitched and panicky, lasting only a moment before it got cut short. There was running, shouting and the whoosh of wings as terrified avians tried to get away from the crazed beast in their tower. The building shook with impact so that the chandelier above Emily's head swung like an earthquake had hit the building. Rooted to the spot Emily stared at the hole in the wall through which she could hear the sound of destruction as a monstrous creature rapidly moved through the tower in pursuit of its prey. Above the sound of things breaking Emily could hear the terrified screams as death tore through Ravir Tower in the form of a chimera berserk with rage.
Movement on the balcony caught her eye and Emily swung around to see Raven hovering in the air. She was staring at the destroyed metal grate and the bars that lay strewn like broken toothpicks beside it. Her eyes flicked to Emily then lingered on the gaping hole in the wall where there used to be a door. She landed on the balcony and carefully climbed through the opening. There was another impact and again the entire building shook. It was too much for the chandelier; it broke free from its mooring and shattered into a thousand pieces when it hit the floor. Raven flew over the debris and peered into the tower. There was another thunderous roar and she hastily retreated back into the room.
With wild eyes Raven asked, "Emily, what the fuck is that?"
"That is the woman I told you about. She came for me."
Raven stared at her incredulously. "You said your girlfriend is a tigress. Whatever is loose in there is not a tigress!"
"If you dare to get close enough you will see she is." Among other things...Emily added quietly to herself. "Amelia is an Old Blood. That is her mixed warrior form. I did tell you she is powerful."
Raven stared at her in horror. "An Old Blood? Your tigress girlfriend is an Old Blood with a warrior form?" At Emily's nod Raven visibly shuddered and whispered, "Deities protect us. An Old Blood is on a killing spree in my home."
The howls of someone in mortal pain poured into the room and Emily flinched. Raven paled another shade and narrowed her eyes at Emily. She took a determined step toward Emily and said, "She came for you. You must stop her."
Emily picked up one of the broken bars with a sharp end and pointed it at Raven. "Back off. I won't be taken captive again. I will skewer you if you try to put hands on me."
Raven stopped and held up her hands. "Emily, my people are dying. She is slaughtering them. Can't you hear the screams? I beg you, make her stop."
"I don't know if I can. I've never seen her this angry."
"Because we kidnapped you?"
"She was angry about that but it was finding out Carlos is here that pushed her over the edge."
"Carlos? What did he do to her?"
"He's the cutter who murdered her father in front of her. She's hunted him since she was eleven years old and Amelia is the angry beast-shifter who made him flee to America. She was only going to rescue me but when she found his scent on me and saw the way he tore my clothing she went berserk."
Raven punched the wall with a white-knuckled fist. "That right there is the reason why it is suicide to do business with cutters! There is always a relative or friend out for revenge. It never ends."
"Where is Carlos now? Still up top? She is hunting him and anyone who gets in her way is collateral damage."
"She'll leave once she's got him?" Raven asked hopefully.
"I...don't know. Like I said I've never seen her this angry."
"What would happen if you called to her from outside the tower? Would that make her leave? You said she came here for you."
Not liking the calculating look in Raven's eyes and the way her body tensed for motion Emily backed up towards the balcony, all the while keeping the spike trained on Raven. "Don't even think of using me as bait to lure her out. If you'd let me go when I begged you to free me your people wouldn't be dying right now."
Emily stopped when she felt a hand press into the small of her back. A chill ran down her spine and she turned expecting to find a sentinel behind her. What she found instead was possibly more alarming. The robed figure of Lady Adelind stood behind her. She had her hood drawn and the only part of her that was visible was a portion of her face. Cool grey eyes with a hint of amber met hers and Lady Adelind said, "Is the black feathered female troublesome, Evangeline? I've been waiting for you – is she responsible for your delay?"
Emily was so startled to see Amelia's mother, the dragon lady, that it took her a moment to gather her wits. The first thing she did was make as respectful a bow as she could manage under the circumstances. "Lady Adelind. It's...a surprise to see you here."
Lady Adelind inclined her head acknowledging the greeting. "Indeed. I'm rather surprised myself. When I started the day I didn't expect to accompany Amelia on a rescue mission for her avian lover and yet here I am. So, why haven't you left yet? Amelia opened your cage and there is no reason for you to linger here. If the avian is preventing your departure kill her." When Emily didn't make a move Lady Adelind sighed and reached for the spike in her hand. "I'll do it for you. You're clearly too squeamish to kill one of your own kind."
The robe fell away from her arm and Emily saw that instead of skin Lady Adelind had thick scales and her fingers were tipped with long nails that looked like talons. Emily dropped the metal bar like it was on fire. "Thank you for the gracious offer but that won't be necessary. Raven was just leaving."
Raven was staring at Lady Adelind's hand. Fear warred with disbelief in her dark eyes. "Emily, is that a dra—"
Emily cut Raven off before she could finish. "You should go, Raven. NOW. While you still can."
Emily had to give Raven credit, she had superb survival instincts. She might not have understood exactly what was going on but she got the warning and didn't hesitate to act. She twirled on her heel and flew into the tower, gambling she could evade the raging beast rather than try to squeeze past the amber-eyed Lady Adelind. Smart woman.
"Why did you let her live?" Lady Adelind asked curiously. "I know who she is. Raven Ravir is no friend of yours."
"No, but she's not my enemy either. At least I don't think so." Seeing Lady Adelind's skeptical look Emily reluctantly added, "She saved me from being raped."
"I overheard your conversation. By taking you captive in the first place she put you in such a vulnerable position. You do not owe her mercy."
"You heard what I said to her? Then you heard that..." Emily faltered not wanting to tell Lady Adelind her husband's murderer was in the tower in case she lost her cool composure and went berserk as Amelia did. The last thing she wanted was to be in the room with an angry dragon.
"Did I hear that the man who tortured my daughter and murdered Valen is the one who rough handled you? Yes, I heard. I will help Amelia exact vengeance but first I must escort you to safety. That was Amelia's purpose in coming here but the scent of her enemy has driven her mad with rage. My daughter rarely asks me for anything and that she summoned me to locate you tells me you are very important to her. It would not do to have you recaptured or killed after all the trouble she went through to rescue you, Evangeline."
"Amelia said she was going to destroy the tower and everyone in it because they were working with Carlos. Will she really do that?"
"Amelia doesn't make idle threats and as enraged as she is right now I have no doubt she will decimate this place."
"Then we have to stop her! You could do it. You could stop her."
"Perhaps but why would I? House Ravir made an alliance with my enemy and harmed my daughter's lover. Those are unforgivable transgressions. Blood is owed."
"But there are several hundred avians in this tower. They're not all guilty."
"It doesn't matter. The leaders of this House set this in motion. They drew Amelia here by taking you captive. If House Ravir had acted honorably and treated you as a valued hostage, assuring your wellbeing while negotiating with House Aquilar Amelia would have rescued you and left the matter to be resolved between your Houses. Instead, she finds you reeking of fear and blood with her enemy's scent all over you. Unforgivable. She will turn this place into rubble. If the avians want to live they should abandon their tower."
"But there will be a nursery with wingless little ones somewhere in this tower. What if they can't get out in time? When Amelia comes back to her senses it will devastate her if she hurt the children. She'll never forgive herself."
Lady Adelind frowned and said, "Unfortunately you are right. She won't harm children even in the state she's in but falling debris will be as fatal as a strike from her claws. This is a conundrum. Calming her enough to listen to reason will be difficult."
"There must be a way. What if we—"
Lady Adelind held up her hand motioning for Emily to be quiet and tilted her head from side to side listening. She closed her eyes for a moment and sighed. When she reopened them her eyes shone with amber fire. "I can no longer escort you to safety and as for protecting the avian children...forget about it. Go home. Perhaps between the two of us we could have calmed Amelia but the situation has escalated significantly. I have to go and you should leave immediately ."
"What can be worse than Amelia raging out of control destroying the place?"
"Evangeline, they are just avians. If it wasn't for Amelia's interest in you and the valid point you made about the guilt she'd load on herself if she killed the little ones their death would mean nothing to me. I'm older than I look and it is not polite to mention such things but I remember when we thought of your kind as little more than a tasty snack."
Emily swallowed hard and asked timidly, "If you don't mind me asking, Lady Adelind, what did you hear that has you so concerned?"
"More of my kind are heading this way."
"More dragons?" Emily's voice was so high it was barely a squeak.
"Amelia roared like a dragon. We can hear each other over long distances and unfortunately, she was heard. There are several males on the way, drawn to the sound of a young dragoness in distress. They are coming to investigate what has enraged a female so much that she would attack an avian compound by day. Females are precious. There are fewer of us than males which makes the competition to mate fierce. Those males are not only coming to protect a female they also want to make a good impression on her. If they think it will please the female to see this place destroyed they will compete to kill the most avians and pile the bodies to present to her as trophies or, if she was so inclined, as food."
"Eeew...that's revolting."
Lady Adelind nodded her agreement. "We work hard to act civilized and that kind of behavior is frowned on but there is nothing like the draw of sex combined with the smell of blood and the exhilaration of battle to bring our dragon's most primal urges to the fore."
"I don't understand. If female dragons are so precious why have they treated Amelia so poorly? The way she told it your people would have killed her if it wasn't for your intervention."
"That's because they think Amelia takes after my beloved Valen. They've only ever seen her as a tiger and they don't know she can take the form of a dragon as well."
"Why didn't you tell them? Wouldn't that have made them treat her better?"
"Once they thought she was a tigress we had to stick to that lie. That part of her was all Amelia could allow anyone to see."
"But why?"
"Isn't it obvious? Only a chimera can take more than one beast form. Remember I told you my people kill our chimera babies? Chimeras of dragon blood are the nightmare creatures my people fear as your kind fear us. They already hated Amelia because our feud with her father's clan cost us so many lives. That we had to agree to a truce was a bitter blow to our collective ego and the older dragons still remember that bloody struggle like it was yesterday. They didn't dare touch Amelia because of my position and the certainty of my wrath. Those males are coming here expecting to see a dragoness who they hope to woo to become a mate. It is possible she will be in full dragon form by the time they get here but it is more likely they will see a monstrosity that is part dragon combined with whatever Amelia is drawing on to help her in battle. I'm not sure what will happen if they see her like that but my kind tends to lash out when we are upset. I will try to reason with them but it is likely I'll have to physically intervene to prevent them from attacking her. One thing is sure, they'll have to kill me first to lay a single claw on my daughter."
Without thinking, Emily stepped forward and put her hand on Lady Adelind's arm. "That sounds dangerous. Will you be all right? Is there anything I can do to help?"
Lady Adelind tilted her head and looked at Emily as if she was studying a curious specimen. "How could you possibly help me?"
"I don't know. That was probably a silly thing to say but I don't want you to get killed." Realizing she still had her hand on Lady Adelind's arm Emily quickly removed it.
"What an extraordinary soul you are. No wonder my daughter is so infatuated with you. There is no need to fear for me; I know how to deal with my kind. It is you who must take care to stay alive. Amelia will be inconsolable if anything happened to you. When you fly home make sure to stay out of the cloud cover because you do not want to meet what's coming. You need to go now, Evangeline. Forget about the children of this flock, they are not your responsibility and it's up to the guardians of this House to look after their young. Soon the skies above this tower will be filled with angry dragons and this will not be a safe place for anyone. Least of all avians."
|
Once Lady Adelind left Emily had a moment of indecision. She wanted to go home to her family and flock but she couldn't abandon Amelia. Indirectly she'd brought her here. She came to rescue her and now Amelia was lost in her old nightmare, tearing the place apart in search of the one responsible for her pain. Killing Carlos would vent a lot of her fury. Once that was done Emily felt she had a chance of convincing Amelia to come away with her.
The other reason she couldn't leave was the people in the tower. They were already dealing with a worst-case scenario—a furious Old Blood among them. They didn't know their tower was about to become the focal point of angry dragons as well. Even if the dragons didn't target the avians directly any confrontation between the giants of the sky would have them stuck in the crossfire. Since dragons have no regard for avian life it was a massacre waiting to happen. Emily's heart clenched with fear. They weren't members of her flock, not her responsibility and she'd been treated so badly she shouldn't care what happened to any of them. But she did. She had to warn them. She had to find Raven and tell her to evacuate. She was the only one in authority who might listen to her.
Emily balled her fists, took a fortifying breath and stepped through the broken doorway. It was eerily quiet. After the initial roars and commotion Amelia had gone quiet but there had been intermittent screams so she knew Amelia was still in the tower. She was no longer raging out of control; she was stalking her prey. A chilling thought. Masonry crunched under her foot and for a moment she stood transfixed, her eye on the shattered door and the avian that lay impaled beneath it. Raven must have left someone to guard her door. She could only see the man's leg so she couldn't tell if it was Lorenzo. She looked away quickly hoping it wasn't.
Despite there being plenty of windows it was murky inside. The storm was upon them and it had gotten so dark it was like twilight. She saw lights here and there but they were lonely things, probably part of an emergency system designed to turn on when the ethian generator was down. Something Amelia had done must have taken out the power. There was an acrid stench in the air that burned her lungs when she inhaled too deeply and she caught an alarming whiff of smoke. Emily hoped there wasn't a fire somewhere. The inside of this tower was like a hollow tube, not wide enough to really fly but it allowed enough room for avians to drift down or rise slowly between floors. Flames would spread like wildfire in a place like this
Emily heard people calling to each other on the floors above and below interspersed with confused shouts and terrified wails. She went down on her hands and knees to stay out of sight and peered over the edge trying to catch a glimpse of Amelia or Raven.
"Hiding from your murderous girlfriend?"
Emily almost jumped out of her skin and swore when she saw Raven land behind her. Lorenzo was beside her and a handful of sentinels landed around them in a tight cluster.
"I was looking for you."
"Me? Why?" Curious Raven stepped away from the group to stand in front of Emily. "What are you still doing here, Emily? I expected you to be long gone."
Emily took Raven by the arm and turned her so they had a little privacy. Speaking urgently she said, "You have to evacuate the tower. Quickly. Get everyone as far away from here as you can."
"So that your tigress can rampage in the tower unopposed? What kind of fool do you take me for?" Raven snarled and ripped her arm away.
Emily thrust a hand at the giant beast-shaped hole in the stone wall where there used to be a door and hissed, "She burst through that wall without breaking stride. Have you seen her yet? Have you seen how quickly she moves? Have you seen how big and powerful she is? Have you seen the size of her claws and fangs? She is an Old Blood, Raven. An Old Blood . Your people are in a close quarter's battle with a predator who outclasses them in every way. Your sentinels may be well trained but we both know our people need open skies and room to move to take down a beast-shifter. Don't pretend you think fighting an Old Blood hand-to-claw inside your tower will end well."
"If you hung around just to tell me that you've wasted your breath and my time. I already know we are up against a formidable opponent. But this is our tower and we won't give it up without a fight!"
Emily heaved an exasperated sigh and said, "Amelia doesn't want to claim your bloody tower! She has no use for it. I already told you she is after Carlos. Getting in her way will only get your people killed." Raven made as if to turn away from her and Emily grabbed her sleeve. "I was looking for you to warn you about something else. There are several dragons on the way and I have it on good authority they are going to be furious when they get here. Anyone in the air will be in danger. Your tower may not survive."
While they spoke Lorenzo had moved up beside Raven in a guard position. His posture defensive, a hand on his sword, his eyes restlessly scanning the shadows. His eyes now flew to Emily and he gave her an incredulous look. "Dragons? I haven't seen one in years. Why would we suddenly have dragons on the way? Why at the same time as there is an Old Blood loose in the tower? That doesn't make any sense. I like you, Emily, but now you're blowing smoke. I don't know what you are trying to do but that story is so outrageous no one is going to believe it. Raven, please...we must keep moving. We have our orders."
Raven didn't move or speak. She stared at Emily with a look in her eyes that said she'd been thinking about Lady Adelind and Emily had just confirmed what she suspected. She'd seen a dragon. She knew she couldn't discount Emily's warning because she'd seen her talk to a dragon. Raven was in shock struggling to process what this meant.
Emily softened her voice and used the same words Raven had spoken to her as she dragged her off the roof. "Raven, I'm trying to help you."
Raven's head whipped up and she silenced Lorenzo with a sharp motion of her hand when he tried to speak. "Did that woman, Lady Adelind, tell you dragons are coming here?
"Yes."
"Why? How do you know her? What was she doing here?"
Emily shook her head. "You don't get to ask me those questions. I've gone out of my way to tell you this. I could have left without saying anything."
"If what you are saying is true, we are doomed. We can't even contain the tigress. A squadron of our best warriors was sent to stop the beast. They wore full battle armor and they were armed to the teeth and yet no one came back. Not one . Now we have dragons as well...deities help us! This is a dark day for House Ravir."
"It doesn't have to be like that. Evacuate the tower. You must have protocols for a breach. You must have designated places your people can retreat to when the tower is no longer safe."
"We can't abandon our tower," Raven balked. "We have to fight. We must—"
"How will you fight dragons? Even if you manage to injure one what about the rest? It's suicide, Raven. This..." Emily waved at the walls, "is just stone and metal. You can rebuild the tower if it falls."
"Maybe your flock could afford to rebuild, mine can't," Raven said bitterly. "My father will never give the order to abandon Ravir Tower. It was built by his great-great-grandfather. He will sacrifice as many people as it takes to protect our family's legacy."
"Raven, that's madness! The tower is important, I agree, but in the end it is just a place. The people are the true strength and the heart of the House. They cannot be replaced. It's the Lord's duty to protect the flock above all else."
"My father doesn't think like that. To him the tower is the symbol of the Lord's power and a display of a flock's might. It's the glue that binds. Without a tower he will no longer be Lord of the Tower. It is the obligation of the Lord of the House to provide a home for his people and a tower to keep them safe. If this tower falls it means he has failed in his duty to the flock and the people are released of their obligations. They could leave and join other flocks without needing his permission. It will be the end of House Ravir. He would do anything to prevent that. In his mind people are dispensable, this tower is not."
Emily stared at Raven in shocked silence.
Raven gave a weary shrug. "I'm simply telling you how it is."
Rallying, Emily shook her head and said, "No. You are telling me what your father would do. Just because he is willing to sacrifice his people it doesn't mean you have to allow that to happen. This flock is as much yours as it is his. These are your people and they are your responsibility. You've known them your whole life. They look up to you for leadership and protection. If it comes down to it what will you choose? The tower or the people?"
Raven spoke but her words got drowned out by a deafening roar within the tower. There was an answering bellow from outside moments before something large impacted the top of the building with such force the entire building shuddered. Emily watched in horror as large chunks of stone wall cascaded past the windows. A steel ballista with the giant bolt still mounted hit one of the balconies, tearing right through it. Emily ran to a window and hesitantly peered out. She glimpsed a dragon's tail curled around the top of the building before she had to duck to avoid being hit by falling rubble. That was a massive dragon. Was that Lady Adelind? Or someone else? Did it really matter? Whoever it was just destroyed the top floors and took out the primary defensive weaponry simply by landing on the roof.
A horn sounded outside. Emily assumed the alert was for the dragon on the roof but one of Raven's people shouted and pointed to the east at a dozen sentinels heading towards the tower. Peering through the rain haze Emily saw a red dragon swoop out of the cloud cover directly above them. It extended its talons and tore through the sentinels' tight formation sending them tumbling to the ground in a flutter of torn wings and severed limbs. An avian who escaped the initial onslaught made a desperate attempt to get away from the pursuing dragon only to have massive jaws chomp down on her. One moment there were wings sticking out the sides of its mouth and then they were gone as the dragon swallowed its prey whole. The red dragon rose back into the cloud cover disappeared from view but there was no mistaking its direction—it was heading straight for the tower.
Emily turned to face Lorenzo. "Still think I'm blowing smoke? Your flock now face two dragons and there are more on the way."
Emily and Raven locked eyes. Raven's face was an unreadable mask and Emily couldn't tell what the woman was thinking. Raven shifted her attention to Lorenzo and the sentinels clustered around her. They were all standing tall but their eyes as they stared at Raven were dull and resigned as if they expected the worst and were steeling themselves for an impossible battle.
"What do we do, Raven?" Lorenzo asked. "What is your command?"
"We evacuate. Vena and Asheron, go ring the bells. Seema and Belek, I want you two to activate the additional escape protocols. We must get our people to safety. Hurry!" There were surprised looks but the sentinels immediately burst into flight.
Lorenzo looked at Raven with a mix of admiration and worry. "He will disinherit you for this."
Raven rustled her wings defiantly and said, "There will be nothing to inherit if the tower is rubble and we are all dead."
"I'll help get the children out," Emily offered. "Where is the nursery? Do you have a safe place nearby we can take them?"
"Yes, my father had an armored vault built into the mountain behind us. Officially it's used to store precious things but it also functions as a fallback shelter. He was supposed to be the only one with access but I know how to get in. We will gather the children and anyone unable to fly we find along the way and take them there. Everyone, let's move!"
|
They were running toward the vault. The adults herded the children under the shelter of their spread wings, shielding them from the icy torrential downpour and the view of the dragons. Emily was carrying a wingless child and had another by the hand. An old man with crooked wings and a bent back hobbled to the side and scooped up a little girl who had fallen.
"Raven, how much further?" Emily shouted.
"We are almost there. It's just around that outcropping."
A furious roar from behind them sent shivers down Emily's spine and by reflex she glanced back to see what was happening. Ravir Tower, the pride of House Ravir was on fire. Smoke seeped from the spider web of cracks circling the walls and billowed from open doorways. The rain pouring in through the destroyed roof was keeping the fire at bay in the top floors but on the lower levels the windows were tinted red with the blaze of the raging inferno. A few avians who hadn't abandoned the tower when the evacuation bells rang were making their escape, diving to stay as close to the ground as possible to avoid the dragons circling above. Emily noticed a group heading in the same direction they were going. In the heavy rain visibility was poor but she recognized Lord Nero and his son Titus in the front. His personal guards surrounded him and one of the sentinels carried a man. An entire section of the tower wall burst outwards and a huge creature that looked vaguely like a tiger surged into the air in pursuit of its prey. Dark wings appeared where there had been none a moment before and with claws extended and snapping jaw it tore through the back of Lord Nero's guard. Armored sentinels tumbled to the ground like broken dolls and the beast dove after them. Emily hastily looked away.
"Raven! Look! Your father and Carlos are heading this way. Amelia has Carlos's scent and she's coming after them."
Raven glanced back over her shoulder and swore. She grabbed hold of Lorenzo's arm and shouted, "Get to the vault. Make sure they don't close it before we are inside."
"But, Raven, it's my duty to protect you."
"GO. That is an order! If my father gets in before us he will lock the fucking door to save himself and we'll be left outside at the mercy of the dragons and that blood-crazed tigress. You keep that door open no matter what."
Lorenzo paled visibly, he looked at the approaching avians flying low and then at the terrified children and adults running for the vault. The beast roared again and this time the sound was a lot louder. It was on its way. From within the cloud cover a dragon bellowed as if in answer. Lorenzo visibly shuddered and balled his fists. "Raven, I will keep the door open for you. I swear this on my life." Then he flew off flying so low his wings almost clipped the ground.
When they rounded the outcropping Emily saw a door shaped hole in the side of the mountain. Lorenzo was inside seemingly in a heated argument with two sentinels wearing the colors of Lord Nero's personal guard. As soon as he saw Lord Nero and his party swoop towards the opening he positioned himself in front of a large wheel and drew his sword. He spread his legs wide and even from where she was Emily could see the determined set of his jaw. True to Raven's prediction as soon as he was inside Lord Nero made a gesture towards the wheel and two sentinels peeled from his side.
"Does that wheel close the door?" Emily asked Raven.
"Yes! It's only the first of several doors but once that one is sealed from the inside we are not getting in."
Lorenzo shouted at the men, pointed his sword at Raven's group and then settled himself in a fighting stance. The men paused, looked at Raven and the approaching children then turned to look at Lord Nero. Lord Nero barked another order and the men instantly drew their own swords and attacked. Lorenzo moved in a flurry of motion and the two men stumbled back. One clutched his arm and the other dragged a wing. Two others took their place. Lorenzo flicked blood from his sword and watched the circling men with a grim determination.
"Wow, he's fast," Emily gasped between breaths. Running over mushy earth, bent forward with her wings extended while carrying one wiggly child and dragging another by the hand was exhausting.
"Lorenzo is one of the best fighters in the flock! Even two at a time he will keep them at bay. A few more minutes is all we need. We're going to make it!"
A loud boom ran out and crimson blossomed on Lorenzo's chest. He staggered backwards and clutched at the hole in his chest with an expression of confusion that quickly turned into dawning horror.
"Nooooo!" Raven screamed.
The sword clattered out of his hands and Lorenzo turned his head to stare out the door towards Raven. "I'm sorry," he mouthed as he toppled sideways. The sentinels parted and Carlos walked up to the fallen man. He took aim and shot Lorenzo point blank between the eyes.
"You bastard!"
Carlos's head swiveled and he locked eyes with Raven. He grinned and lifted the gun as if to take aim at her but lowered it when Lord Nero came to stand beside him.
"Lord Nero, please don't close the door!" Raven begged. "The children can't fly and they need shelter. Please help us!"
Lord Nero watched his daughter with cold dead eyes. His gaze swept past the children and their frantic minders as if they weren't there to focus on something behind them.
"Father, please! Wait, I'm almost there! Don't let me die out here."
Raven took to the air heading for the door with a child in her arms. Beside Lord Nero Carlos was also staring at something in the distance. His eyes widened and terror contorted his face. He spoke urgently to Lord Nero who nodded. He made a circling motion and the door lowered; sealing shut with a loud hiss just as Raven landed. She hit the door with her fists, screaming for someone to let her in but no one did.
Emily stopped running and got jostled by the children streaming past her towards the locked door. They were so set on the task they'd been given to keep moving towards the vault that they continued on even though they were now heading to a dead end. The child in her arms wriggled to be let down so she let him go and he stumbled after the rest. The children surged up against the door like a living wave then stopped and looked up at Raven expectantly. She was oblivious. Still pounding on the door her pleading had turned into a bitter tirade laced with curses. The adults gathered around the children and spread their wings over their charges while they spoke in urgent whispers.
A chill ran down Emily's spine and she spun around to look behind her. A massive tiger shaped beast was approaching. It was sheathed in jet black scales, a ridge of spikes ran from the back of the neck to the hindquarters and the long tail was covered in barbs that looked like it could flail a man to death with a single strike. The wings were gone and huge paws and legs propelled it forward at breath-taking speed. The beast's powerful body radiated agile power and death. Emily caught a glimpse of the beast's eyes and she shuddered. Volcanic rage and bloodlust burned like demonic fire in the depths.
That is what death looks like when it comes for you, Emily thought. There was no escaping that creature. Nothing short of death would stop it and it was coming straight for them. Or rather it was heading straight towards the vault to get Carlos and they just happened to be in the way. But what about the children? Surely Amelia wouldn't hurt the children? That's when it dawned on Emily that the beast probably couldn't see them. The adults had formed a tight formation overlapping their wings to create a canopy for the children to shelter under and in the process hidden them from view. The beast would only see the adults and it would show them no mercy. Amelia had declared war on House Ravir and to her those people would be little more than a temporary obstacle barring her way. She would tear into the adults and the children would die with them.
Emily wanted to shout at them to get away from the door but it was already too late. The beast would be on them in minutes. Even if they heard her and responded immediately they couldn't get out of the way in time. They were as good as dead unless someone could convince Amelia to let them go. Of the avians present the only one who stood a chance of reasoning with her was Emily. She'd have to step into Amelia's path and try to get through to her. Emily trembled. That wasn't the kind woman she'd fallen in love with and definitely not the gentle woman who made her feel so safe. That was a furious beast set on destruction.
Her mind flashed to Amelia killing the giant armored lizards that threatened Ingvild village. That was the first time she got to see more than a glimpse of the predatory beast that Amelia hid so well. She had stared in awe and horror at the broken remains of the monstrosity Amelia had killed and fed on and finally understood why Amelia had been afraid Emily would recoil if she saw that side of her. Later that day she'd seen Amelia's tiger form as well as a gigantic warrior form that was a blend of human and tiger. She had been awed but not afraid and she had congratulated herself on how fearless she'd been in her response. What she hadn't known was that Amelia had been very careful to show her the tame version. That beast was a kitten on a leash compared to what was heading her way now. This was Amelia at her most primal and ferocious.
Emily reminded herself that as scary as it was to see Amelia like this it was also this beastly side of her that gave Amelia the power and drive to protect those she cared about. This was that side of her temporarily out of control. Emily had a choice. She could fear the beast she saw or trust the woman inside wouldn't hurt her, no matter what. She'd seen Amelia claw her way back to control repeatedly at the sound of her voice and scent. She had to believe this time would be no different. Emily grabbed hold of the memory of Amelia cradling her protectively and stepped into the beast's path. She opened her wings and moved them ever so slightly trying to waft her scent in Amelia's direction. She took a deep breath, imagined she was about to sing a dawn song while a gale blew into her face and projected her voice with all the power she could muster. She sang Amelia's name in a refrain hoping desperately she'd be heard. Emily saw the beast's ears unpin to rotate forward and saw the nostrils flare. Encouraged Emily kept singing Amelia's name and moved her wings a little faster. The beast jumped, clearing the last fifty feet in a single leap to land right in front of Emily in a spray of pebbles. Emily froze and tried not to panic at suddenly finding herself face to face with a predator that was so large she could walk underneath it without ducking her head.
"Amelia, I think you just made me pee myself a little," Emily spoke without thinking. Stress had loosed her tongue to say the first thing that came to her.
The beast huffed at her and Emily struggled not to gag at the reek of flesh on its breath and the sight of the blood-drenched claws and muzzle. Its eyes fixed on Emily, the beast prowled back and forth in front of her growling in agitation while the tail flicked restlessly. Staring into the beast's eyes Emily saw sparks of green flare in the amber, saw the way Amelia was fighting for control.
"Amelia, it's Emily. You know it's me, right? Please say something, the growling is unnerving."
The growling stopped and the beast stood still. It cocked its head in the same way Amelia did when she was carefully listening and Emily felt the tight band around her chest ease a little.
"Amelia?"
The beast crouched to bring its massive head level with Emily and took a deep breath. When it exhaled on her Emily smelled incense, scorched spice, and something that burnt her throat with a metallic aftertaste.
"Emily...what are you doing here? You should be home."
Emily almost sagged with relief to hear Amelia's voice come out of the beast's mouth. "I helped get the children out of the tower. I knew you wouldn't want them to get hurt."
"Children?" The beast asked and its brow furrowed into a frown. "No children. Only adults. Warriors. Prey ."
"No Amelia, not just warriors. Not just prey. Wingless little ones as well. Families. Look behind me. The adults are sheltering children under their wings."
The beast stared over Emily's wings and shock registered on its face. "Children?"
"Yes, children. You will let them pass?
"I don't kill children."
"And the adults with them? Will you let them go? The children need the adults to look after them."
The beast rumbled its discontent and started prowling back and forth again, its eyes on the avians huddled by the door. Emily prayed no one would get it in their head to make a bid for escape at that very moment. Amelia's mind was too intertwined with her beasts right now, any sudden movement and she would pounce.
"Amelia, those people didn't know Lord Nero and his son were running a cutter's den and they had nothing to do with my kidnapping. They aren't guilty. Please let them go."
The beast paused beside Emily. "Tell the children and their protectors to go. My fight is not with them."
Emily turned and raised her voice to be heard above the rain. "Get away from the door. She is after the cutter in the vault with Lord Nero. Not you. Don't run and don't try to fly away. Move slowly. Go now."
There were uncertain whispers and Emily saw the fearful looks cast at Amelia. Gathering her courage she reached out slowly and put her hand on the beast's leg. The scale covered flesh felt alien to her touch and magic nipped at her hand so her palm and fingers tingled from it. She saw wide eyes and the whispers intensified but the fact that the beast didn't devour her on the spot seemed to be enough to bolster their collective confidence. As soon as one person started moving the rest followed. The beast watched them with unwavering focus, motionless aside from the flicking tail. That is until Raven passed. She was trailing in the back sheltering the children in the rear. The beast waited until all the children were out of sight behind a bend in the path then moved quick as lightning. It hooked Raven and slammed her onto her back, a massive paw covering her entire chest.
"This one is guilty. I know her scent. She took you from your room. She must die."
"I'm not the one you want! I was just following orders," Raven choked out clawing at the paw on her chest. "Help me, Emily! Please tell her I'm speaking the truth."
"Amelia, she didn't have a choice. She had to obey her Lord's orders."
"She is guilty," the beast insisted. "You were hurt. You could have died. Blood is owed. She must die ."
Emily went on her knees beside the downed woman. She leaned over Raven and angled into Amelia's view so she was locked onto her instead of Raven. When Emily looked into Amelia's eyes she saw the tiny green sparks were drowning in a sea of amber; soon they would be all gone. Amelia had marked Raven as prey and the fury she dammed to listen to Emily was flooding back. Amelia didn't care why Raven kidnapped Emily, only that she did. If she wanted to save Raven's life she had to act fast.
"Amelia, give her life to me. I'm the one who was taken, it is my blood that was spilled. Let me decide when and how she dies. Give her to me. Please?"
"That is your wish?"
"It is."
"Then so it will be."
The beast unsheathed its claws, wrapped them around Raven's chest and lifted her so they were eye to eye. "Raven Ravir, your life now belongs to Evangeline Aquilar. A blood debt owed. Do you understand?"
Raven looked like a terrified doll in the beast's paw. Her eyes on the beast's mouth her wings flapped with the trapped desperation of an animal convinced it was about to die. "Yes! I understand! Please don't eat me!"
The beast gave a disgusted grunt and flung Raven in the direction of the fleeing avians. Emily held her breath as Raven tumbled helplessly through the air, certain she would smack into the rock wall, but Raven got her wings into play just in time. Raven's chest heaved with her frantic breaths and she hovered unsteadily. She touched her side, stared at the blood on her palm then met Emily's gaze with inscrutable dark eyes.
The beast roared and they both turned to watch Amelia charge the sealed door. The metal buckled at the first blow. It wouldn't last long, that much was obvious, and once Amelia got into the vault neither would the people inside. Emily glanced at Raven to see her reaction to her father and brother's imminent death. Raven's teeth were bared in a vicious smile. Raven spat. It was a slow deliberate motion filled with a lifetime of loathing and a manic glee that Emily found deeply disturbing. Then Raven flew away without looking back once.
|
Debris flew into the air as Amelia tore at the rock surrounding the locked door forcing Emily to retreat to a safer distance. Noticing a small overhang she huddled under it. It provided some shelter from the rain and she could still see what Amelia was doing without getting hit. A dragon's leg appeared in her field of vision. Emily blinked hoping it was just an illusion brought on by stress and fatigue but the leg didn't disappear. Instead, it shimmered and a moment later morphed into Lady Adelind. Emily felt momentary relief it wasn't one of the other dragons but her heart did an unsteady thump at the unnatural way Lady Adelind's head swiveled to hone in on her. They stared at each other through the rain curtain. Not knowing what else to do Emily made space for Amelia's mother to stand beside her under the overhang. Lady Adelind hesitated for a moment then walked over and joined her.
"Miserable weather," Lady Adelind commented as she shook the rain from her robe.
"Terrible weather for flying," Emily agreed even as a part of her screamed at the absurdity of talking about the weather when so much else was happening.
"She has him cornered in there?"
"Yes, the cutter fled inside with Lord Nero and his personal guard."
"Good. It will be over soon."
Noting a bloody tear in the sleeve of Lady Adelind's robe Emily asked tentatively. "Lady Adelind did you come to an understanding with the other dragons? They won't attack Amelia?"
"For now." She said this with such icy finality Emily knew it was a warning not to push for more information.
Emily turned her attention back to the vault where the sound of tearing metal let her know that Amelia had dug her way in. There was a staccato of shots, a brief silence, then the screaming started. It was the desperate sound of people dying and Emily tried to tune out everything but the rain drumming on the rocks. She refused to feel sorry for Lord Nero and his psychotic son. They put people in cages, profiting off their suffering and death. In doing so they had drenched the name of House Raven in blood and the kind of filth that would taint every member of their flock for years to come. As for Carlos...she still felt the effect of the cutter's brutal hands on her and she was pleased that when Amelia was done with him he would be unable to hurt anyone ever again. She did feel regret for the sentinels dying to protect their Lord but she reminded herself that those warriors would have killed her without hesitation at Lord Nero's command.
The beast tore through the avians quickly and their voices fell still. Not everyone was granted swift execution. A singular male voice cried out, swearing defiantly. The cursing turned to begging, then screaming. It was a horrible sound filled with mortal pain and terror accompanied by the furious snarls of a beast. Long after Carlos stopped screaming the beast raged on. To her it sounded like a series of ferocious roars, no more intelligible than any other animal noise. But the longer it went on it seemed to her there was a rhythmic cadence to the roars, like someone shouting the same thing over and over. It suddenly occurred to Emily that Amelia could be speaking in tiger or even dragon tongue. If so...what was she saying? She turned to ask Lady Adelind but the question died on her lips. The woman's face was edged with sorrow and her very human grey eyes were overflowing with soundless tears. Emily quickly looked away. She didn't have to be a genius to know the proud woman would resent a virtual stranger witnessing her tears.
Finally, after what felt to Emily like an eternity, the beast fell silent. She heard a woman's sobs. It was a lost heartbroken sound and she automatically took a step forward to go comfort Amelia but Lady Adelind put a hand on Emily's shoulder and shook her head.
"She will not want you to see her like that."
"I've seen her cry before."
"That's not what I'm referring to."
It took Emily a moment to understand. "She wouldn't want me to see what she did?"
"No."
"Then I will wait for her to come out."
"Evangeline, when Amelia comes out of there she's not going to be in a good state of mind. She just killed the man responsible for Valen's murder. She will need time by herself to process and grieve. Then there is everything that happened here today. She has a lot to work through. She will want to go to the forest. She will want to go to her father's grave. I will go with her. We need to do this together."
"I want to be there for her too." Emily gave Lady Adelind a cautious look trying to read her reaction. "I understand the two of you need family time. What just happened is so big. It's good that you were here to help her and to watch over her. It's what she needed. I don't want to get in the way it's just...I really want to be there for her. She needs to know I'm there for her."
Lady Adelind gave a thoughtful nod. "There is also the matter of my people. Once we've been to Valen's grave I need to present her officially. Not just as my daughter the tigress but as a chimera. She will have to demonstrate that she can control her beasts or they won't leave her alone."
"I can't imagine Amelia being pleased with that."
"She will hate it," Lady Adelind said flatly, "but it must be done. I'll fight beside her if it comes to that but even together we can't defeat them all in battle. We must come to an accord with the Dragon Council."
Emily was quiet for a few seconds then she asked, "Lady Adelind, what is it you are trying to tell me?"
"Amelia will be away for a while."
"How long? A week, a month...months?"
"It will take as long as it takes."
Emily looked away so Amelia's mother wouldn't see her expression and slowly counted to ten. It had been a nerve-wracking day and her temper was frayed. She couldn't afford to snap at the dragon lady because she was frustrated with her answer. When she felt calmer she said, "I have to speak to Amelia before she goes. She needs to know I'll be waiting for her."
"You've known her for less than a month. Will you really wait for her?"
"I will. I love her. We are going to be life-mates."
Lady Adelind arched a brow at Emily's bold statement. "Is Amelia aware of this?"
"I haven't told her in so many words but I will."
Lady Adelind's stare intensified becoming a searing weighty thing that pressed in on her so it was hard to breathe. It felt like the woman was trying to pry her open to peer into her soul. A voice in the back of her head screamed at Emily to lower her gaze to relieve the strain but she gritted her teeth and held on.
"Amelia killed many avians and destroyed their tower. You are an avian. This doesn't bother you?"
Emily contemplated for a moment then she said, "Most of the people fled when the evacuation bells rang and we saved the children. As for the destruction of the tower...if House Ravir grabbed my little sister Oriana and did to her what almost happened to me today, I would have done everything in my power to level their tower to the ground. No one hurts the people I love and gets away with it. Amelia is doubly fierce when it comes to protecting the people she cares about. Today was the equivalent of a perfect storm for her. She saved me from House Ravir's cutter's cage and brought me safely home. That should have been the end of it but they abducted her lover and handed me over to the man who murdered her father and almost tortured her to death. If that's not asking for trouble I don't know what is. So, my answer to your question is this: I do not hold anything that happened here today against her."
A smile flickered across Lady Adelind's lips. She gave a small nod and said, "If this is truly how you feel Evangeline then perhaps there can be a future for the two of you."
|
When Amelia finally came out of the vault she was human, naked and covered in gore from head to toe. Emily had schooled herself to expect some blood but it still came as a shock to see Amelia in such a state. Silently she thanked Lady Adelind for keeping her out of the vault. She was still struggling to comprehend the scale of destruction Amelia was capable of when she unleashed her beasts so she probably wasn't ready for the carnage inside.
Keeping to the shadows Amelia stepped into the heavy downpour. She tilted her face into the rain letting the water cascade down her body. The way the crimson washed out of her hair made it look to Emily like Amelia was crying bloody tears. Amelia opened her eyes and stared directly at Emily. Her eyes were dark pits of pain sprinkled with the last smoldering vestiges of her anger. But mostly she looked resigned as if steeling herself for a mortal blow.
It dawned on Emily that Amelia chose to stand where she did deliberately. She knew Emily was outside watching the doorway. She wanted Emily to look her full and see the aftermath of her battle. She had stripped herself of all her defenses - no longer an armored beast but a naked, vulnerable woman. She was waiting for Emily to make the next move. To judge her. From the look on her face Emily could tell Amelia feared she'd be called a monster and be pushed away yet again like she had so many times in her life but still she stood, waiting. It was the bravest thing Emily had ever seen. She took a fortifying breath and stepped into the rain. The water was icy cold and made her shiver. Amelia stood motionless but the closer Emily came the more palpable the tension in Amelia's body and her expression alternated between hope and fear. Emily's heart hammered in her chest; they were on the razor's edge. One wrong word from her and Amelia would disappear from her life as surely as if she had died today. She would brood and draw her anguish and the shame of her rejection around her like a shield and she wouldn't let Emily close again. Emily walked right up to her, standing so close she could feel the heat radiate off Amelia's naked body like a stoked fire. Slowly she unfurled her wings to create a canopy to shield them from the rain somewhat and give them a little privacy. Amelia trembled when Emily's wings brushed her bare skin. She gently cupped Amelia's face and said, "It is over now. You got him."
Amelia's composure broke and she started to cry. "Thank you for getting the children out of the tower. Thank you for stopping me. I didn't see them. I couldn't have lived with myself if I—"
"Hush, I know. You didn't. Everything's going to be all right." Emily put her arms around Amelia and drew her into an embrace. Amelia bowed down resting her forehead on Emily's shoulder. "You're trembling. We should get you out of the rain. It's freezing and you're naked."
"The rain is good...it's cleaning me. But even if I stand under it for hours it won't be enough to wash this day away."
Emily didn't know what to say to that so she tried to give comfort with her body instead, soothing with her hands and sheltering Amelia with her wings.
Amelia stirred restlessly and said, "I have to leave."
"I know. Take me with you?"
"No. It's not safe for you around me right now."
"Amelia, I'm not afraid of you. I trust you with my life and I know you would never hurt me."
"I can't tell you how happy that makes me. That's not the problem, they are..." Amelia pointed up at the sky and Emily saw dark shapes circling in the clouds above. The tip of a dragon's wing broke through the cloud cover like the fin of a monstrous shark breaching the water. Was that odd rumble thunder or the voice of an angry dragon? Emily shuddered and drew her wings more tightly around them.
"My mother said she told you what I really am?"
"Yes, she did."
"That is such a relief. It's been such a burden not being able to tell anyone. The dragons didn't know, not until today. We hid it from them all these years. Now I must deal with the fallout of outing myself as a chimera to those arrogant fuckers. I can hear how upset they are. Go home, Emily. Your father and Oriana will be worried sick about you."
Amelia tried to pull away but Emily kept her close. Staring into her eyes she said, "I love you. I wanted to wait for a romantic moment to tell you but this can't wait. I love you and I want us to be together. I want to be your mate."
"You do?" Amelia's eyes flew wide in surprised wonder.
"Yes, I do."
Amelia pointed at the burning tower. "But how can you want to be with me after seeing me do that?"
"So you lost your temper and destroyed Ravir Tower. You had good reasons for your anger. If I was in your shoes and could turn into a powerful beast I probably would have done the same. I don't care that you are a chimera and I know you don't care that I'm an avian. I know we have some things to work out but we can talk about that later. All that is important right now is that I tell you that I love you and that I want us to have a life together. Do you love me? I think you do but I need to hear you say it."
Amelia gently touched Emily's cheek and said, "Emily, I love you more than life itself."
Joy flooded Emily like a warm tidal wave. "Those are the most beautiful words I've ever heard. You have just made me a very happy woman. Now that's settled, promise me you'll come back to me as soon as you can."
"I don't know what's going to happen with the dragons. It might not be safe for you to have me around. I don't want to put you in danger."
"Amelia, I don't want to hear excuses. I want you to give me your word that you will come back. You always keep your word. If you promise I know you will return. Please promise me."
"I promise I will come back as soon as I can."
Emily smiled. "I'll be waiting for you."
Amelia removed Emily's hands from around her neck and held them gently in her own. "I had something made for you. A gift. Selene will bring it to you. If you change your mind leave a note with her then I'll know to stay away."
"I'm not going to change my mind."
"Emily, listen to me, please. It's not just about you and me, you have an entire flock to consider. You may not have a choice."
"But—"
Amelia squeezed Emily's hands and said, "It will break my heart to lose you. I'd rather read the words than have you tell me to my face you no longer want to be with me."
"Sweetheart, even after our first night apart I was going to find you and beg you not to leave. I cried myself to sleep thinking I'd lost you."
"I need you to be sure. Promise me you will use the time we are apart wisely and think this through carefully. In a few weeks you may not feel like you do right now. I will not resent you if you decide being with me is not what you really want."
With a resigned sigh Emily said, "All right. I won't change my mind but I will do as you ask and think about our future very carefully. I promise."
|
"Hello. Are you Selene? Amelia's friend?"
The petite redhead locked her Jeep and gave Emily an appraising look.
"Yeah. Who wants to know?"
"I am Evangeline Aquilar but please call me Emily."
"Oriana looks a lot like you so yeah, I guess you could be Emily. What can I do for you?"
Emily frowned and said, "Amelia said she left something for me in your safekeeping?"
"Yes, she did."
Emily's frown deepened. "Why haven't you brought it to me? Amelia said you would. It's been a week."
Selene impatiently tapped the car keys against the side of her leg. "I've been away. You are looking at a woman who hasn't slept in her own bed, or any bed for that matter, in days."
"You just got back?"
"Yup. Come inside. I was going to find you tomorrow but since you're here now it will save me the trip."
Emily followed Selene into the ramshackle old house.
"Have you been waiting long?"
"No, only about ten minutes."
"Lucky you. I should have gone grocery shopping on the way home but I wasn't in the mood. Wanna cup of tea? I'm pretty sure there is half a cake wrapped up in the cooler. It will be a tad dry by now but a good dunking will sort that. I'm happy to share if you want some."
"Um, thanks but no. The gift? I'm eager to see it."
"Sure. Come this way. What happened to Amelia after she rescued you and wrecked Ravir's tower? I know she took off and I'm pretty sure she hasn't been back. Have you heard from her?"
"No, nothing. You haven't heard anything either?"
Selene shook her head and sighed. "Rumors...but nothing I'd put any trust in. Since you were there, is it true there were dragons? I heard one attacked the tower. Did you see any of that?"
Emily had been asked that question repeatedly so she gave her prepared answer. "There was a torrential storm so it was hard to see what was going on most of the time but I did see dragons around the tower."
"Do you know what they were doing there?"
"I didn't fly up to one to ask."
Selene flashed her a toothy grin. "Fair enough." She let Emily into the house and led her down a long hallway to a closed door. "This is the guest bedroom. I put Amelia's things and your gift in there."
Emily followed Selene into the room. She came to a standstill when she saw Amelia's backpack and guitar case propped against a double bed. Emily sat down on the bed and lifted the guitar up beside her. After a moment's hesitation she popped open the case and gently ran her fingers over the honeycomb woodgrain.
"Selene, have you heard her play?"
"No. I didn't even know Amelia played until I saw the guitar. Is she any good?"
"She plays beautifully. To hear her is to want to weep with joy."
Selene didn't reply. When Emily looked up she saw the other woman was studying her thoughtfully.
"You love her?"
"I do," Emily said simply, allowing the truth of the statement into her eyes and the wistfulness of her smile.
Selene nodded and looked away. "That's good because Amelia is head over heels for you. She's never in all the years I've known her been interested in anyone so for her this is serious. She's not one of those people who flitters from one lover to another."
"I know."
Selene locked eyes with Emily and said, "I did some asking around about you. You've had heaps of girlfriends and they don't last, a few weeks or months at most. You get bored and move on."
"It's true I've had a few girlfriends but I didn't end things just because I was bored."
"I don't care why your relationships didn't last. What I'm saying is I see a troubling trend and I don't want Amelia to be just another short-term conquest for you. She's a lifetime commitment kind of person, you realize this right? She is one of the most loyal people I've ever met. She doesn't let people in easily but once she's decided you're her person she will defend you tooth and claw and stand by your side no matter what. That kind of person doesn't come around every day. If you treat her like you did the others it will break her heart. Emily, if you toy with my friend's affection or deliberately hurt her you and I are going to have the worst kind of trouble."
Emily sighed and carefully closed the guitar case. "I don't have to explain myself to you but since you're Amelia's friend and I hope we can be friends as well I will share something very personal with you. I told my father, Lord Augustus, that I intend to become Amelia's mate. So you see, I'm more serious about her than you can possibly understand. I know without a doubt I've found the person I've been looking for my whole life and there is no way I'm letting her go. She's mine and I'm definitely hers. I want a life with her. I'd go to her right now if I could but where she's gone, I can't follow. I have to wait for her to come to me like she promised. This has been the longest week of my life. I don't know how I'm going to cope if she stays away for months."
Selene quietly mulled over Emily's words. She nodded as if to herself and her face broke into a smile wide enough to show dimples. She held out a brown box for Emily to take. "Amelia's gift is inside. I'll give you privacy to open it."
"Thank you. I'd appreciate that."
Selene gave a one-handed wave over her shoulder and left the room. The door closed behind her with a soft click.
Emily's attention shifted to the cardboard box on her lap. She lifted the lid and found a gift wrapped in pretty paper and tied with a silk bow. Emily carefully removed the paper, taking care not to tear it. Out came a small round box carved from a crystalline blue stone that shone like polished glass. The sides were covered in intricate engravings that looked like overlapping wings in flight. She slid her finger along the seam trying to find a way to open the box and felt a sharp prick like a bee sting. She drew her thumb away to inspect it and saw the imprint of a rune hover on her skin for a moment before disappearing. There was a hiss and the lid slid open to reveal a silk lined case with a necklace nestled within. She extracted the tiny card with her name on it. It was made from embossed paper and when she opened the card she saw precise, neat handwriting with Amelia's name signed in a flourish at the bottom.
Dearest Emily
The time we spent together was precious to me and so are you. Thank you for everything.
I'm sorry about the way we parted. I didn't mean to storm off like that.
About the necklace—I found one of your primary feathers and kept it without asking if I could. I'd like you to have this gift in return as I have no intention of giving up the only memento I have of our time together. I hope that you will wear the necklace occasionally and remember me kindly.
Please accept this gift with my sincerest best wishes for you.
May you always fly freely wherever and whenever you wish.
May you always have a light to guide your way, night or day.
May you always have someone watch over you.
May you no longer fear the dark now you know not only monsters favor it.
Love Amelia
Emily put the card down on the bed and carefully extracted the necklace. Suspended from the silver chain hung a dark oval disk that showed a female avian soaring over a lake under a full moon. The miniature carving of the avian was exquisitely done in a pearl-like substance that appeared white at first but changed color depending on the angle of light. It was as she was admiring the play of light that she noticed there was something inside the moon. It was too small to see clearly at first but when she focused her vision she saw a tiger under a tree. The rendering was so well done she could see patterns in the fur and the green crystals used for eyes. Tracking the tiger's gaze she saw it was watching the girl. It was a masterful work created by someone with great skill and so personalized that Emily knew Amelia must have had it commissioned at great expense. It was beautiful and a thoughtful keepsake to remind Emily of the evenings the two of them spent under the full moon and the tree probably represented the one in Amelia's garden. Emily smiled remembering how she woke from falling asleep under it to find Amelia had covered her with a blanket and even slipped one under her head.
Emily became aware of a tingling in her hands. At first, the feeling was faint but it became stronger the longer she held the necklace. It wasn't unpleasant but the sensation was traveling up her arms which was disconcerting. If she didn't know the gift was from Amelia Emily would have worried there was something harmful embedded in the necklace and dropped it. She checked the disk for magic runes but there were none that she could see. It was smooth like polished stone, had a metallic sheen and was surprisingly light for how thick it was. Something tugged at her memory. There was something about the color of the disc and the tingling in her hands that seemed familiar.
When the answer came to her Emily gasped. The oval disk wasn't some rare stone or metal, this was a dragon's scale. Altered in shape but definitely a dragon's scale. If she had never seen a dragon up close it would never have occurred to her because it wasn't like dragons left their scales around for people to examine. Extremely rare and reputed to be imbued with the most potent magic dragon scales were highly coveted even by other shapeshifters. A single scale sold on the black market was worth a pile of ethian crystals.
Emily felt her hands shake as she realized that Amelia had had one of her own scales shaped into a piece of jewelry for her. With unsteady fingers she took up Amelia's note and reread it. This time she saw the play of words and could hear the things Amelia didn't explicitly say but were there between the lines. The dark scale that was the backdrop for the entire piece was meant to represent night, the time her nocturnal lover felt most at ease. The full moon was meant to chase away the dark and light Emily's way so she wouldn't be afraid. Hidden inside the moon the tigress watching over her, keeping her safe. So many layers of symbolism only the two of them would understand but it was the dragon scale that was Amelia's true message. She didn't just leave Emily a piece of sentimental jewelry in exchange for a feather, she'd given Emily a piece of her secret self. It was a secret hidden in plain sight. Like the woman who gave it this gift was so much more than it appeared to be. If Emily wore this around her neck all a casual observer would see was a beautiful necklace that depicted an avian flying at night as the tigress hid in the moon. But the true secret wasn't the watchful tigress, it was the dragon scale masquerading as merely a backdrop. Amelia must have wanted to tell Emily she was a chimera but she couldn't so she'd hinted at her secret this way. It was so subtly done that if she didn't already know she would have missed the message entirely. It was so like Amelia to give a gift of great significance and mindboggling value and try to pass it off as an equal exchange for a feather.
Emily clutched the necklace to her heart and whispered. "Sweetheart, where are you? I miss you so much. I'm waiting for you. Please come to me." Emily pressed her lips to Amelia's dragon scale and burst into tears because for a moment the way it hummed against her lips it had felt like a kiss.
|
It was sunset when Amelia arrived at Selene's door. She knocked loud enough to be heard above the music and a minute later she helped Selene wrestle open her heavy door. Before she could say hello Selene grabbed her around the middle and surprised her with a fierce hug.
"Amelia, you're alive! Where have you been all this time? I was worried! No one knew what happened to you. Are you all right? Wow, you made a powerful statement bashing up House Ravir. You destroyed their freaking tower! Great work. No one is going to mess with you in a hurry. What's with the dragons turning up at the same time? You wouldn't believe the crazy rumors flying around. Everyone has a theory on why they were there. People have been pestering me for information because they know we're friends. I keep telling them I wasn't there and I haven't seen you so how am I supposed to know? Great news...that big bounty on your head? Gone! That's what happens when you kill the person responsible. I've been dying to tell you I found out Carlos has been paying frontmen for years to put bounties on your pelt. Apparently, he wanted to come back to Nordarra but he was shit scared of you. Rightly so. He barely got back and you shredded his ass. Wish I was there to see that. Bet he pissed himself when he saw you coming. And you saved Emily! Knew you would. I forget my manners, come in my friend. We can talk inside while I make you a cup of tea. So much to tell you. Did you travel far? You look a bit worn out."
Amelia smiled at Selene's exuberant welcome and the overload of information that gushed out of her non-stop. It was a sign her friend was either very happy to see her or was on a sleepless coffee binge trying to finish a project. Knowing Selene it was probably both. After her initial blast of energetic chatter she would settle down to more sedate conversation.
"Hello, Selene, it's good to see you too. I'm okay. I traveled several days almost non-stop to get back to Porta Belua. I couldn't come earlier. Had things to take care of I'd rather not discuss."
Selene gave her a curious look but nodded her understanding. "As delighted as I am to see you, I suspect you didn't travel for days on end just to see me?"
"Emily...we have unfinished business."
Again Selene nodded her understanding. "I thought so. Do you want to stay here while you two sort things out?"
"If that's all right?"
"Of course, you know you are always welcome."
"While I'm here I'll sort out that door for you and see what else I can do. Repairs for food and board."
Selene beamed and clapped Amelia on the arm. "It's a shame we're not into each other because I'd love to have you around more. You're so useful! Plumber, carpenter, cook and the list goes on. You're like several tradesmen all for the price of a bed and meals. An absolute bargain!"
Amelia burst out laughing. "It's probably just as well we're only friends. With our size difference could you imagine the looks we'd get if we were dating? I'm well over six foot and you're um..."
"Tiny?"
"Petite."
"Whatever. Oh, by the way, I put your things in your room."
"I have a room? Since when?"
"Since you left all your stuff with me and I needed to prepare a guest room anyway. Just so you know, if anything has been disturbed it wasn't me."
That stopped Amelia in her tracks and she gave Selene a questioning look.
"Your Emily. She came over a few days after you left. She wanted her gift. She tagged along when I went to go get it from your room. I thought she might want to open your gift in private so I left her to it. I got busy and forgot she was here. When I realized how much time had passed I assumed she'd gone but to my surprise, I found Emily was still here. She'd unrolled your sleeping bag on top of the bed, crawled inside and was fast asleep."
"She was?"
"Yup. She got rid of her wings and made herself right at home. That surprised the heck out of me I can tell you. I've never seen a grown avian without wings. She looked so peaceful I didn't have the heart to wake her."
"How long was she asleep?"
"Hours. The woman must have been exhausted. I had to wake her eventually because the sentinels on my roof were becoming agitated. I didn't want them to break down my doors to 'rescue' their sleeping princess."
"Have you seen Emily since? Did she leave me a note?"
"She came around again last week asking if I'd heard from you but she didn't leave a message. Were you expecting one?"
Staring out the window toward the Aquilar tower Amelia didn't reply.
"Amelia?"
Amelia mentally shook herself and said, "I need to see her. It's almost dark and probably rude to turn up so late but she is so close. If I wait until tomorrow to go see Emily it's going to drive me crazy. Can I use your shower?"
"Want to be fresh and sweet smelling for your reunion with the pretty avian? Oooo...are you blushing? That's so cute. You know your way around, help yourself. Are you hungry? Want me to make you something before you go?"
"I'm in a hurry. I'm just going to shower and go."
"Hot chocolate. That's what I'll make. Won't take you more than a minute to down a big mug."
"Sounds good. Thanks, Selene."
|
Emily heard her sister's familiar knock on the door a moment before she pushed it open to shout, "Emily, are you here?"
Emily sighed. She wasn't in the mood for company but she didn't have the heart to send Oriana away.
"I'm on the couch in the sitting room. Come in."
"Why are there no lights on? Emily...where are your wings?"
From her seat on the couch where Emily sat with her legs drawn up to her chest she turned to give her sister a dark look. "Where do you think they are?"
"Oh wow...someone is testy." Oriana plonked down next to Emily and took a moment to arrange her wings comfortably. "And very broody."
"I'm not broody. I never brood."
"You could have fooled me. You're sitting alone in the dark staring out at the city with a melancholic look on your face. That's the very definition of brooding. I don't think I've ever seen you sitting in the dark. Like ever. Not on purpose anyway and when are you ever without your wings? Just wow again to that one."
"It's not that dark, Oriana, it's barely dusk. As for my wings? I didn't feel like having them on. It's not like I'm planning to fly anywhere tonight and it's so much more comfortable sleeping without them. I love that I can lie on my back and fall asleep looking up at the moon."
Oriana stared at Emily. "Who are you and what have you done with my sister?"
"I'm fine," Emily grumbled. "I'm just thinking out loud."
Oriana's forehead creased into a frown. "You've changed. The old Emily would never have shifted her wings just to sleep more comfortably. I'm seriously worried. What is going on with you?"
"I'm...not quite myself. I feel different after everything that happened and things that didn't bother me before annoy the heck out of me now."
"Like?"
"Like the jokes they made at dinner about beast-shifters. Those fur and flea jokes are disgusting, juvenile and plain ignorant. Beast-shifters are super clean and their fur doesn't stink! We have plenty of cats in the tower being fussed over and sleeping in people's beds and I've never heard anyone complain that their fur stinks."
"Ah...now I understand what's going on. This is about your tigress. Do you miss, Amelia?"
Emily's face crumbled and she wiped a tear from her cheek. "Would you miss your wings if you lost them tomorrow and could never fly again?"
"Of course, that would be terrible. Without them I wouldn't be me anymore. I'd be incomplete."
"That's how I feel about Amelia. Like something essential is missing and now I have this constant ache inside. I've never felt like this before and it scares me. It's been nine weeks and I haven't heard a thing. What if Amelia never comes back? Will I be like this forever?"
"Wow, that's intense. I was going to go to a party and tell you afterwards that I saw Amelia but now I'm glad I came straight home."
Emily shot upright and grabbed her sister's arm. "You saw Amelia? Where, when?"
"About half an hour ago near the night market."
"You're sure it was her?"
Oriana scoffed. "Emily, I've met Amelia. She is very memorable and I'd have to be senile to mistake someone else for her. I also talked to her, so yeah, it was definitely Amelia."
"You talked to her?" Emily stared at Oriana as if she had just told her she saw a wolf sprout wings.
"Geez, you're slow tonight. Yes, I talked to her and boy, she looked hot. Dangerous but hot. Not that I'm into girls but if I was, I'd love to have a go with someone like her. I was with Fredric and Isa and I thought they were going to wet themselves when she came up to say hello. They thought we were too high up and the sides of the building too smooth for any beast-shifter to climb up to mess with us but she was up there in no time at all. Plus, she looked so hot. Did I mention that part? Fredric denied it but he had the hugest boner and Isa drooled so hard I worried she was going to rip off her own clothing and throw herself on Amelia. It was embarrassing. Good thing I stayed cool and collected."
"Oriana, what the heck are you talking about? Where did you see her? What did she say?"
"A group of us met up to listen to the band playing in the square while we had pizza and drinks."
"You know you shouldn't drink and fly. It's not safe," Emily said on reflex with no actual heat.
"Whatever, Mother, we were just having cider and we were eating. Now do you want to hear the rest of the story or not?"
"Yes, yes, go on."
"Sooo, we were sitting on the roof eating pizza, people watching and listening to music when Amelia strolled past below. I called out to her and boom, just like that, she climbed the building. That was awesome by the way – your girlfriend really knows how to make an entrance and she wasn't even breathing hard."
"What did she say?"
"Not much, just that it was good to see me again and she asked if you were home. I asked Amelia when she'd gotten back and she said she'd just arrived. Then I introduced her to Fredric and Isa. They offered her some of our pizza and cider but she didn't want any and after that she left. Awesome exit too. She walked to the side of the building and jumped. We rushed to have a look and I thought for sure she was going to be a pancake down below but she was nowhere to be seen."
"So, you're telling me Amelia is back and in the city?"
"Yeah, the evidence seems to point that way."
"If she was coming to see me straight away she would have been here by now. I bet she was heading to Selene's place to see if I left her a note. Yes, that's where she would have gone. So that's where I'm going."
Emily got up, yanked her shirt over her head, clenched her fists and concentrated with all her might. Instantly her wings popped into existence with a whoosh of air that knocked a bowl of fruit from the side table sending peaches and strawberries tumbling to the carpet.
Oriana jumped several feet into the air and perched on the back of the couch like a startled cat. "Emily, how did you do that? That's impossible!"
"Of course it isn't because you just saw me do it. We just need to be taught how to quick-shift and I was taught by the best."
Oriana cocked her head to the side, confusion and doubt all over her face. "Grandma taught you how to quick-shift your wings?"
"Not a chance, grandma's technique is horrible! Amelia taught me. She's amazing." Emily walked to the balcony and prepared to launch herself into flight.
"Emily, wait!"
Annoyed at the interruption but caught by the urgent tone in her sister's voice Emily paused. "What is it?"
"You should really put on a shirt first. Unless it's your plan to flash everyone with eyes your boobs?"
Emily felt herself go crimson. She stepped back from the balcony and hastily folded her arms over her chest to cover herself. "A shirt would be good." Looking down at herself Emily added, "And probably pants that are not pajama bottoms, and a pair of shoes. Thank you, Oriana, that was a close one."
|
Emily was about to knock when Selene opened the door. Selene was carrying a large mug of hot chocolate in one hand and Emily saw a flash of something metallic in the other before it disappeared under Selene's jacket.
"Hello, Selene."
"Emily..."
"Is she here?"
Selene leaned against the doorframe, took a leisurely drink from her mug then said, "Yup, she turned up a short while ago."
Emily waited for Selene to say something more or to invite her in but Selene just watched her with wry amusement.
"Is she all right?"
"Yeah, she seems fine."
Selene took a sip and then another and in the awkward silence that set in Emily could hear distant laughter and the sound of birds settling down for the night in the huge old tree. She strained to hear movement in the house but there was nothing and she couldn't see anyone in the hallway behind Selene. Emily fiddled with her necklace and her fingers automatically traced the now familiar shapes of the avian and her watchful guardian, her mind seeking comfort in Amelia's message. When she'd heard Amelia was back she was so excited she'd rushed to be with her. Now she was beginning to feel unsure of herself. Perhaps this was a mistake? Should she have waited for Amelia to come to her? Was Selene blocking her because Amelia didn't want to see her?
Selene raised her cup to have another sip but when she heard water run into the drain she straightened and motioned Emily inside. "Finally, it took her long enough. I was stalling to make sure Amelia was in the shower before I invited you in."
"Um...why?"
"If I let you in earlier you'd have caught her before her shower. You'd be at the kitchen table right now with her offering you a cup of tea and fretting that she didn't have time to have a shower after traveling for days to see you. Now you can wait in her room and skip straight to the fun part," Selene said and gave Emily a mischievous wink.
For a moment Emily was speechless as her mind rallied to adjust to the unexpected direction of the conversation. "I haven't seen her in over two months. Do you think she'll mind if I wait in her bedroom?"
"Are you here to tell Amelia it's over between you two?"
"What? No! Definitely not."
"Then yeah...the way I read the signs she will be very happy to see you. By the way, I'm heading out for the evening and I don't expect to be back till morning. You two will have the place all to yourselves for the night."
"Selene...thanks."
Selene saluted Emily with her mug and grinned. "I'm just giving you two privacy. Make the best of it." Not waiting for Emily to reply Selene disappeared down the hallway whistling a cheerful tune.
|
Amelia lingered in the shower, her arms braced on the sides, her head bowed. She had meant to take a very quick shower but the hot water was so soothing on her aching muscles. She always prided herself on her stamina and could outrun just about anything but she wasn't flying fit. A few weeks of flying didn't undo a lifetime of pretending she didn't have wings and it certainly didn't prepare her to battle gale force winds for close to a day to get over the mountain ranges. She was sore and tired. She'd been tempted to curl up for a snooze in the forest just outside of Porta Belua but she had pushed herself to continue because Emily was waiting for her. At least she hoped so. It had been months and so much could have happened to change Emily's mind about them. Fear was the other reason she lingered in the shower. The hope she'd held so close to her heart felt like a flimsy dream now that she was about to see Emily again and all the doubts she'd been able to suppress while she faced the dragons and fought to make her way back to Emily bloomed in her chest so that it was hard to breathe. The last time she hurried back to be with a woman who said she'd wait for her Amelia had returned to find her lover had chosen another in her absence. It had been a crushing blow and it was hard not to fear similar disappointment. At least there was no note from Emily calling things off between them and Selene said Emily came looking for her. Surely those were encouraging signs? Amelia rolled her shoulders and pushed away from the wall. Only one way to find out. Time to get out of the shower and go see Emily.
As soon as Amelia entered the hallway she smelled Emily. She froze and tested the air, half-convinced she imagined it but there was no mistaking that tantalizing scent. Instantly she was in pursuit of the source, her body moving as if it had a will of its own and in a few strides she was in her bedroom. Standing by the bed Emily turned and their eyes locked.
"Emily, you're here!" The words came out in a rush. Amelia's heart was beating so loudly she was sure Emily would hear it. "I was on my way to see you."
Emily's eyes darkened and her lips curved up in a smile. "Were you coming like that? Because if you were...I love the outfit."
Momentarily confused Amelia looked at herself and saw she was only wearing a towel and a very tiny one at that. It barely covered her butt. She blushed and tried to pull it down a little but that bared more of her breasts. Emily's smile widened.
"No, of course not. My clothing is on the chair."
"Hmm, I'm glad I got here before you had time to put it on."
Flustered and struggling to find a suitable comeback Amelia's eyes caught the nervous way Emily fingered the necklace around her neck. It was the necklace she'd given her. Emily was stroking it compulsively like she was trying to draw courage from it. Looking closer Amelia saw the tight way Emily held her wings and behind the laughter in her eyes there was vulnerability. Despite her brazen words Emily was nervous too. If Emily could be bold so could she. Amelia moved closer so there was less than an arm's length between them.
"You're wearing my necklace."
"I never take it off."
"Do you like it?"
"I love it. It's so beautiful and a piece of you I can carry with me always."
Amelia smiled and gently put her hands on Emily's waist. "You are in my bedroom and you're wearing my necklace. Does that mean what I hope it does?"
Instead of answering the question Emily slid her arms around Amelia's neck and kissed her. Emily's lips were warm velvet gliding against her own, soft but insistent. She probed with her tongue and Amelia opened for her. Amelia groaned as the taste of strawberries and peaches flooded her mouth and she wondered if Emily's arousal would taste as sweet. She desperately wanted to find out. Emily's kisses were hungry and she pressed her body hard up against Amelia so she felt every contour of her body. She slid her hand under the back of Emily's shirt so she could feel the warmth of her bare skin then down a little so she could feel the perfect rounds of Emily's ass move under her palm as she strained to get closer. Their kisses were them speaking without words as their bodies sought and gave reassurance to questions their fearful minds were yet to express. They rocked together and as Emily's hands caressed her shoulders and back with aching tenderness Amelia felt tension seep out of her body and something inside her uncoiled. She let out a shuddering breath and Emily drew back to search her eyes. Whatever she saw there made her smile and she made a happy humming sound.
"Does that answer your question, my love?"
Her mind a haze of want and contentment at having Emily back in her arms, Amelia stared at her in confusion. When it dawned on her what she meant Amelia was shocked at how utterly Emily had derailed her thoughts. She closed her eyes for a moment to gather her courage then asked the question she was afraid to ask but had to for her own sanity.
"Emily, I don't want to assume the kisses and you being here with me means more to you than it actually does. I need you to say it. I need you to tell me so I know for sure."
"I rushed over as soon as I heard you were back. I'm in your arms. This is me showing you I am yours. It means I want to be your mate."
Amelia swallowed hard. "My mate...are you sure?" She gently cupped Emily's cheek and moaned when Emily turned her face to kiss her palm.
"I've missed your hands. So strong but gentle all over me. Your fingers are so long and elegant. How I've missed your fingers inside me. Hmm, you taste so good ."
Emily followed that comment up by swirling her tongue around Amelia's thumb and sucking the tip. Amelia's stomach muscles clenched and it took all her self-control to pull her hand away so Emily would look at her. Apparently they were both easy to distract. She had done a lot of thinking during their separation and there were things that had to be said.
"Emily, please don't offer to be my mate unless you are sure. You know what I am. My beasts are very territorial and so am I when it comes to what belongs to me. Telling me you want to be my mate is not the same as just being my girlfriend. You understand that, right? There is no rush. If you want to date for a while to get to know me better I'll give you all the time and space you need. I don't want you to feel pressured into a serious relationship just to keep me around. We can take it as slow or fast as you want. All I ask is that you be very clear with me where we stand so there's no misunderstanding."
"Is going slow what you want?" Emily countered, her voice sharp and laced with hurt. "Is this your way of telling me you need more time together to be sure about us?"
"No, I already know all the things that really matter about you. I want you to be mine. I was trying to be considerate."
"Amelia, it's sweet you are trying to be considerate but truthfully I was already yours after the first time we made love. I just wasn't ready to admit it to myself. I don't want a casual girlfriend who I only get to spend time with if we both happen to have a free evening and I want to be in your bed every night not just occasionally. We are way past that. Are you worried you'll scare me off if you act too territorial?" At Amelia's hesitant nod Emily smiled. "Do you really think you are the only one with a possessive streak? No more drunken strip poker games for you unless it's with me and I have to be honest, the thought of you swimming naked with those mermaid bitches makes me want to hit something." Emily rustled her wings in mock aggression and it made Amelia laugh. "Now we've got that out of the way, please tell me you're not still thinking of leaving Nordarra?"
"No, Emily. You are here, how can I leave? I love you."
Emily let out a happy sigh. "That's such a relief. I love you too, Amelia. I love you with all my heart. I've missed you so much. Every day you've been away has felt like an eternity."
Amelia tightened her hold possessively and Emily reciprocated by draping her wings over her shoulders. Amelia shivered at the feel of warm silky feathers against her bare skin. She buried her nose in the warmth of Emily's wing and inhaled greedily, loving how Emily's sweet scent enveloped her. Heat pooled between her thighs making her slick with need.
"You smell so good. It makes me want to..." Amelia faltered feeling overwhelmed by the intensity of her feelings for Emily.
Emily caressed Amelia's face, her eyes soft and happy. "Go on. Tell me."
"You smell like safety and home. So comforting, but at the same time your scent is a powerful aphrodisiac that drives me a little crazy and after being away from you for so long I want to rip your clothes off and claim every inch of you. I've craved your scent, your touch, the nearness of you. You're intoxicating. I've not even had a taste of you and I'm already feeling a little drunk."
Emily gave a throaty laugh and palmed one of Amelia's rock-hard nipples straining against the flimsy towel. "You know how to make a woman feel desired. It makes me so happy to hear you say those things." Emily rested her cheek against Amelia's chest and said, "I've missed the sound of your heartbeat and your arms around me. I feel so safe and loved when you hold me. I know nothing can harm me while you're near. At night alone in my cold bed I tried to drive away my fears by remembering what this felt like but hugging a pillow is a very poor substitute for you."
Emily felt Amelia's body tense and when she looked up at her she saw that the dreamy expression from a moment ago had been replaced by predatory alertness. "Why were you afraid, sweetheart? Did someone threaten you? Tell me who it was. It won't happen again." Amelia tilted her head inquiringly. "Or is it political? Are the other flocks giving House Aquilar trouble because of what happened with House Ravir?"
Because she was looking for it Emily saw the amber flames ignite in the green of Amelia's eyes and it made her think of coals in the forest. Carefully tended it would provide gentle heat and protection but stoked too high it would turn into a raging forest fire bent on destruction. It was the difference between cuddling up with the protective tigress or provoking the dragon's rage. Such a fine line. Amelia was watching her expectantly and Emily realized that because Amelia loved and trusted her she had the power to push her either way. It was a power she didn't expect and didn't particularly want but if she became Amelia's mate it would be hers all the same. The thought made Emily's mouth go dry and she made a mental note to always pay careful attention when she spoke to Amelia. She didn't want to accidentally unleash her on harmless foe.
"It's all right, no one threatened me and the other flocks aren't giving us trouble. When they heard what despicable things House Ravir had been up to and saw what happened to them, as a result, the other flocks couldn't sever ties with Ravir quick enough. When I said I was afraid I meant of losing you. I was afraid for you . I had a taste of what life with you would be like and I longed for that so badly it hurt. The business with the dragons...are you okay? What happened?"
Amelia relaxed and pulled a face like she tasted something bad. "The dragons are a colossal pain in the ass. It was better when my so-called relatives ignored me and pretended I don't exist. Their sudden interest in me is unsettling. My life isn't in danger so let's leave that conversation for another day. Thinking about them puts me in a foul mood and I won't let anything spoil our reunion. I forgot to ask, how's your father?"
"He's feeling so much better. Every day he's a little stronger and it's wonderful to see. He told me what happened and how you saved his life. All that time we never caught on that Marcus was poisoning him. You were in the tower less than an hour and put it all together."
"Only because I have a superb sense of smell and I was in the right place at the right time. Marcus's time was up. That's all."
"Yes but—"
"Emily, please don't make my role bigger than it was. I was only there for you. It was a happy coincidence I got to help your father."
Sensing Amelia's discomfort Emily relented. She wouldn't gain anything by pushing Amelia to accept thanks she didn't want. She would find other ways to show her gratitude. Ways both of them would find thoroughly enjoyable and provide mutual satisfaction. The thought excited Emily. There was something she'd been aching to do since Amelia walked into the room steamy from her shower, her gorgeous body covered only in a barely-there towel. Using her nose to nuzzle the towel out of the way she licked the drops of water that trickled from Amelia's wet hair to cling to the damp hollow between her breasts. Loving the taste and feel of Amelia fresh from her shower she took her time, licking along the watery trail, tracking it backwards across Amelia's collarbone to the vulnerable plane of her throat. Amelia moaned and arched her neck to give Emily more access so she pressed warm open mouth kisses on the heated skin. She slipped a hand under the towel and caressed the inside of Amelia's thighs. She ran her fingers slowly up and down brushing against the damp curls at the apex. She did that a few times and Amelia's breathing became ragged and her skin broke out in goosebumps. Emily meant to take it slow but she couldn't resist the need to dip her fingers into the welcoming heat. Amelia hissed in a breath and swayed unsteadily so Emily maneuvered them to the bed. She pushed at Amelia's shoulders letting her know she wanted her to sit down then she straddled her. Amelia watched her wrestle with the knot that held the towel in place and smiled when Emily muttered her frustration at not being able to undo it. She placed a hand over Emily's trembling hands, squeezed gently and loosened the tight knot for her. She withdrew her hand leaving Emily to finish what she'd started. Emily licked her lips and slowly parted the towel to bare Amelia. Her breath caught in her throat. Even though she had held fast to her memories of Amelia's sculpted body nothing could compare with the reality. Reverently she cradled Amelia's breasts in her palms and ran her tongue over the dark nipples. She reveled in Amelia's sharp intake of breath as she sucked first one then the other into her mouth. She wanted to linger there but she had so much more to explore. Promising herself she would return to give Amelia's breasts all the attention they deserved, Emily let her hands glide down to remap the hard ridges of Amelia's abs, the narrow waist that flared into broad shoulders then down over her hips and between her powerful thighs to the slick folds that quivered at her touch. She dipped deeper and felt the walls of Amelia's pussy throb around her fingers. She was right on the edge. Emily held still while she considered what to do. Back off and tease Amelia nice and slow or give her the relief she needed? One look into her lover's eyes and she had her answer. She gently but firmly pushed her down on her back then kissed her way down Amelia's body until she was between her legs. She unfurled her wings slowly and glided the inside of her wings over Amelia's naked body. Amelia moaned and arched into her.
"Emily..." Amelia's voice was husky and thick with desire. "Emily, your feathers are like warm silk. Your scent...your scent is all over me." When she lifted her head to stare at Emily her eyes looked glazed. "Are you trying to drive me insane? Do you have any idea what you're doing to me?"
"You like when I touch you like that?"
"I love it."
Emily hummed with delight and took Amelia in her mouth. She wasn't gentle. She sucked hard while flicking her tongue across the sensitive bud. Amelia cried out her name and her body bowed with the intensity of her release. Her walls clamped down on Emily's fingers and feeling Amelia come for her was such a turn on Emily almost climaxed as well. She left her fingers inside Amelia long after the last contractions finished, reluctant to give up the intimate contact.
"Was that good, my love?"
"Hmm...you've undone me. My muscles feel like jelly. I'll need a few minutes to recover."
Feeling immensely pleased with herself Emily crawled up Amelia's body and lay her head on her chest. She listened as Amelia's breathing and heart rate slowed down and felt deep contentment settle over her. So right...this felt so right. She wanted this always. She wanted this woman, her mate, her love with her always. She resettled a wing over her naked lover covering her and heard Amelia's happy sigh. She only lifted her head from Amelia's chest when she felt her move. Amelia raised up on her elbows and Emily felt a rush of nervous anticipation when she saw the predatory gleam in her eyes. Emily licked her lips and saw Amelia's eyes fasten on her mouth before raking over her clothed body as if she wore nothing at all.
"I've got my strength back. We are way overdue getting you undressed." Amelia tucked at Emily's shirt. "I want you naked. I need to touch you, feel you. I'm starving for a taste of you."
Amelia's hands brushed against her breasts through the shirt and Emily ached to have Amelia's hands and mouth on them without the cloth barrier. She tried to help but in their urgency they were getting in each other's way and her wings made it harder to get her clothes off. Frustrated she shifted them away.
Amelia gave a grunt of surprise and paused in the process of unhooking Emily's bra to stare at her. Her face broke into a brilliant smile and she said, "So quick. Sweetheart, you've been practising."
Basking in her lover's approval Emily laughed and did a happy wiggle as Amelia peeled her out of the rest of her clothing in record time. "Every day at least twice a day. As you can see, I've become very good at it."
"You're amazing. Congratulations, you can now shift as quickly as a dragon."
"Truly?"
"Yes. I'm so proud of you."
Amelia lifted Emily onto her lap so she straddled her again and they both gasped as their naked bodies came into full contact.
"Oh...oh, how I've missed this." Emily lay her head on Amelia's chest. Warm hands cupped her ass and Amelia tucked her tighter so her wet sex was splayed open against Amelia's stomach. She could smell her own arousal and felt it coat her lover's skin. For a moment Emily was tempted to feel embarrassed but then Amelia inhaled audibly and she made a sound that was somewhere between a happy moan and a possessive growl. The sound vibrated through Emily's body causing shivers down her spine and her clit throbbed painfully.
"And I've missed this. I've missed you. I love you." Amelia's voice was low and husky.
Her own breathing ragged, Emily whispered in her ear, "I'm yours. Your mate. Take me. Claim me. Please ."
Amelia captured Emily's face between her palms and tilted her head up for a kiss. Just before her mouth descended Emily saw Amelia's eyes. They were so dark they were almost black and feverish with desire. Emily felt her own excitement go through the roof. She remembered that look. Knew it meant Amelia was going to fuck her senseless. She'd given up count how many nights she'd awoken in a lust sweat after dreaming about that look. Finally, she'd get all that went with it for real and experience a climax not brought on by her own desperate hands. Climaxes... she corrected with a groan as Amelia claimed a nipple exactly the way she liked. That was the other thing she remembered with delight: Amelia's insatiable appetite for her.
Soon Emily's breasts felt like ripe fruit ready to burst from all the attention lavished on them and she was an aching, quivering mess. Amelia's hands and mouth were all over her driving her into a frenzy but never lingered where she needed them most. She couldn't take it anymore. Frantic with need Emily tried to push Amelia's hand between her legs. She got a nip on the shoulder and found herself on her back, her legs spread wide with Amelia's fingers buried inside her while her hot mouth feasted on Emily's sex. She tried to hold on to enjoy the sensation of Amelia thrusting in and out of her and the feel of her tongue doing wondrous things but Emily had been driven right to the edge. That on top of two months of lustful wanting and worrying meant her body had a will of its own. It wanted release and it wanted it now . Her climax hit hard and fast. She fisted her hands in the sheets and rode out the waves of pleasure cascading outwards from her core until finally she lay limp, her body flushed with languid heat. Amelia carefully removed her fingers and kissed her thighs.
"Was that good, sweetheart?"
"Spectacular, " was the only word Emily could muster.
Amelia gave a toothy grin and while she kept eye contact she lowered her head to suckle Emily's clit. Emily watched her through heavy eyes and didn't protest that she was too spent from her earth-shattering orgasm to have another so quickly. She knew her body would rally for Amelia and it did. With enthusiasm. Later Amelia's body did the same for her. Multiple times. They were both gloriously exhausted and well sated by the time they passed out in each other's arms.
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When Amelia woke Emily was sprawled on top of her. Their limbs entwined so for a moment it was hard for her sleep befuddled brain to figure out where she ended and Emily began. Emily's hair had come undone and it covered them like a golden fan. Amelia breathed in, finding pleasure and comfort in the way their scents mingled. They were silky feathers and warm fur, sun-drenched skies and moonlit earth. Emily's lighter sweeter fragrance infused with her earthier tones and overlaying their unique scent was the smell of sex. Amelia felt herself grinning from ear to ear and stretched languidly. Disturbed by her lover's movement Emily lifted her head and stared at Amelia with sleepy eyes. When she saw the way Amelia was smiling she raised a questioning eyebrow.
"I'm happy," Amelia said as explanation. "You've made me ecstatically happy."
Emily smiled and lay her head back on Amelia's shoulder. "I love you."
"Hmm...I'll never get tired of hearing that."
"That's good because I'm going to tell you a lot. With my words and my body, every day."
Amelia trailed her fingers down Emily's back in a gentle caress. "I'll be yours as long as you want me."
"I'm not going to change my mind."
Amelia kissed Emily's forehead. "It's still dark. Sleep some more. I'll wake you in time to go join your flock for the dawn song."
Emily wanted to protest and press her point but she could hardly keep her eyes open. Lulled by the steady heartbeat under her ear and the warmth of Amelia's embrace she drifted off to sleep.
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Amelia propped herself up on an elbow to watch Emily get ready for her work day. She was sitting in bed beside Amelia naked from the waist up with the blanket pooled around her hips. She was tidying her hair. Amelia was fixated on the slight sway of the rose-tinted nipples as Emily brushed out her long hair. When Emily lifted her arms to start braiding, her body stretched in an arc. The light filtering through the curtains cascaded over her body in a golden haze further emphasizing her feminine curves and the silkiness of her skin.
Emily's eyes met Amelia's and her hands stilled in motion. She swallowed hard and said, "You can't look at me like that right now."
"Why not? You're beautiful. It's impossible for me not to admire you."
"When you look at me like that I can hardly think. I want to throw down this brush, crawl right back into your arms and forget I have a whole day of meetings scheduled."
Amelia leaned in and starting from Emily's hip she trailed her lips and the tip of her tongue all the way up to the curve of Emily's breast. She gave Emily a wicked smile and gently grazed her nipple with her teeth followed by the soothing swirl of her tongue. Emily trembled and leaned back onto her arms offering her breasts up to Amelia's hungry mouth.
"Not fair," she groaned. "You know that's my weakness."
Amelia's hand slid up the inside of Emily's thigh. She automatically spread her legs and Amelia cupped her with firm pressure. Lifting her head from Emily's breast Amelia said, "I think we have time for one more before you have to go to your boring meetings. A little something to tide you over until tonight. Unless you really need to go right now?"
Emily knew if she let Amelia make love to her again she would miss attending her flock's dawn song but she didn't care. At that moment the only thing that mattered was the way her lover's naked body pressed against her offering mind melting pleasure. "I have a little more time," she said weakly and moaned her approval when Amelia's strong body settled on hers.
|
Emily smiled when she felt the now familiar buzz of Amelia's dragon scale as she put the necklace back around her neck. She shifted her wings in preparation of the flight home and watched as Amelia slid into her jeans and put on an old t-shirt.
"What are your plans for today?"
"While you are in meetings I'll be playing handyman around here. The place needs a lot of work and I told Selene I'd help out."
"You're good with fixing things?"
"Yes, over the years I learned a lot from the villagers of Ingvild."
"Hmm, you're such a talented woman. You really can do all kinds of amazing things with those hands of yours. I can definitely attest to that."
Amelia grinned and pounced on Emily from across the room. Emily gave a startled squeal which turned into a moan when Amelia kissed her. They were both a little breathless when the kiss ended.
"I really have to go."
"I know."
"You'll spend the evening with me? I'm planning a romantic dinner."
"Of course. Where would you like to meet?"
"Meet me at Aquilar Tower."
"Are you sure you want us to meet there? There will be no going back once the word is out that we are together. You know our relationship will upset some members of your flock, I am a predatory beast-shifter after all and they're avians. Won't they be afraid to have me in the tower after what I did to House Ravir? Won't they resent you for being with me?"
Emily clasped Amelia's face in her hands and said in a serious voice, "House Ravir tried to kill my father and kidnapped me. My flock is furious with them. If you hadn't destroyed Ravir Tower my father would have had to retaliate on principle and going wing to wing with such a militant flock would have cost us dearly. My people realize this. As for individuals unhappy about our relationship, let me deal with that. I'm not Astrid or any of the other people who turned their backs on you because you didn't fit into their perfectly ordered world and you know I'm not afraid of what you are. So please stop worrying, my love, I've made up my mind about us. If this relationship ends because one of us walked away it won't be me. I want you to come to Aquilar Tower tonight because I want everyone to know you are mine. I'm sorry if that sounds overly possessive but that's just how it is. I plan on making it clear to anyone with eyes that we are mated. I hope you don't mind."
"I don't mind at all that you want to claim me as yours. As long as you understand that also means you're mine."
In reply, Emily gave Amelia a tender kiss and said, "I'm so glad to hear that. I don't even know myself anymore, I've never been so possessive in my life. I fear if I lose you, I might lose my mind."
Amelia clasped the back of Emily's neck and rubbed their cheeks together while a deep happy sound that reminded Emily of a cat purring rumbled out of her chest. "The feeling is mutual, sweetheart."
|
When the time came to get ready for her dinner date with Emily Amelia took a long shower and washed vigorously to get all the sawdust off her skin and out of her hair. She found her tube of nice smelling moisturizer and applied it liberally. She put on a black bra and matching briefs. Next the tailored black pants and a burgundy silk blouse that buttoned up the front. She put on the boots she'd polished to within an inch of their lives and brushed her hair that had regrown to hang past her shoulders after the brutal cut she'd given herself. As a finishing touch she carefully applied lipstick. Amelia stood in front of the mirror and gave herself a critical look. She thought she looked good but maybe instead of fixing Selene's door and then working on the roof she should have gotten a professional haircut. Her thick hair was shiny and lush but looked a little wild. Amelia tucked a strand of hair away from her face and sighed. It was too late for that; she was as ready as she was going to be. She put on her jacket, slipped on the exquisite diamond cufflinks that were a parting gift from her mother and went looking for Selene. When Selene had heard she was going to dinner with Emily and meeting her at the Aquilar Tower she had immediately insisted on driving Amelia there. She'd gratefully accepted. The weather didn't know what it wanted to do and with her luck she'd get soaked on the way.
When she walked into the kitchen Selene put down her cup and let out a long wolf whistle. "Very nice."
"You think so? Is this okay for a romantic dinner somewhere nice?"
Amelia fidgeted nervously with her cufflinks and wondered if the jacket put too much emphasis on her broad shoulders but it also hugged her curves and went well with the rest of her outfit so hopefully that would balance things out. When Emily told her to dress smartly for their date she should have asked her where they were going. What if she wasn't dressed appropriately?
"Don't look so nervous. Amelia, you're a stunning woman and in that outfit you're going to turn heads. You've got that tall, dark and smoldering look going. Add that to the way you move and it screams danger and sex. If I took you dancing, I'd have to pry the girls off you with a crowbar. Emily is going to get all hot and bothered when she sees you. I hope you two are planning a private dinner because I saw that steamy kiss on the porch and the way Emily looked at you as she flew off. I'll be surprised if you two make it to dessert with all your clothes on."
Amelia grinned even as she felt her cheeks heat. "I'll take that to mean I look all right. Thanks for the confidence booster, Selene."
|
Amelia was approaching one of the sentinels on guard at the gate of the Aquilar complex when Oriana drifted down from above and promptly gave her a full-bodied hug.
"Amelia, you're here! I've been watching for you. Good to see you! Wow, you look amazing . I'm your personal escort courtesy of Emily."
Feeling startled by the enthusiastic welcome Amelia awkwardly patted Oriana's shoulder. "Hello, Oriana, it's good to see you too."
"Emily will meet you in the main hall. I'll take you there."
Amelia followed and soon found herself in what looked like a grand ballroom complete with a high ceiling and a spiraling staircase. The room was packed with avians talking in groups while sipping from delicate long-necked glasses or lounging on comfortable couches as they watched the couples on the dancefloor sway gracefully to the lively tunes of a string quartet.
"Is this a party, Oriana?" Amelia asked softly.
"Sort of. It's a formal dinner preceded by a little dancing and fancy booze to help people unwind and afterwards there will be more entertainment. It's supposed to be a fun get-together for our people and we usually have representatives from other flocks and some of our trading partners attend as well. We used to have these frequently before my father became sick. He loves to entertain and see people have a good time. Emily would have preferred not to be here tonight but she has to make a showing or it will look bad."
"Oh, I see," Amelia said trying to hide her disappointment. When Emily said she was planning a romantic dinner she'd expected a private setting for their first date as a couple, not a formal dinner with Emily's flock. Now instead of stealing kisses, she'd have to make polite conversation with strangers and instead of a relaxing meal, she'd have to put up with dozens of avians scrutinizing her every move. If this was how Emily wanted to let everyone know they are together she should have warned her. She didn't like being the center of attention and being in a confined space with a crowd of potential enemies agitated her beasts. Amelia took a fortifying breath and willed them to be calm. This was Emily's world and if she wanted to share her life, she would have to learn how to endure these kinds of events. Mentally Amelia shook herself. She would do better than endure, she would be on her best behavior and make Emily proud to be her mate.
Amelia got jarred out of her thoughts when she noticed Lord Augustus heading straight for her. He looked so much better than the last time she saw him. His cane was gone, his plumage was less dull, there was vigorous new growth in all the balding spots and his eyes sparkled with life. Clearly, Augustus was a man on the mend and he knew it. A hush fell over the room when he came to a standstill in front of Amelia. She bowed her head in polite acknowledgement. "Lord Augustus. It is pleasing to see you look so well."
Lord Augustus returned the bow then said in a voice that carried, "I'm looking good because of you. I owe you a great debt for saving not only my life but that of my daughter twice over. As Lord of Aquilar Tower I welcome you to our home. I'd invite you to be my honored guest but Emily already claimed that right for herself. I will not even have the pleasure of your company at dinner as she's determined to have you all to herself. Come walk with me. Let us talk a little before she comes and whisks you away."
Lord Augustus was still speaking to her but Amelia was no longer paying attention. On the other side of the room Emily was coming down the stairs in a dress that clung to her like it was molded to her body. It was a spectacular sea-green creation that emphasized Emily's sensuous curves and dipped low in the front so it drew the eye to Amelia's necklace nestled between ample breasts. Emily's golden wings shone like the sun and her long hair was styled in artful curls that tumbled across her shoulders. If Amelia believed in angels she would have thought she was looking at one. Their eyes met across the crowded room and Emily smiled. It was a radiant smile that made Amelia's heart do a happy flutter. Emily's hips gained a seductive sway that had her mesmerized and she couldn't look away even if she'd wanted to.
It took Amelia a moment to register someone was tugging at her sleeve. Glaring at the offending hand on her arm she found Oriana grinning up at her. "Breathe, Amelia. You look as if you're about to faint."
Amelia sucked in a breath of air and on the exhale she gasped, "She's so beautiful."
Beside her Lord Augustus beamed with fatherly pride. "Yes, she is. Emily takes after her mother."
Emily paused on the last step and made a small motion with her head beckoning Amelia to come to her. Amelia felt herself moving forward even as she said to no one in particular, "I have to go to her."
"No doubt about that," Augustus said with an amused sparkle in his eyes. "Emily is putting on quite the show for you. Linger at your peril."
Amelia was almost at Emily's side when a handsome male with silver grey wings stepped in front of her. He smiled roguishly and oblivious to Amelia's scowl he did a graceful bow that ended with him holding his hand out to Emily. "Beautiful lady, may I have this dance?"
Amelia suppressed the urge to bare her teeth and roar in the face of the male who'd cut in front of her. Opting for a more civilized approach she clamped a hand on his shoulder and moved him out of her way. "She's already taken...this dance is mine."
The avian looked equal parts startled and annoyed. He turned to confront Amelia but whatever he meant to say died on his lips the moment his eyes met hers.
A smiling and amused looking Emily descended the last step to take Amelia's offered hand and she held on to it as they walked to the dancefloor.
As she drew Emily into her arms Amelia whispered into her ear, "You'd better lead. This is only my second time dancing and everyone is watching."
Emily kissed her cheek and said, "You'll be fine. We'll take it nice and slow. Ignore the people, relax and imagine it's just you and me dancing on the beach."
"Oh really? I remember us getting hot and heavy while dancing on the beach. I don't think your father would approve of me ravishing his daughter on the dancefloor with the entire flock watching."
Emily gave a low, hungry moan and tightened her hold on Amelia. "Hmm, I remember. We'll dance for a while then leave. My father and Oriana can entertain without me tonight. I made plans for us and I'm dying to get you alone."
"Do your plans involve feeding me as well? Amelia asked teasingly. "You did promise me dinner."
Emily laughed. "Of course, I ordered lots of delicious food. You won't go hungry when you're with me and for my own selfish reasons I want to make sure you have lots of energy."
They slowly increased speed as Amelia reacquainted herself with the steps Emily had taught her. Emily's face shone with happiness and she didn't seem to care that her partner was the least experienced dancer on the floor and the only person without wings in the ballroom. It made Amelia's heart swell and she fervently hoped that she would have many opportunities to hone her dance skills with Emily and maybe someday she'd get to show off her gleaming dragon wings among the feathered hoard without causing pandemonium.
With Emily guiding their movements so they glided effortlessly between the other couples Amelia relaxed and began to genuinely enjoy herself, despite all the eyes on them, and was a little disappointed when the music stopped. An announcement was made for everyone to move to the dining hall but instead of following the crowd Emily flashed her an excited grin and led the way to an exit on the other side of the room.
Amelia eagerly followed. She didn't know where they were going and it didn't matter in the least. She had found her mate and she would follow Emily anywhere.
Walking hand-in-hand through her tower with Amelia, Emily felt like she was gliding on air and her heart was so filled with happiness that she felt like she might burst with joy. She brushed Amelia's back with her wing in an open display of affection and felt the gentle buzz of Amelia's dragon scale flare into a pulse that sent a tiny shockwave through her body. Curious as to the cause Emily stared up at her mate and for a brief moment she saw in Amelia's eyes the amber shapes of a tiger and a dragon watching her. Amelia beamed at her and the ghostly figures vanished but the protective warmth emanating from the necklace remained.
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Yuna opened her eyes. The room was dark, but she could see some sunlight coming out of the corners of the curtains.
It was morning now... and for some reason Ayuka wasn't in bed.
That was weird, normally Yuna was the first to wake up.
Wait... how did she end up in bed?
Yuna quickly sat up, wide eyes, and was barely stopping herself from panicking.
If Ayuka had seen her like that. If Ayuka had found out...
"Hey, you're finally awake."
Yuna yelped before immediately turning to Ayuka who stood at the doorway.
"You had a nightmare or something?" Ayuka asked, dressed in her school uniform.
Yuna simply stared.
Ayuka wasn't mad? Did she not know what she had done? Or did she not care?
"Aren't you mad?" Yuna asked.
"That you overslept?" Ayuka shrugged. "It's fine you can miss school for a day. You've been working hard for the last week and after last night... Well, I think you deserve a day off. Even got Avyn's permission."
"Overslept?"
"Yea. You were out like a rock. Didn't expect you to wake up at all this morning..." Ayuka looked at her carefully. "You sure you don't want to go back to sleep?"
"I-I'm fine," Yuna said as she looked down at her pajamas. They were the same ones she used last night, but they were clean. There wasn't a single piece of leftover metal or dust from last night on them.
It was almost as if what she did last night didn't happen, but the way her body hurt a little as she moved said that it did.
"Well, I'll be heading to school then. Avyn will be on my a- but if I'm late again, Make sure to grab some breakfast with him." Ayuka said and began to walk away. She stopped just before she was out of sight. "And Yuna... you're my little sister. And no one's going to take you from me."
Yuna smiled. "Thank you."
Ayuka left, but it wasn't until Yuna heard the front door open and close, that she finally got out of bed and grabbed a pencil from her desk. It was a cheap thing. Disposable. Something she didn't mind losing.
She didn't lose it though. Her Magical Energy stuck to it and soon she had a Reinforced pencil in her hands. Something had just clicked last night. In her head or body, she didn't know, but whatever was stopping her before was gone. Even if it was just one spell, the fact that she could use it not just on pipes but everything around her... It made her proud of herself.
Pride... That was something that she never thought she could feel.
Yuna put down the pencil and made her way to the kitchen. There she found Avyn sitting at the table with a bowl of cereal and a glass of juice already set up for her.
"Morning," Avyn said.
"Good morning," Yuna said as she took her seat. She started to eat, though one of her eyes was kept on him that entire time.
Did he know about what she did?
"You were really tired last night," Avyn commented.
"Yea..." Yuna replied hesitantly.
"Ayuka told me it was because you two finally had a good talk. I'm relieved, I'm surprised that there's anyone in this household capable of communicating."
Yuna couldn't help but chuckle. Even she could tell that that had been one of the Emiya household's biggest flaws. "It was... a good night."
"Exhausting too. Especially when you kept practicing until you knocked yourself out."
Yuna's spoon stopped moving. She stared at him wide mouthed, until Avyn reached over and closed her mouth for her.
"You're going to catch a fly with that," he said.
"Y-you know?" Yuna asked before she realized what he had said.
"I do," Avyn gestured with his hand. "Hard not to, considering the state you left yourself in for me to find you. Had to heal you and inject you with a bit of energy so you could move around in the morning."
Yuna looked at the table. "Then if you know, why didn't you–"
"Tell Ayuka?" Avyn shrugged. "Because that wouldn't have helped anything. It was something you had to do and neither of us could stop you unless we kept watching you all the time."
So, Avyn knew. He knew all along. She was kind of stupid thinking that she could fool him. "I'm sorry," Yuna apologized.
"Don't apologize if you don't actually regret doing it," Avyn replied curtly.
"Bu–"
"In the future, make sure to push yourself under my supervision," Avyn continued. "I'll make sure you don't take it a step too far."
Yuna blinked as she processed his words. "You're going to keep helping me? Behind Ayuka's back?"
"What she doesn't know won't hurt her. And I can understand why you need to do this," he replied. "Still doing it without me like that, it won't go unpunished."
Yuna froze.
Punishment? Whenever Mama and Papa punished her, they hit her. What was Avyn going to do?
"You're going to start helping with chores around the house," Avyn said. "Laundry, weeding the garden backyard, making the beds. Ayuka was right when she said I was the only one here that did the cleaning. Need to start changing that."
"T-that's it?" Yuna asked.
"What? You want more to do?" Avyn asked.
"No. It's just–" Wait... why was she arguing about this? She was getting off practically scot-free! "Yea. That's fine."
Avyn smirked. "Now go clean up and get dressed. We've got a long day to work while Ayuka's at school."
"Okay!" Yuna said excitedly as she made her way to the bedroom and quickly got changed.
It made Yuna feel bad that she had to lie to Ayuka, but she could use Reinforcement now. And Avyn was going to help her get even stronger. Soon... soon she would be able to protect them.
Fully dressed, Yuna was about to make her way to the kitchen when the front doorbell rang. Probably Ayuka who had forgotten something. Wasn't the first time this happened no matter how much Avyn lectured her for being late for school.
It was probably the bag. Yep. Definitely the bag that Ayuka had left in their room.
Yuna rolled her eyes and shook her head before grabbing the bag and heading toward the front door. She opened it and held it out for Ayuka.
"I know you forgot this Kyo–" Yuna froze once she realized that Ayuka wasn't there. Instead, there were two people standing in front of her. One was a Magical Girl in black and the other a Magical Girl in white.
Yuna... didn't even need to ask for the white one's name. She knew it already.
"Hello there," Oriko introduced herself. "I am Oriko Mikuni. Could we borrow your Servant for a moment?"
|
"Get down!"
Yuna barely had time to register Avyn's scream and duck down before a bunch of arrows suddenly flew past her, flying towards the two Magical Girls at the entrance. She didn't need nearly as much time to turn around and run back into the house as they exploded.
Oriko. The person that had killed Momo. Why was she here?
A red and black blur shot by Yuna. The muscles on Avyn's arm flexed as he wielded a giant stone axe with a single hand.
"Nine Lives," he swung with all his might, "Blade Works!"
Yuna had heard about that technique from Ayuka, and was told how cool it was. But to finally see it herself...
The entire front of the house exploded. It was like a truck had come crashing out of the house, ramming through everything in its way. The force of the blow was even enough to send Yuna tumbling forward. She scrambled to pick herself up as she dared to look back.
Nine large gashes throughout their front yard. Nine devastating strikes of immense power, but no Magical Girls. No traces of them whatsoever. It was like they were never there.
"Yuna," Avyn lowered his voice so only Yuna could hear. "Use the escape tunnel."
"We have an escape tunnel?" Yuna asked.
"Under the carpet in the living room."
"My, that was quite an entrance," Oriko and the other Magical Girl reappeared at the edge of the destruction. "Should I assume that you're not willing to parley?"
"Go now," Avyn commanded as he stepped toward the two. "Trace on," a jagged crimson longsword appeared in one of his hands. "Trigger off." In the other appeared a peerless sword almost pulsing with power and holiness.
"Please stay safe," Yuna begged as she ran back into the house to the sounds of fighting in the background. She didn't immediately run for the basement though, instead she went to her room first to grab her phone.
|
"Welcome back Ayuka," Ayuka's Math teacher greeted her from his desk. "I hope you enjoyed the Exchange Program."
"It was... interesting," Ayuka replied.
"Kamihama is an exciting place," the teacher replied. "I have relatives that live there, it's always quite fun when I visit."
"Yea, sure," Ayuka resisted the urge to roll her eyes. This guy was actually a pretty good teacher, so she was at least putting some effort into being civil. "Is there anything else you need?"
"Yes actually. You've always been exceptional in my classes. Would you consider being an assis–"
Ayuka's phone began to ring.
"Sorry, one sec," Ayuka said as she took out her phone and put it to her ear. "Yuna? What's u–"
"Avyn and I are being attacked by Oriko!" Yuna's voice screamed on the phone.
Ayuka immediately froze where she stood. She gripped her phone tightly and her voice trembled as she replied. "I'll be there soon."
"Emiya," the teacher looked at her, concerned. "Is something wrong?"
Ayuka didn't answer. Instead, she immediately ran from the faculty office, straight past a hallway full of people, and jumped straight out an open window.
An open window. On the third floor.
Needless to say, everyone that witnessed it immediately screamed out in terror when they saw her go out the window. That terror then turned into confusion as she landed neatly on the ground and ran across the school grounds. She then leaped over the school gates with a single jump and made her way back to her home.
It didn't matter if anyone saw her, she couldn't waste any time in keeping Magic secret. Yuna and Avyn were in trouble.
She ran as fast as Reinforcement could take her, her Magical Circuits pumping as much energy as she could into her legs. It was only a few minutes before she could see several explosions and magical blasts flying from the direction of their house.
<Avyn what the hell is going on!?> Ayuka shouted to him once their mental connection had been established.
<Being attacked by Oriko and Kirika again. Stay back, I can handle it!>
<And Yuna?>
<Using the escape tunnel.>
<We have an escape tunnel?> Ayuka shook her head. That was a question for later. <Hold on, I'm coming right there.>
<No!> Avyn shouted. <Stay back!>
<You don't tell me what to do!>
<For the love of—>
Avyn wasn't holding back this time and anyone in the vicinity could see what was happening. How they were going to explain this to the neighbors... Well honestly that was the last thing from her mind right now.
Ayuka ran past several civilians who were quite reasonably running away from the destruction that was being thrown around her home. Eventually the entrance of her home was in sight. It wouldn't be good to just run into all that though without a plan. So instead, she hid herself behind a nearby wall, took out her spear, and peaked around the corner to take stock of the situation.
Avyn was busy trading blows with Kirika while Oriko stayed back. Krikia was suffering from multiple gashes, wounds, and burns that peppered her body. At one point he cut halfway into the shoulder and would've gotten the entire arm if Oriko hadn't forced Avyn back with her metal balls. The injuries hardly seemed to bother Kirika though, that black weirdo was still giving off that creepy smile even as she was getting cut up.
Crazy psycho then. Avyn really didn't give justice to the crazy off his description alone.
Fortunately, the other one, Oriko, was busy helping to keep Avyn at bay. That meant at one point her back was wide open for Ayuka.
Not one to pass up an advantage, Ayuka didn't hesitate to Flame Step forward. A single charged leap straight for the one that killed Momo. Even with that slowing field Kirika had set up, Ayuka had still reached Oriko before they noticed anything. Once she was in range Ayuka thrusted with her spear and skewered Oriko from the back.
Or at least that was what was supposed to happen.
Before her spear could touch Oriko, the Magical Girl disappeared. Vanished. Like she was never there. It happened in an instant.
No wait actually she was still there. Just at the other side of the yard looking at Ayuka with a smug grin.
"Stand down."
Ayuka immediately turned to look at the hooded figure that somehow got behind her.
"We only need your Servant. I don't need to hurt you," the hooded figure, apparently a girl, said.
"Over my dead body!" Ayuka shouted as she thrust her spear again. Her movement was still slowed by Kirika's magic, and the hooded girl had no issue sidestepping the strike. Ayuka converted the thrust into a swing, only to end up striking nothing but air. After her swing she immediately began scanning the area around her and found the hooded girl standing just off to the side, right next to the front door of the house.
Some sort of teleporter? It would explain how they got here without setting all their Bounded Fields off.
Didn't matter in the end. If all she did was teleport then all Ayuka had to do was keep her occupied, keep chasing her around until Avyn dealt with the other two. It would only take a few more exchanges for Avyn to quite literally tear Kirika apart. After that, Oriko would be finished.
Ayuka tensed her legs briefly before going for another thrust with her spear.
"I believe that's enough toying with her," Oriko suddenly said. Ayuka glanced briefly as the white Magical Girl raised her hand up. A hand with three pairs of red marks on it. "Shall we finish this, Assassin?"
"Ayuka, get away!" Avyn shouted.
Oh. Shit.
It finally processed in Ayuka's mind how absolutely screwed she was.
It happened in an instant, while Ayuka was in the middle of her thrust. First Avyn had shouted, and then the hooded girl disappeared where she stood again. Gone in an instant. Then Ayuka suddenly felt a roaring fire erupt in her shoulder.
"Aaah!" Ayuka shouted as she dropped her spear and grabbed where she had been shot. Assassin now stood behind her, a semi-automatic pistol in her hands. A pistol that she had pointed at the back of Ayuka's head.
Ayuka's body ran cold, it chilled despite the gaping wound she now had on her shoulder.
"Stop moving or the next one goes through her head," Assassin demanded.
Avyn immediately lowered his blades. He wouldn't be fast enough. Not enough to stop that bullet from immediately going through Ayuka's skull.
"Now then we have much to discuss before we bring you back to Kamihama!" Oriko said cheerfully as she lowered the metal balls that floated around her. The Bitch won. And she knew it. "Before that, I do believe that you are capable of summoning a weapon that can transfer Servant Contracts. Would you please hand that over to Kirika."
Ayuka snarled at Oriko. "What are you–"
"Stop," Assassin demanded as she pushed the barrel of her gun directly against Ayuka's head. The cold steel, the heated air of that hollow chamber, it was enough to get Ayuka to finally stop moving.
Ayuka was helpless to watch as Avyn dismissed his blades. Kirika stepped forward, ready to receive Rule Breaker once it was created.
No...
They were going to take away her Servant. They were going to take away Avyn. And she was too weak to stop them.
"No!"
Neither the Servants nor Magical Girls had time to react before a large construction hammer blasted through the front door and smashed Assassin in the face. The Servant was sent flying, like a person hit head on by a speeding van, all the way to Avyn's shed which she crashed into and then buried by the collapsing wood and rubble.
"I won't... let you... hurt my family," Yuna gasped before dropping her hammer and collapsing to the ground. Her body was smoking. Burning from the inside, from overuse of her Magecraft.
In any other situation Ayuka would've been proud to see her perform her first spell. Now though, with Yuna's body smoking, burning from the inside because of overuse of Magecraft, it left Ayuka with nothing but a crushing guilt and overwhelming despair.
"Yuna..." Ayuka croaked before forcing herself to move and grab the girl with the one arm that she could still use.
She had done this to Yuna. Done because she was too weak to protect her.
<Ayuka>
She couldn't protect anything. She was going to lose everything she had, all over again.
<Ayuka Emiya!>
Ayuka snapped her head toward Avyn who had resumed his fight with the two Magical Girls.
<Are you going to sit there or are you going to protect your little sister!> Avyn's voice shouted in her head.
It was the wake-up call Ayuka needed. Despite the roaring pain in her shoulder, Ayuka still grabbed Yuna and did her best to slowly carry her away from the battlefield.
They had to get away. Yuna's blow, as powerful as it was, wouldn't keep a Servant down for long and Ayuka wasn't going to get very far on her own. Avyn was the only one still capable of running and even he would have trouble getting away as long Kirika still had her magic active, especially while carrying the two of them.
They needed something. A miracle. A prayer. Anything.
"The Distant Seas of the Heavens," Ayuka jerked her head along with everyone else there as they turned toward the source of the new voice. Standing on top of a neighboring building was a familiar pair. A Master and her Servant.
"The Prison of Earth. The Fury of the Realm of the Dead is at my heels! Appear, Shrine of Fever. Time to repent." Ereshkigal took out her lance, jumped off the roof, and stabbed it into the ground. "Kur Kigal Irkallaaa!"
The ground began to rumble around them as the earth itself seemed to rise to enact penance against the Goddess's enemies. Beams of light erupted from the ground and began to consume everything in their path, including the two Magical Girls in front of them.
Whether or not it was actually enough to kill them with that teleporting Servant of theirs was yet to be seen, but Avyn wasn't letting them stick around to find out. Taking the opportunity given to them, he grabbed Ayuka and Yuna in his arms before leaping away.
As he ran, Ayuka glanced back. The destruction of the Goddess's Noble Phantasm seemed to spread, until it completely consumed their home. She could only close her eyes in despair and look away.
|
Getting hit in the face by a Reinforced hammer hurt. It didn't do any permanent damage, not to a Servant, but it still wasn't fun being bashed and sent flying straight into a wooden shed. The fact that the person who did that to her was an eleven-year-old that wasn't even a Magical Girl... well needless to say she wasn't exactly pleased with her recent performance.
Wasn't exactly pleased with the performance of her Master either.
"That little kid sure gave you a beating," Kirika mocked the Servant as she dug herself out of the rubble.
Once the Servant was free, she took off her ruined hood, revealing the long raven locks and indigo eyes underneath. Her gaze was cold, her movements elegant yet also somewhat stiff, as if she was constantly holding something back.
"If I wasn't a Servant, that child would have taken my head," Akemi said as she glared at Oriko. "A warning would've been nice."
Granted losing her head wouldn't be fatal thanks to her Soul Gem, which remained intact even as a Servant, but it was still time and energy Akemi would have to take to regrow it. And once again, it wasn't pleasant having to regrow an entire head.
"My apologies," Oriko appeared genuinely remorseful. Or perhaps that was just from her pride taking a hit. She didn't like unforeseen events or people either. "I didn't consider that child threat enough to use my Magic on... Apparently I was wrong to underestimate her."
"See that you don't make that mistake again," Akemi commanded. They couldn't afford any other unexpected obstacles in their mission.
"It all worked out in the end though," Oriko reassured her. "Whether or not we control him, so long as Avyn returns to Kamihama then we will be on the path to the future that we both seek."
"It's a dangerous game you're playing, telling that man where you are," Akemi replied. "That entire family is not one to be trifled with considering what the youngest did to me. There is also that other Master and their Servant to worry about."
"Ereshkigal. Goddess of the Underworld I believe," Oriko informed her. "Certainly powerful, but something we can deal with. They don't take priority, Avyn does."
If it wasn't for Oriko's ability to see the future, Akemi would've thought that her obsession toward Avyn would've been a liability to their mission. Even then, it was still very annoying, bordering on creepy.
Still better than her being obsessed with Madoka at the very least.
Speaking of...
"I'm going to return to keeping watch over Madoka if you have no other need for me," Akemi said as she prepared to Astralize.
"Actually, could you hand this letter over to the Magius?" Oriko said as she held out a letter for the Servant. "You can do whatever it takes to get it to them."
Akemi sighed but grabbed the letter anyway. Best to just concede this to them rather than start another argument. "What's in it?"
"Just letting their leaders know that they should do their best to remember their Big Sister."
|
"Is Yuna ok?" Ayuka knelt next to Avyn as he Traced Yuna's body. Her shoulder still hurt, but at least it had been bandaged after the bullet had been taken out.
A Servant holding a semi-automatic handgun. Clearly modern weaponry, someone that should've been a rarity if not outright impossible to summon in normal circumstances if Ayuka had remembered her lessons correctly. Then again though things hadn't been normal for her since the day she summoned Avyn in her father's church.
"She overtaxed her Magical Circuit and it's generating more heat than her body can handle," Avyn said as a flume of smoke suddenly came out of Yuna's body. "I've let out the heat... but there's significant internal damage that I have to deal with."
Ayuka held a breath. She knew already but hearing it from Avyn's own mouth. It was just a confirmation of all her failings. She put a hand to Yuna's head who began to squirm to her touch.
"You did good," Ayuka whispered. "You did really good."
"She worked hard to protect us," Avyn told Ayuka. "We have to do our best for her."
"I know. I know."
Ayuka didn't turn to face the Master and Servant that landed behind them. Didn't have to. They had proven back there that they were trustworthy enough.
"I'm... sorry about your... house," Ren replied, guilt strewn across her face.
"Don't be sorry," Ayuka replied as she glanced at that pair. "It's fine, we're all alive."
In all honesty losing her home, the place that she had lived in with Avyn for years... it devastated Ayuka. It was a place of comfort, a place of stability, a place that she always thought they could return to. And now it was just gone.
Ayuka gripped her fist and took a deep breath.
She couldn't break down though. Not now. Not ever. She had to be strong. For Avyn. For Yuna.
"Are you okay?" Ereshkigal asked.
"I'm fine," Ayuka growled as she looked toward the direction of Kamihama. "Obviously we can't leave Oriko alone now. She'll just attack us again. We need to get to wherever she's set up and tear that little Soul Gem of hers off her cold mangled corpse."
Anger. Rage. Bloodthirst. A new goal in mind. Those were much better things to focus on rather than moping over what they had lost. She would not allow herself to wallow in despair.
"Before that though we need to treat Yuna," Avyn reminded her.
"Unfortunately, I work much better with the dead than I do the living," Ereshkigal admitted.
"I'll do what I can, but it'll take time and I don't think we should do it here," Avyn gestured to the cold, windy, and very exposed rooftop they all stood on.
"We're close to Mitakihara right?" Ayuka asked. "Then we both know someone who would lend us their place."
Avyn sighed. "I was worried you were going to say that."
|
Turned out that Mami wasn't even in her apartment when they arrived, so they didn't even need to ask to use her place. They just Altered the lock on the balcony window and walked right on in.
Better to ask for forgiveness than permission after all... or at least that was what Avyn liked to say.
The first thing they had done once inside was lay Yuna on the couch so that Avyn could work on healing her.
"Trace... On," Avyn said as blue lines emerged from his palms and spread from where he made contact with Yuna's chest.
Ayuka simply took a seat next to him while Ren and Ereshkigal sat at the other side of the carpet. They watched him work in silence, allowing him to perform his craft in peace.
"The damage is more extensive than I initially assumed," Avyn commented a few minutes later.
Ayuka's blood froze. Her shoulder ached. It took everything she had not to let loose the anguish she was keeping trapped within her body. "Does that mea–"
"She'll recover. No permanent damage if I have anything to say about it," Avyn said with steel in his eyes. He was determined to do whatever it took to facilitate Yuna's recovery. "Treatment and recovery will be long though... and she'll need days if not weeks before she'll be moving about again."
Ayuka nearly cried right there as a great weight was lifted off her body. If Avyn said it, then Yuna would definitely be fine. They just had to be there for her when she finally woke up. "Take as long as you need... I'll be here."
"We'll... be here too," Ren said.
It wasn't exactly necessary for Ren and Ereshkigal to stick around... but Ayuka appreciated it.
Hours went by as Avyn worked, as Ayuka constantly fed him Magical Energy so that he could continue to use his Magecraft. She ignored the soreness of her muscles, the dryness of her tongue, and put off that inexplicable need of using the bathroom up until she could hold it in no longer.
Ayuka looked at her face in the bathroom mirror after washing her hands.
She could barely recognize herself. Her dirty and blood-soaked face, her mangled hair, and bloodshot eyes. Even after washing her face her eyes still remained red, tears beginning to gather at the corners of them.
Ayuka slammed her fist into the white porcelain sink and let out a guttural growl.
Nothing Reinforced though. Didn't want to break Mami's apartment.
She just... had to let some of it out or else she'd break at that moment.
It wasn't until that she was somewhat presentable, so that Ereshkigal and Ren wouldn't have more to worry about her, that Ayuka finally left the bathroom and returned to her original spot. By then Avyn was close to finishing.
"I've done all I can for today," Avyn said as he took her hands off of Yuna. "She needs to rest, recuperate her energy, before I continue working tomorrow."
"Will she wake up?" Ayuka asked.
"Eventually, now that the worst of the damage has been healed. She won't be able to move around though, we need to be there to reassure her."
"I know."
"Also please open the door," Avyn told Ayuka. "It's a friend."
Ayuka glanced at him curiously before walking up to the door and opening it. She wasn't entirely surprised to find Ribbons standing behind it, her arm raised and ready to ring the doorbell. Avyn had always liked that girl.
Ribbons on the other hand was completely surprised at seeing them.
"What are you doing in–" Ribbon's eyes went wide as she saw Yuna on the couch. "Oh no! Is she ok!"
Ayuka didn't even try to stop Ribbons as she sped by her to go to the injured girl on the couch. "She's fine... or she will be," Ayuka told her.
"What happened?" Ribbons asked.
"We..."
"We were attacked," Avyn answered for Ayuka. "And we came here... because we needed a safe place to heal and rest."
Ribbons looked back at Ayuka and finally noticed the bandages on her shoulder. "Are you–"
"I'm fine," Ayuka reassured her. "Yuna... took the worst of it."
"Ok..." Ribbons looked worried, but she apparently still had the decency to turn and bow her head toward Ren and Ereshkigal. "I'm Madoka Kaname. It's nice to meet you."
"Ereshkigal."
"Ren... Isuzu."
"Did you two also get hurt?" Rib- no Madoka asked.
"No... we're fine," Ren replied.
"You don't have to worry about us," Ereshkigal seemed to blush at Madoka's concern. "We only came by to lend out aid at the last minute."
"More like saved our asses," Ayuka replied. "You... honestly shouldn't have done that."
"Why not?" Ereshkigal asked, annoyed.
"Because Oriko and her cronies will remember your faces," Ayuka replied. "You've just made yourselves targets, just to save a couple of strangers."
"You... aren't strangers," Ren replied. "I wanted to help... my friends."
"I'm not..." Ayuka stopped herself from saying anything more. She hated owing anyone anything, but Ren and Ereshkigal had saved her family's life. It was something that Ayuka didn't think she could ever repay them for. "Thanks... for helping us out there."
"... You're welcome."
"I'm glad you're all getting along," Madoka said with a gentle smile. Her presence could bring up the mood in any situation. "Hopefully when Mami and everyone comes back, they'll be able to help you."
"Where is Mami anyway?" Ayuka asked.
"Mami went off to Kamihama to investigate something for Kyubey. When we haven't heard from her in two days... Homura and Sayaka went after her. I wanted to come... but my family got worried about me going out by myself after," Madoka carefully shifted the sleeve that covered the scar on her arm, "I hurt myself. And they needed someone to stay behind to keep the Witches and familiars under control, so I was the one who had to stay."
It clearly bothered Madoka that she was the only one that had to stay behind, even as she tried to reason it to them and herself.
"Why would Pigtails bring Blue?" Ayuka asked. "It's dangerous for anyone to go there... unless–"
"Yea..." Madoka replied, guiltily. "Sayaka Contracted recently. Mami was training her before–"
"That Blue idiot. That wannabe Hero of Justice!" Ayuka began shouting much to everyone else's, apart from Avyn, surprise. "After all the warning Avyn and I gave her she still goes off and does–"
The same thing Ayuka had done all those years ago, in spite of Avyn's repeated warnings.
Ayuka gripped her forehead. Now she was starting to get a headache. A really bad one, it was like something was pounding against the inside of her skull. It wasn't until she forced herself to breathe and calm down that it finally went away. "She has no idea what she's gotten herself into. She's basically signed a death sentence with that Contract."
"What do you mean?" Madoka tilted her head. "Sayaka might be... reckless, but she really does want to protect everyone. And I'm sure Mami and Homura will keep her safe while she's learning."
"It's not going to stop her from eventually trying to eat the same people that she's trying to protect," Ayuka bit back.
"What?"
Madoka's face... It was too much for Ayuka to look at. To the point that she had to turn away. Such kind eyes, struggling to understand what it was that she was being told.
"Madoka," Avyn looked at Madoka, pity strewn in his eyes. Pity that stemmed from a man that had to tear a young girl's entire world apart. "Magical Girls become Witches."
|
Madoka wasn't sure how long she cried after Avyn had told her everything. How long she wept in the arms of Ren and Ereshkigal. Her body shuddered, her eyes became puffy, and mucus began to fall out of her nose. It wasn't a pretty sight, but that was what it was like when someone cried. And trying to hold it back... that would just make it worse.
Mami. Sayaka. Homura. The truth of what Kyu- the Incubator did to her friends. What he might have done to her if she had accepted. And she would've accepted, if she never had this power to help people in the first place. Even now she was wondering if it was going to be enough. Was there anything that she could do to save them all?
Her friends, all the Magical Girls out there. They couldn't become Witches. They didn't deserve that. No one did.
Madoka heard a sniffle and looked up to find that Ren also had tears in her eyes. "Are... are you?"
"No... My friend... Rika," Ren began to cry.
"I'm sorry," Madoka said as she and Ren held onto each other. Ereshkigal was also there, doing her best to comfort the two of them. Even though they had just met, Madoka could tell they were nice people. That was why it made things a little easier to be with them.
It took some time, a long time before Madoka's tears were mostly shed. When she forced herself to catch her breath and turn to Avyn.
"T-t-there has to be something we can do," Madoka pleaded to him. She couldn't just sit around and do nothing. There had to be something they could do. That she could do.
Wasn't that why she was given this power in the first place?
"... Not on our own, not with what is currently available to us," Avyn told her.
"But is there a way?"
"There is an organization in Kamihama... the Magius," Avyn informed her. "They say that they're seeking the salvation of all Magical Girls."
A faint light, a glimmer of hope had brought in front of Madoka and she immediately latched onto it. "Do they- can they really help?"
"They say they can... but their methods involve the sacrifice of regular people and disposing of anyone that gets in their ways. We've dealt with them, they're dangerous and don't care who ends up getting caught in their schemes."
And just like that, that hope had been snuffed out.
"B-but they can't just hurt people! Even if–"
"If the sacrifice of hundreds or even thousands could bring salvation to Magical Girls, prevent their Witches from being born in the first place... I could see why their actions would be considered reasonable," Avyn replied. "We can't save everyone. When confronted with that reality... it's best to just choose the method that saves the highest number possible."
"We can't think like that!" Madoka suddenly began shouting at him angrily. He and Ayuka both looked at her, shocked by the fact that she could be mad. Honestly, she didn't even know she could get that mad until now. "If we do that... then we're no better than the Incubator!"
Avyn closed his eyes and chuckled to himself. "You're right."
"How can you laugh in a situation like this!" Ereshkigal shouted at him.
"It's... fine," Ren said as she looked up to her Servant.
"That's just Avyn. He can act like an ass... but he means well," Ayuka replied as she kneeled down to stroke Yuna's head.
With one arm still holding onto Ren, Madoka wiped away the tears from her eyes and looked at Yuna. Even if she was still trying to find a way to save her friends, there was still someone that needed help right now. "Is she going to be okay? I know Avyn said so, bu–"
"It's going to take time," Ayuka replied. "Even after Avyn finishes healing her, she'll probably need a week or two to recover."
"Are you... going to be here that entire time?" Madoka asked. "By yourselves?"
"Have to." Ayuka gripped her fist again. "With our home destroyed this is the only place we can use. And even then, that Oriko bitch might come for us again."
Oriko... why did that name sound so familiar to her?
"What about you?" Madoka asked Ren and Ereshkigal. "Do you have a place to stay?"
Ereshkigal shook her head. "We were planning to stay at Avyn's house for the night when we visited."
"Which was unannounced by the way," Avyn interjected. "But... thanks for coming anyway."
Ereshkigal smiled at him. "But yes... My Master and I currently don't have a place to rest. We'll probably just stay here for the night too."
"Then why don't you stay at my house tonight?" Madoka suggested. "You all can. There's enough room if you share and we can help watch over Yuna."
"Won't that inconvenience your family?" Avyn asked.
Madoka began to fiddle with her fingers. "It's just that... I don't think you should be alone here. Any of you. And I know that Papa and Mama will want to help after we explain things to them."
Or she thought they would. Ever since she had come home with that scar on her arm and very little to explain it, her parents had been more eyeful of her. Asking her more questions, making sure that she was being safe. It had made it a lot harder to help Mami and Homura out with their hunts. And then Sayaka had contracted to heal Kyousuke's hand, which just made Madoka worry even more. She loved her childhood friend... but yea Sayaka had a tendency to put herself in danger. Especially when it came to helping others.
At this point Madoka couldn't just sit aside while other people suffered. If she could do something to help, even if it was just offering her home to them, then she would do it.
Avyn looked at Yuna, then Ayuka, then Ereshkigal, then Ren, then the entirety of the apartment, and finally Madoka. He locked eyes with her. His were full of steel, but there was also something underneath it all. Something that wanted to see the light of day again.
Eventually he nodded in concession. "I think... that would be a good idea."
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There was something wrong with the man's daughter. He knew that. It was not difficult to see considering the long amount of time she spent with her friends. Especially that one time when she came back with a scar that dragged from her right forearm up to a spot close to her shoulder.
An injury that had come quickly and been healed just as fast. Only magic could explain something like that... but he could feel it no longer. Not since he came to this world.
He sighed to himself as he continued washing his dirty cookware in the sink.
He could've gotten answers if he confronted his daughter, forced it out of her. But in the end, she was so much like he was.
That kindness, that readiness to help people, it was beautiful and pure. Something that he and his wife so admired in their daughter. She really was a good girl.
It was a shame that the world was often not kind to such people.
The doorbell rung and the familiar steps of his daughter could be heard... along with a group behind.
Heaver, aggressive, meek, confident, a whole array of different steps from people that Madoka had yet to bring to this home so far.
He continued scrubbing the pan and put on the brightest smile he could. It was time to see what his daughter had done this time.
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"I'm home," Madoka announced her arrival as she stepped into her house and then glanced back at the assorted group behind her. "And I uh... brought some friends."
It wasn't the first time Madoka had brought a group of friends over, but this one was a bit different. She knew Papa would do his best to be nice, but she wasn't entirely sure how he'd react to them.
"Oh," Papa's voice came out of the kitchen. "How many? It's a bit of a surprise, but I'll try my best to make sure there's enough food for all of them."
That was Papa for you. Always making sure everyone was fed, even back in that food bank he used to work at before he married Mama. It was also the same place where they had first met. Apparently, he had always been enraptured by her eyes.
Madoka wanted to be like that one day. Find that one person with deep purple eyes who she could spend the rest of her life with.
"It's fine," Avyn called out from the living room. "Two of us... have already eaten and I can order some food to be brought here."
"Madoka... could you step into the kitchen for a second?" Papa asked.
"Okay Papa," Madoka replied as she led the group to sit on the couch before stepping into the kitchen. Papa was cleaning some dishes, but he looked a bit tense for some reason.
"Madoka... where did you meet that man?"
"He was a friend of Mami's. His home got... destroyed and his family needed a place to rest. I know I should've asked for permission first, but they–"
"It's fine Madoka," Papa replied as he put the last dish in the wash basin. "Could you just go upstairs and check on your Mama and Tatsuya really quickly? Tell her that we have a certain visitor."
"Mama came back early!" Madoka said excitedly.
Papa nodded. "She did."
"Hey, sorry to bother you, but is there a bed we can put Yuna in?" Ayuka stepped into the kitchen. She turned back to the living room. "Your couch is great and all, but Avyn says we should put her somewhere more comfortable."
"I can show you to the guest bedroom," Madoka replied.
"Actually, Madoka. Could I speak with your friend?" Papa asked.
"Sure," Ayuka replied. "Just show Avyn where he'll carry Yuna." She told Madoka.
"Actually, I'd prefer it if Emiya stayed downstairs."
"I guess I could have Eresh carry her," Ayuka conceded. "But why wo- wait a minute how do you know my–"
It took a few seconds for Madoka to process what happened next. To realize that her father had suddenly grabbed Ayuka by her bandaged arm, twisted it painfully behind her back, and put a knife to her neck.
"Madoka. Sweetie. Please go upstairs right now."
"Papa!" Madoka shouted as everyone gathered near the kitchen to see what the commotion was. "What are you doing!?"
"Get away from that man! Madoka! I won't have you near him until we know what he's here to do!" Papa shouted to Madoka as he pulled Ayuka back even further and glared at the arriving Avyn. "What are you doing here? Emiya?"
"How do you–" Avyn began to take out his blades only to pause as he looked at Papa closely. His eyes widened a few seconds later. "Huh... didn't expect to see you here."
"I could say the same of you," Papa said.
"Uh Avyn? Shouldn't you be doing something about this?" Ayuka asked, clearly sweating from having a knife put to her neck.
"Would you mind letting Ayuka go? We mean you no harm," Avyn replied. "As long as we can prove that we mean him no harm then he won't do anything. That and not go after the innocent," he informed Ayuka.
"My priority is my family," Papa replied with more steel than Madoka had ever heard him use before. He never got this angry. Even when she or Tatsuya misbehaved, he always chastised them calmly. Seeing him like this scared her.
"I was summoned," Avyn replied. "As was Ereshkigal to this world. As for the reason why." He shrugged. "I honestly had no idea at first. It might have something to do with whatever's going on in Kamihama."
"So, then you have no reason to go after me or my family?"
"None at all. In fact, I'm surprised you have such a pleasant daughter."
"Madoka. Do not associate with this man. At all," Madoka's father replied before finally releasing his grip on Ayuka.
Ayuka quickly made her way back to Avyn. "So can someone explain to me what exactly is going on?"
"I admit, I would like some answers too," Ereshkigal said.
"Yea..." Ren commented.
"I could also use some answers too," Avyn said. "When and how did you end up in this world?"
Before Papa could answer, Mama walked down the stairs, Tatsuya in her hands.
"Tomohisa sweetie. Tatsuya's getting hungry ag–" the purple haired woman stopped at the end of the stairs and stared at the small gathering in her living room. "I'm assuming we have company?"
"Yes, Junko," Tomohisa sighed.
"Servants... and their Masters?"
"Yes."
"Mama you know about this!?" Madoka shouted.
"Meow." Amy then casually walked into the living room, made its way past everyone there, and began rubbing Ereshkigal's leg.
"Seems like Amy likes her," Mama commented.
"Mama!" Madoka shouted.
"Sorry sweetie," Mama said. "I think we all should sit down and do this over a cup of tea. They are our guests after all."
Papa smiled. "Yes, you're right." He went to the kitchen and put away the knife as if he wasn't brandishing it against Ayuka's throat just seconds ago. "Why don't you all take a seat in the living room? Emiya can help prepare dinner for all of you." He looked at Avyn. "Assuming your skills are still up to par."
Avyn scoffed. "I've fed an entire Grand Order. I can handle a little dinner party."
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