Published by Karl Rademacher on July 8, 2014. This item is listed in Issue 20, Issue 20 Poetry

Blackbird Forest

Clyde Kessler

I hid Blackbird Forest
with skulls for rain and trees.
It moved islands, it slipped starlight,
stretched its world against the sun
inside a rocket.

Night drew past Neptune.
You could hear the cage birds
slip their black bills from the feeding tray
to remember something, maybe a jungle,
maybe the rattle of dry bamboo stalks
along the Mekong, the cries of children
when the rocket launchers gleaned smoke
five minutes down range. There was soon
no sound except parrots squawking.
Orbit was achieved. The sun rose twice.

Blackbird Forest became my room.
Was the sun shrinking? Was heaven
playing bamboo leaves, floating a moth,
tricking again the same world it left?
I heard the skulls moving in Cambodia
and East Timor. I heard their dreams.
I heard the Pacific Ocean swerving
towards Orion. The cage birds laughed.

 Clyde Kessler lives in Radford, Virginia with his wife, Kendall, and their son, Alan. Blackbird Forest is part of a manuscript he has been working at for about 15 years. Some poems from the manuscript have been published in Dark Planet, Rose Red, Sugar Mule, Cortland Review and other magazines.

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Published by Karl Rademacher on July 7, 2014. This item is listed in Issue 20, Issue 20 Poetry

So Shipwrecked

William Doreski

Adrift with a single oak plank
to support me, I feel distant
from myself and every other
useful geographical feature.
The Atlantic curves away
in every direction equally
unencumbered by horizons.
How did I get so shipwrecked?
I don’t remember going to sea.
I could cling to the plank and paddle
with one hand, but no direction
smells like home. If I let go
I’ll sink to the bottom and maybe
walk a few steps before I drown.
Or maybe it’s so deep the pressure
would implode me before I reached
solid ground. Far away an airplane
streaks across a featureless sky.
The sun stands directly overhead
so I can’t even compass myself.
Maybe if I could kick off my shoes
I could swim toward that contrail
and follow to a continent
large enough to support my weight.
It might take months or a year
to swim myself that far. Or maybe
land leers just out of sight.
Exhausted by thinking what thoughts
apply to my situation,
I lose hold of the plank but find
myself rising, not sinking,
breaking free of the green-gray swells
to swim in the air. I look down
at the drifting plank and laugh;
and as I fly in all directions
I leave my own white contrail
for the entire world to follow.

William Doreski lives in Peterborough, New Hampshire. His latest book is City of Palms (AA Press, 2012). He has published three critical studies, including Robert Lowell’s Shifting Colors.  His fiction, essays, poetry, and reviews have appeared in many journals, including Massachusetts Review, Notre Dame Review, Worcester Review, The Alembic, New England Quarterly, Harvard Review, Modern Philology, Antioch Review, and Natural Bridge.  He won the 2010 Aesthetica poetry award.

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Published by Karl Rademacher on June 30, 2014. This item is listed in Issue 20, Issue 20 Stories, Stories

The Boatman’s Price

by David Wright

Her husband was sleeping–sleeping, but not snoring.  She watched the steady rise and fall of his narrow chest, waiting.  Something gnawed away in the back of her mind, like a weasel pulling on the tail of a half-dead gecko.  She didn’t want to wake him, but she could wait no longer.

“Alex,” she whispered, bending close to his hearing aid and nudging his arm.  “Alex,” she said a little louder.  His eyes opened, a look of instant recognition on his drawn and weary face.

“Ranjeet, my darling, you’re late.”

“I’m not late,” she said defensively, but then Alex smiled with his eyes and Ranjeet knew she’d been duped.  Always the trickster, even now.  She could kill him.

“So how are you doing?” she asked, trying to make Alex be serious for once.

“Everything’s going to be fine, Ranj.”  He blinked with condescension, dismissing her worries before she could even express them.  She hated when he did that.  Didn’t she have a right to worry?  Didn’t she have any rights?

“Alex, I…”

“Yes, Ranj.”

“I don’t feel–something’s wrong.”

Alex laughed.  “The whole world is wrong.”

“That’s just what I mean.  It doesn’t seem right what we’re doing, not with the world the way it is.”

“Oh Ranj.”  He tapped her hand, his touch cold.  “You were always so superstitious

“It’s not superstition.  It’s just not fair.”

“It was perfectly fair.  It was blind luck.  We can’t just stop living because the world is falling apart.  We have to take what life luck gives us.  I just wish we had more time together.”

He looked at her sadly, serious for the first time.  She tried to smile, grabbing his hand and squeezing it, feeling a pang in her heart that she could hardly bear.

“I’ve brought you something.”  She looked over her shoulder furtively and reached into her handbag.  “Samosa.  It’s cold but still fresh.”

He shook his head, his eyes closed.

“But it’s your favorite.  Here, smell.”  She put the deep-fried triangle under the tubes in his nose.  He tried to pull his head away and the health monitors screamed in protest.  She stepped back, the weasel in her head swallowing the gecko whole.

#

An hour later, the doctor sat with her in the stuffy “patient-family” room.

“Your husband is very fortunate,” she said.  “We’re into the second phase now and everything is five by five.”  The doctor explained the phase schedules as if they were new to Ranjeet, as if she had not already heard them a thousand times before.  They were always changing, yet always the same–meaningless.

“He’s not eating,” she said, interrupting the smooth, practiced cadence of the doctor’s recital.  The doctor seemed mildly perturbed, but for the first time looked Ranjeet squarely in the eye.

“No.  We removed the feeding tube because his digestive organs have shut down.  I was under the impression this had already been explained to you.”

“So he won’t eat anymore?”

The doctor looked at her coldly as if she were a stubborn child refusing to go to bed.

#

The network was on when she got home–a thousand faces, a thousand voices, the tendrils of her world.

“Congratulations on the lottery.”  It was Jumar, her lab assistant.  He looked anything but happy.  “So when will you be back?”

“He’s only in phase two.  It might be awhile, maybe never.”

Was he smiling?  She couldn’t tell with his head down.  If she didn’t come back to work, she’d be off the shortlist and Jumar would be one step up the lottery.  Nobody ever talked about that openly, but it was on everybody’s mind–the elephant in the room.

“UR71 has gone pandemic.  It won’t be long now.  We could always use your help in–”

He was kissing up, hedging his bets just in case she did come back.  She didn’t have time for that.  She panned through the news channels.  The countdown had started.  Pestilence, war, famine, death–the four horsemen of the apocalypse.  It was as if the whole world knew its end was near.  Only the lucky ones would live, like brands plucked from the fire, somewhere way out there in the stars, if you could call that living.

She shut it down, shut it all down, and now her house was a hollow shell, an endless cavern of blank, empty walls broken only by the closed door at the end of the hall.  The closed door led to a room she never entered.  The door beckoned to her, but she would not open it.  The room beckoned to her, but she would not enter it.

#

“We’re well into the next phase,” Alex said with an odd sense of anticipation.  “It could be anytime now.”

Ranjeet watched the steady rise and fall of his chest, not knowing what to say.  It didn’t matter anyways.  The hearing aid was gone.  He was completely deaf.  Soon he would be blind too.  She felt the tears welling in her eyes.  She squeezed his hand, but he didn’t seem to feel it.  He stared past her at the blank, white wall.

“I feel–it’s hard to explain–like I’m on the edge of some great new world, not death exactly, but you have to die to get there.  It’s like I’m crossing the River Styx.”  He laughed hoarsely.  “My ancestors used to put coins on a dead man’s eyes to pay the boatman.”  He looked directly at Ranjeet.  “I guess we’ve paid that price already.”

Ranjeet felt her soul melt.  She bent forward and kissed Alex gently on each eye.  He smiled, and then suddenly winced in pain.  She looked pleadingly at the doctors, but their attention was now fully dedicated to the beeping lines and squiggles on the life support monitors.  They too seemed rapt with euphoric anticipation, as if something great were about to happen.

And then it did.

The bed kicked suddenly and the monitors screamed.  Two more white-robed doctors ran into the crowded hospital room.  Alex’s body convulsed violently on the bed, nearly knocking Ranjeet to the floor.  She didn’t know it at the time, but she was screaming and praying and pleading.  And then everything just stopped–Alex, Ranjeet, the squiggling lines.

Alex opened his mouth to let out one final sigh, and his narrow chest lowered, never to rise again.

Ranjeet broke over his lifeless body, her tears mixing with his sweat.  The doctors ignored her, still too intent on the electronic monitors.  And then she heard it.  A beep.  And then another.  And then a steady rhythm, and the doctors gave a collective yet civil cheer.

#

Days passed, weeks.

Her husband slept.  He did not snore.  He did not breathe.  Only the steady beating of his heart told Ranjeet that he truly was alive.  And then his eyes opened.

“Late again,” he said.

She did not argue.  She did not laugh.  Her husband was a stranger to her, trapped behind the aura of his ghost.

“So how…?”  She began, but did not finish.

He’d lost his hair, his eyebrows, and his eyelashes.  His skin had become featureless, without pores or wrinkles.  He hardly seemed human anymore, like an undressed manikin in a store window.  They said he could hear again, that she could talk to him, but she couldn’t think of what to say.  She felt the coldness of his skin and let go of his hand.

“Ranjeet,” he said clearly, as if no time had passed since their last conversation over a month ago, “I’ve been thinking.”  He looked at the blank, white wall.  “I’ve been thinking maybe you should go.  I know what you said before about staying to the end, and I appreciate that, but you have to go on with your life.  Nobody knows for sure when the final phase will happen, and from what I can tell, it won’t be a pretty sight.  Come back when it’s all over.  Will you do that for me?  Will you, Ranj?”

He reached for her with his pale, white hand like some grotesque zombie.  Ranjeet stepped back from the hospital bed, horrified.

“Ranj, it’s okay.  It’ll be okay.”

She covered her face.

“Ranjeet, please.”

“No!” she screamed, and ran out of the room, down the hall, past the startled patients and doctors who had come to think of her as just part of the aging hospital décor, like a wilting flower by her husband’s deathbed.  But she would not come back, she told herself.  She would never come back.

#

Two days later, she showed up for work.  No one was particularly happy to see her, especially not Jumar–the illusion of her juicy lottery spot shattering before his greedy brown eyes.  She couldn’t blame him.  They all wanted to live.  And every day UR71 spread to another city, and more and more transports thundered out of Cape Canaveral and Baikonur.  Soon, very soon, the last transport would leave, and what was left of the human race would wither like a raisin in the sun.  The earth would live on, the plants and animals, but the people would just blink into oblivion.

“It’s good to see you back,” Jumar lied, the words dripping off his tongue like acid.  “I suppose you’ll want your office back.”

“Yes,” she said bluntly, “and my parking spot.”

Jumar didn’t even blink.

Ranjeet took charge immediately, diving into her work with a feverish passion that immediately silenced any hope Jumar had of taking her position permanently.  It was all meaningless.  The chance that her lab or any other lab would find a miracle cure before UR71 eliminated the earth’s human population was a statistical impossibility, but that didn’t matter.  She had to work, and so she did, past all reason, past all hope.

At night, she would walk home through the park, the smell of lilacs filling her nostrils.  She used to love that smell, or any smell, but now she felt nothing.  There were no flowers in New Haven, or so she’d heard, no plants of any kind, no great red cedars, no little ground ferns, no budding cacti, and no lilacs.  They didn’t even grow plants for food.  They didn’t need it after the change.  Oh they had the genomes for most species in stasis just in case, but it would be centuries before they bothered to clone them, if ever.

New Haven–a world without food and death and flowers.

And then she would enter the blank cave of her apartment, and the closed door at the end of the barren hall would greet her, ever silent, ever beckoning.

Days passed, weeks.

She received an email from Alex’s doctor.  The final phase was over.  She could return to the hospital.  The news glared at her accusingly on her wall screen.  But this time, she did not respond.  This time, she did not head immediately to the tram as she had so many times before–and into the elevator, and down the hospital’s antiseptic hallways to her husband’s room to sit by his bedside like the dutiful, loving wife.  And neither did she steel herself and return back to work with her head held high.  This time, she failed.  Curled up in a ball of self-defeat and self-pity, she mourned her weakness until her eyes were dry.

And then the door beckoned to her.

Powerless to resist though she knew it would utterly destroy her, she drifted down the barren hallway like a ghost in a dream.  The door gave way to her slightest touch although it had not been opened in more than two years.  She entered helplessly.  A thick layer of dust coated the furniture, obscuring the pastel pictures of dancing hippos and flying alligators.  The dinosaur mobile hung limp and lifeless in the airless room.  She wanted to touch it, but did not.  Instead, her trembling hand fell upon the edge of the dusty crib and her eyes upon the picture of her daughter above it.

Cassandra was one of the first to contract UR71–one of its first victims–a six-month-old child.  What kind of a malevolent bug would choose an innocent child for its first victim?  What kind of a god would allow it to happen?

Two years of bitterness and sorrow welled up in Ranjeet’s heart.  Never had she felt so much emotion all at once, not when she first fell in love, not even at her own daughter’s funeral. It was overwhelming, intoxicating.  She could not take it, but she could not resist it either.  Collapsing on the hardwood floor, she lost herself completely to the blind rapture of utter sorrow.  And in that moment felt perfect peace.

Time itself became meaningless.  When she opened her eyes again, it was morning and her husband was standing over her.

“Alex?” she said groggily.  “You’re late.”

He laughed nervously.  “Yes, Ranj, it’s me.”

He had hair again, not just on his head but all over his face.  He was fully suited for flight, all except his pressure helmet, which was cradled in his left arm.  He looked strangely happy, like a boy with a secret.

“I don’t have much time.  My launch is scheduled for this afternoon.  But I have good news.”

“What?”  She rubbed her eyes still not sure whether she was fully awake.

“I got them to bump up your lottery number.  You start phase treatments tomorrow.”  He looked at her, apparently eager for signs of her approval.  She gave him none.  His new, brown eyebrows knitted together.  “You know what this means?  In a month, maybe two, you could be on route to New Haven like me.  We could be together again, forever this time, or pretty close to it.”

Ranjeet looked into Alex’s eager eyes, so filled with life, so filled with hope.  Could she ever feel that way again with all she’d left behind?  She gazed helplessly at the dusty furniture with its prancing cartoons, the lifeless dinosaurs above her head, and the empty crib behind her.  Last of all, her eyes fell upon Cassandra’s picture, and all at once her mind was made up.

“No,” she said firmly.

She heard Alex drop his helmet and then he was bending over her, reaching for her with his gloved hand.

“Look, Ranjeet.  I know you’ve been through a tough time, but you don’t have to die.  My new body may look different.  It may feel different.  But it will last virtually forever.  No more growing old.  No more dying.  And it’s still me on the inside.”  His gloved hand touched her shoulder and she cringed.  Alex stepped back, startled.

“Be reasonable, Ranjeet.  They won’t let you go without the phase treatments.  You’ll never survive transport.  And you can’t stay here.  The plague is unstoppable.  The earth is doomed.”  His tone became desperate.  He looked at the dusty crib behind her and the picture of Cassandra on the wall.  “You have to–we have to leave the past behind and start a new life for ourselves.  It’s the only way.”

“No!” she screamed, pulling away from him.  “I won’t go.  I will stay here until the end, and die if I have to.”

“Ranj, please.  You can’t give up hope.”

“I haven’t given up hope, Alex.  You have!”  She rose to her feet, suddenly strong, suddenly powerful.  “I will stay here and fight this thing until the very end, until my last breath.  I owe her that much.”

Alex stared at Ranjeet mutely, his rubbery, bearded face torn in anguish, but he had no more arguments, nothing else to say.  A suited soldier appeared in the doorway.

“Sir, our time is up.  We must go now!”

Alex did not move.

“Sir–”

“I’m coming, damn you!”

The soldier hesitated in the doorway for a moment, and then disappeared into the blank hallway.  Alex turned back to Ranjeet, his eyes pleading.

“But why,” he said, his voice barely a whisper.

Ranjeet reached up to touch his chest, but there was nothing–no breath, no heartbeat, no life.  Her eyes fell.

“Like you said, Alex, we’ve already paid the boatman’s price.  It’s time to cross the river.”  She gestured to the door.  “Go on.  You don’t want to be late.”

Alex shuddered, but did not speak.  And then, slowly, he turned towards the door and left.  Ranjeet covered her mouth to restrain her cry, to stop herself from calling out to him.  And then it was too late.  And then he was gone.  But in her heart, she knew she had done the right thing.  She had stayed true to herself, true to her daughter.  She looked up at Cassandra with fresh tears in her eyes.

“For you, baby, I won’t give up hope.  For you…”

<the end>

David Wright is a writer and teacher living on Canada’s majestic west coast.  He has a lovely wife, two sparkling daughters and 40 published short stories in a dozen magazines including Neo-opsis, MindFlights and eSteampunk.  David’s latest eNovels, are available at Smashwords.com.  Visit his website at wright812.shawwebspace.ca.

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Published by Karl Rademacher on June 30, 2014. This item is listed in Issue 20, Issue 20 Stories, Stories

The Dragon’s Cook

by Erik Bundy

A dragon named Fume lived in the mountainous dukedom of Etbourg.  He was over three hundred years old, the size of an overweight pony, often bit his front claws – nerves — and had leathery wings that squeaked when he flew.  His price for not raiding the countryside was that a virgin live with him.  Her term of residence was one year, and she assisted him with his alchemical studies.  To show his sociability, Fume also volunteered when necessary at the local crematorium.

One spring morning as Fume creaked around inside his lair, he heard a shrill whistle.  He found a young woman in a lilac business suit  – knee-length skirt – at the main entrance of his cavern, four fingers in her mouth as she was about to whistle again.  From a linen pocket, she whipped out an electronic notepad with her photo identification on the screen.  Fume peered at it with rheumy eyes and pretended he could read.

“Lady Adir, Department of Safety and Health,” she said.  “My father is the Duke.”  She glanced back at the sloping, stony path.  “It’s a long climb up here.”

If Fume hadn’t burnt off his eyebrows long ago, he would have raised one now.  “I do live on a mountain.”

Her lips tightened, and he knew sarcasm had made him yet another enemy.

“You will need to repair those stone stairs,” she said.  “I stumbled twice.  And a handrail must be installed immediately.”

Fume blew out a smoke ring and watched it waver upwards and disappear in the soft morning light.

“Until the repairs are completed, I am sorry to say, I will have to close the footpath to all pedestrian traffic,” Lady Adir added, not at all sorry.

“Really,” answered Fume.  “Maintaining roads and public paths, I believe, are dukedom responsibilities.  Your father won’t thank you for reminding him of this.”

“The Duke is exempt from public safety rules.”

“How nice for him,” Fume said.

“I have come to inspect your lair,” she announced.

Fume hissed vapor through soot-lined nostrils.  “Do you have a warrant?”

“You are not a suspect in a crime.”  Lady Adir’s expression became uncertain.  “Are you?”

Fume chuckled smoke.  “No, no.  It’s just that you seem, uh, what is the word?  Predisposed!  Yes, predisposed to finding a crime in my home.  I cannot allow this inspection, Lady Adir.  It will set an irritating precedent.”

“Well now, let’s see.”  She brought up a document on her electronic notebook.  “My father is sending another young maiden next week.  Her name is Belena.  No inspection, no Belena.”

Fume scratched his limestone threshold with three yellow claws.  He grimaced as a twinge of arthritis passed up his green leg.  “I don’t wish to seem discourteous, but–”

“Good.”  She darted past him into the twilit cavern.

Fume growled, but having not yet basked in the sun, he felt too cold and decrepit to chase her around his lair.

She waved a delicate hand in front of her nose.  “What is that smell?  Oh-h, sorry,” she said, looking with repugnance at Fume’s moldering body.  “You might try incense.  The last maiden did complain.”

“She complained.  If Gussalin was a virgin, then I’m a duck.”  Fume ticked a claw on the stone floor in rhythm with his words.  “The Duke must send me a virgin this time.”

“That,” she huffed, “is no longer a job requirement.”

“It’s part of our contract.”

“Anyway, that’s not my department.  You can contact Human Services.  Recruitment Division.”

“I turn . . . what is the word?  Salvaged? Yes, salvaged iron into gold.  A female virgin is required to perform the rite correctly.  Otherwise, I end up with scrap iron, which is what Gussalin left me with.”

Lady Adir sniffed.  “Her job description calls for her to polish your gold, not make it.”

“Other duties as assigned,” Fume argued.

Fume didn’t mention, because he didn’t want to give Lady Adir more power over him, that he must perform the rite of rejuvenation soon.  He was rotting away like a mushroom browning at the edges because Gussalin had lied about her purity.  He needed a virgin before senility made him forget the youth-renewing rite all together.

Lady Adir’s expression became officious.  “You have only one window.  Facing north, I see.  You’ll need to add another for ventilation.  Facing south, I think.  Yes, south.  Oh, you do have a lot of treasure lying around, don’t you?  You sleep on it, I guess.  Ah-ha, we were wondering where our monogrammed silver plate had gone to.  In fact, one of the servants was executed for losing it.  Father will want it all back.”

Fume inserted his putrid bulk between his treasure and Lady Adir.  “Perhaps we could split the plate between us.”

“Are you trying to bribe me?”

“Sorry, I must have been thinking with the reptilian part of my brain.  I hope this new maiden . . . did you say her name was Belena?  I can’t seem to remember names anymore.  Well, I hope she doesn’t have an ardent young man, someone who wishes to be a hero and rescue her.  These petal-cheeked maidens you send me begrudge the attitude of winner dines after their bothersome boyfriends attack.”

Lady Adir tapped information into her notepad.  “Gussalin said you didn’t feed her.  She lost over ten kilograms in the year she lived with you.”

“Yes-s.  Improved her figure no end.  I should call it the Dragon’s Heavenly Body Diet.”

“This is not a hardship tour.  Starvation is not allowed.”

Fume aimed his red eyes at her.  “I provided Gussalin with fire and healthy food.  She wouldn’t crack open an egg shell.”

“Then you need a cook.”

“She claimed to have allergies.  Could eat only what appealed to her, mainly sweets.  She considered sugar a food group.  She thought warming food was cooking it.  She only had to ask, and I would have charbroiled anything she wanted.  You young women must–”

Lady Adir held up a hand.  “Cooking is beyond the scope of her position description.  Now show me what chemicals Belena will use to polish your gold and silver?”

“We use dragon urine.  Do you require a fresh sample?”

Lady Adir’s nostrils dilated.  “Be sure you provide gloves.  Now regarding your metallurgy, it is my understanding you do not have a permit.”

Fume snorted smoke ringlets.  “Alchemy is not illegal.  And I think you are too smart to tell your father you intend to cut off his percentage of the gold I make.”

Lady Adir considered this a moment, then said brusquely, “So in conclusion, before Belena comes, you will need to show proof that you added a south-facing window and hired a servant.”  She tapped on her note pad.  “I will send you a copy of my findings.”  Lady Adir then strode out of the cavern.

Fume lay hissing on his threshold.  Lady Adair expected him to hire a servant to serve a servant?  Only a dukedom official could think up such nonsense.  She also demanded a second window.  That meant calling in the mercenary dwarfs.  They would dig a hole in his treasure hoard as payment for chiseling a hole through his cavern wall.  Perhaps . . . yes, he would pay them with the monogrammed silver plate.  Let the Lady Adir try to reclaim it from them while they were eating off it.

Fume scratched his side and two scales fell off.  An unblemished maiden must come to him without delay.  Lady Adir, though, would insist on her findings being resolved before allowing Belena to enter his lair.

Must he rouse the countryside again?  That always stirred up a swarm of muscular heroes.  Had he even the strength to fly now?  His might pull a wing muscle.

Ah-h well, tomorrow he would crawl down to the nearest ripe wheat field and sneeze.  Accidents happen.  The duplicitous Duke would not blame him for the resulting fire, not officially anyway, but he would understand the threat.  This was all so tiresome and–

Fume flicked out his tongue to test the air . . . furtive movement, a hero or thief no doubt, and something else, something deliciously gamy.  The intruder had sneaked up the mountain while Lady Adir distracted him.  So much excitement in one day might bring on his liver fluctuations.

He slithered as fast as his aging body allowed to a back entrance covered by spider webs.  Hidden, he watched a stout, curly haired youth crawl unheroically through a pink rhododendron.  The second-rate armor was buffed to a dull shine but dinged . . . probably inherited from a grandfather who had fought as a common foot soldier in some ducal war.

Uncoiling, Fume crept down-slope behind the would-be hero.  The young man became alert, sniffing the air.  He glanced over his shoulder, jumped to his feet, and pulled a notched sword from a scabbard someone had used to stoke a hearth fire.  The hero lifted his left leg, knee bent, and stood on his right foot with his rusty sword held point up in front of him.

Fume gurgled a chesty, smoker’s laugh.  “I’m so glad to see you studied the manual.”

“Manual?  You know about the secret fighting stances?”

“I have seen the pose before.”  Fume didn’t mention that he had authored the manual to prevent heroes from becoming overly creative or that he received ten percent of the profits on all copies sold.  Telling the young the truth, depriving them of their illusions, always depressed them so.

“If I might offer a constructive criticism,” Fume said, “I believe your raised knee is an inch or three too high.  Balance, you know.”

The would-be hero’s eyes flared a second before he screamed a pagan war cry and charged.

Fume knocked the sword from the young man’s grasp with a claw swipe not found in the manual.  He reminded himself to include a heroic stance for becoming barbecue in the next edition.

The lean young face inside the helmet, visor up, twisted with fear.  The hero licked his lips and shucked a belly knife out of its raveling leather sheath.

“A novel idea, tickling a dragon to death with a knife.”  Fume sighed a sulfurous breath.  “Your timing is off, young man.  The perfumed virgin in need of rescuing won’t be here for at least a week.  What is your name?”

“Rulf,” the hero answered, his voice quavering.

Flapping to stop itself in mid-glide, an anticipatory raven settled on a limb of a nearby oak.  Fume snorted.  The fastidious Lady Adir would, no doubt, approve of ravens tidying up after he breakfasted.

Rulf swallowed and asked, “You have a shovel, right?  The Duke says all bodies must be given proper burial.”

Fume did enjoy these pre-prandial discussions.  “Ah-h, I think instant cremation is the exception.  Heroes are the only humans the Duke allows me to eat.  Tradition, you know.”

“Do I g-get a last meal?” Rulf choked out.

What was this dukedom coming to?  Servants required a servant to cook for them and meals required a last meal.  “Sorry, but I don’t have a cook in residence at the moment.”

“I-I-I can make my own meal.”

Fume’s tail twitched, a sign of sudden interest.  “Heroes normally skewer monsters, not kabobs.  You cook?”

“I’ve watched my mum do it for years.”

Fume sniffed.  A real hero would have lied and said yes.  “Why take up this quest of saving maidens who aren’t in need of rescuing?”

Rulf stared down at square toenails outlined with farm dirt.  “I thought maybe the Duke would let me marry his daughter or something.”

Fume shuddered.  “I take it you have not yet met Lady Adir.  Is your life worth a year of cooking?”

“My . . . my life?  Cook for a dragon?  You mean barbecue people for–”

Fume silenced him with a raised yellow claw.  “I do my own roasting.  Which reminds me, what did you ride here?”

“Our mule.”

Fume’s hollow stomach rumbled.  He had known it was not a horse.  “Mule à la francaise will show appropriate gratitude for my sparing your life.  You will cook for the new girl, Belena, if she ever arrives.  Agreed?”

Rulf blushed with relief.  “It’s a deal.”  He put out his right hand, looked embarrassed, and pulled it back.  “Do you have tarragon and savory?  My mum uses them a lot.”

Fume chuckled.  “This does sound promising.  I doubt Belena will lose weight this year.  Remember now, no stealing from me and no trying to assassinate an old dragon.”

“Yes, sir.  I mean, no, sir.  What are my duties?”

“Oh, nothing right now except to acquaint me with your delicious mule.  Then you will carry a message to the dwarfs.  I have work for them.”  Fume looked up at the sun, smirking, anticipating a good year.  “After Belena arrives, she will no doubt supervise you.  They always do.  I’m certain the first chore assigned you will be to hang linen curtains over a new window I’m having put in.  Oh yes, you will also need to buy a chef’s hat.  Lady Adir, no doubt, will require one.  Health regulations, you know.”

Fume chuckled, thinking of his coming skirmishes with Lady Adair.  Enemies were so much more amusing than friends.

###

Erik Bundy is a graduate of the Odyssey Fantasy Writing Workshop and grand prize winner of the Sidney Lanier Poetry Competition.  His fantasy novel, Magic and Murder Among the Dwarves, will be published by Untold Press in the spring of 2014.

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Published by Karl Rademacher on June 30, 2014. This item is listed in Issue 20, Issue 20 Stories

A Darker Faerie’s Tale

by James Crofoot

The green-winged fairy, Taylenel, sat on the edge of the Queen’s pool in solemn thought as he stared at the laughing image there.

***

“Tell me again, Taylenel,” Clarrisa whispered in her lover’s ear. “How deep is your love for me?”

Taylenel cupped the face of his beautiful world in his hands. “Oh, queen of my world, my love for you is deeper than the stars above. Does that make you happy?” He laughed.

She rose above him and hovered. Clarrisa twirled in the air, yellow wings in a blur. “Oh yes,” she sang.

Taylenel rose to meet her and took her hand. “Bet I can out fly you.” He laughed some more and then took off into the silver-green leaves that made the fairy world.

“No you can’t!” Clarrisa put on a serious face and took off after him.

The two soared and dove, circled and spiraled. They flew high and low with such joy that they did not hear the alarm signaling that the borders of their land were violated. In their defense, no one dared enter their realm because few returned who did. Fairies do not kill; you see it is beyond their sensibilities. Instead, they use a salve on their arrows and blades that put those who crossed into this sylvan wood into a deep sleep, a sleep that lasts for a hundred years. Therefore, they had no fear of the outside world because none ever got too deep, and these two had never seen people from beyond their borders, being young for fairies.

Clarrisa and Taylenel, not hearing the alarm, flew with complete abandon. They flew, not noticing where they were. They flew to the edge of their home, so absorbed in their game that they didn’t see the goblins hiding in the brush at the foot of the trees.

It happened in a soaring dive that was making them both laugh in glee. Taylenel heard the terrified scream; he turned and looked back just in time to see Clarrisa in a net, knocked from the air by a club.

***

The Queen allowed him this visit every year, but every year she would try to talk him out of this lingering in the past.

***

When Taylenel awoke, the moon shone high in the cloudless sky. Then he remembered Clarissa’s scream and it jerked him fully alert.

“Clarrisa,” he yelled. He rose into the air and looked around frantically. When he saw the broken limbs of the underbrush, fear clutched at his heart and down he dropped. Seeing the footprints of the goblins, he knew they had to be goblins from the stories his father had told him, he screamed his beloved’s name again.   Taylenel flew to the edge of the fairy wood and hovered silently, just staring out at the big world. Thoughts raced through his mind at the speed of a hummingbird’s wings.

They had her.

Goblins had her.

They had taken her out of the woods.

He must speak to the Queen.

He had to save her.

Fear and rage now filled his thoughts.

***

“My Queen, I need the Sword of Kindra.”

The Queen of the fairies, who was currently entertaining the ambassador from the robins of the east, looked in slight surprise at Taylenel standing before her. This fairy had just flown up, completely bypassing all the rules of her court. Now he was demanding the treasured sword.

“Dear fairy, what do you mean by forcing your way into my court?” the Queen asked. She was not very commanding, however, due to the audacity of this youth.

“They have taken her,” he replied with bowed head. “The goblins! Why was there no alarm?”

The Queen regained her authority and calm. “Goblins took whom? The alarm was sounded. You must explain yourself.”

Taylenel looked up with anger in his eyes. The anger hit the queen and once again, she lost her composure.

“The goblins have taken my love. They took my Clarrisa!” Taylenel now spoke through clenched teeth, impatience clear in his demeanor.

The Queen now understood. “I see.” She softened. “I am very sorry. I can see this Clarrisa was deeply cared for. Asking for the sword, however, is no light matter. Do you intend on tracking down these goblins by yourself?”

“Yes,” Taylenel said. “There is no time for help.” He hadn’t really thought of the big world outside the woods, just of Clarrisa.

“Fairies don’t leave the realm often. We have little magic outside our home. I don’t think you can help her alone, please, can I not make you wait for help?” The Queen put as much compassion in her voice as she could muster.

“I’m going, Majesty. Now. With or without the sword.”

The queen looked at Taylenel for a short time. She could see that pain and anger tore at him and began to appreciate the courage this young fey possessed.

“Are you sure? You must be very sure if you are to leave our realm.”

Taylenel tried to keep from yelling. “I’m very sure. They have her. I have no choice but to find them.”

A tear formed in his eye.

She was not sure if it was anger or grief. Then decided it was both. She could not do otherwise but to grant his wish. “Very well, dear, brave fairy.” She ordered her chancellor to bring the sword. “The Sword of Kindra is our most treasured thing. It is a weapon, true, but it can be very beautiful, also. It belongs to all fairies, though. I am merely its keeper.”

The chancellor returned with the sword.

“You may take the sword.” She then pleaded, “Please, brave fairy, return it with your love.”

Taylenel took the sword and flew off.

As the Queen had stated, fairies did not leave their realm, fey magic did not work out there much. Not so with the Sword of Kindra though. Centuries before, the fey of the north crafted the weapon for the fairies, and it kept its power, both beautiful and terrible. It required no salve to put things to sleep.

Taylenel put his hand on the hilt of the sword he now wore. For an instant, his courage and resolve had faltered, but it quickly returned. He looked at the footprints left by the goblins and followed them.

For two days, he tracked the goblins without rest. The last words spoken by him to Clarissa ran on repeatedly in his head.

‘My love for you is deeper than the stars above.’

Finally, the prints led into a cave.

Landing on a ledge above the entrance, he listened. The fairy drew the sword, slowly, silently; with only the barest rasp of metal on metal. He flew in along the top of the tunnel. Passageways began branching off and there were footprints everywhere now.  Despair seeped into his heart.

The stench of excrement and refuse from these filthy creatures made him vomit twice. This was alien to him; in the fairy wood, all was pleasant and clean, but he could not turn back. He must find Clarrisa; there was no other option. Goblins were everywhere. Constantly he had to hide. They chattered on in their tongue, which Taylenel could not understand.

They were terrible creatures to look upon. Their faces, twisted with wicked grins of decayed and yellow teeth showing through smiles of cracked lips. Their skin was a sickly green and putrid sores added to the disgusting smells. To the fairy, it seemed the vile nature of their bodies must be a reflection of their souls.

He took one tunnel that led to a sleeping chamber, another led to a crude kitchen. He wept, knowing he would never find his love in time, imagining what these cruel things would do to something so much weaker and smaller. But, with no time for tears, he wiped his face and moved on.  Finally, after searching many tunnels while hiding from the goblins that lived here, Taylenel came to a lantern lit chamber from which cruel laughter emanated. He approached cautiously, keeping to the side of the cold damp passageway..

There were three of them standing around a table looking down at something there. A shrill scream was heard which pierced Taylenel’s being. He charged into the room, flitting around the three of them.

The first went down in a sleeping heap without the other two seeing. He cut the second one across the cheek and it too fell, fast asleep.

The third goblin was now aware of the fairy and started swinging with his club. The fairy dodged back and forth and finally got to the hand wielding the weapon. He cut that hand and down that goblin fell.

Taylenel hovered for an instant, staring at the sleeping things as if to make sure the magic of Kindra had done its job. A soft moan brought him back.

***

Every year the queen would allow her stern champion to gaze into her water, she knew the terrible story well.

***

He looked to the table and saw Clarissa tied to it with thread. Her wings were gone. There were many cuts covering her naked body. None would be immediately lethal, but all would have been painful. She was unconscious and very pale in a pool of blood.

The green fairy flew to her, his wings drooping with the grief in his chest. Landing softly next to her, as if afraid to disturb the table for fear of causing her more pain, he knelt and lifted her head gently.

Clarissa opened her eyes halfway. They were bloodshot and unfocused at first, but they cleared as she realized who she looked at and love filled them. She smiled.

“I knew you’d come, I knew I could hold on till then,” she said weakly and coughed, crimson stained her gentle, pink lips.

“My love.” Taylenel began to weep again.

“How deeply do you love me?” she asked.

She did not hear the reply. Taylenel reached up and closed her eyes.

Now his teeth clenched in rage, his face a mask of tears and dust. He stood, walked to the edge of the table and looked down at the sleeping goblins with his sword held in a white knuckled grip. They would not awaken, he decided. Not these monsters who were so cruel. He flew down to each in turn and quickly learned how to open their throats.

After, he flew back to the tabletop and cut the threads holding Clarissa’s inert form. The fairy sheathed his sword and picked her up in both arms.

***

Once again, Taylenel flew directly into the Queen’s court. This time it was full. Landing directly in front of the Queen, he laid Clarissa’s body on the steps there.

Shock filled the court at the fairy’s appearance. Shock filled all except the Queen, whose heart filled with grief, knowing what had happened.

“Why are you covered in the black blood of goblins, dear brave fairy?”

Taylenel could not bring his eyes to meet hers.

“You said to return the sword with my love.” He paused. The court held their breath. “I killed them, your majesty. I cut them and let their life’s blood flow from them, just as they did my love. Now they will never awaken, like my love. It has died.”

Tears began to form in the Queen’s eyes at the death of his innocence. After a silent moment, she regained control.

Taylenel unbuckled the sword from his waist and offered it to her.

“No,” she said in what was almost a whisper. “You will keep this weapon. Fairies do not kill, but there have been those who have. This sword our fey brethren made for one of them. You did what fairies do not do. I may need that someday, brave fairy. I ask you, in front of the fairy realm, will you be my champion? Before you answer, know that I do not ask this lightly. What you will be called to do, at times, I can ask of no other fairy.” She wiped a tear from her cheek. “You will be my ambassador to outside kingdoms, and may be asked to kill again. Will you think on this?”

“I need no time to think. I will carry this sword for you, Majesty. I can not allow the malicious evil that did this to such an innocent.” He was looking at Clarissa. “First however, I must seek a boon from you. I need to be gone from our kingdom. I cannot stay. The very leaves remind me of the fairy at your feet. I do not know for how long, but I cannot look on this realm now. Will you allow this?”

***

The Queen granted his wish and for over two hundred years, Taylenel traveled the world outside his home. He visited kings, queens and emperors. He rode on the shoulders of generals in battles, epic and not. He sat for twenty years on a rocky ledge with a wise man discussing good and evil. Once a year, however, he returned to ask the maturing fairy queen to allow him to see his only love.

***

Taylenel, the Queen’s Champion and holder of the Sword of Kindra, rose to his feet. The image of his only love, the laughing Clarissa, vanished for another year. With a last look at the still water, which reflected the stars of a night sky above, as if a mirror, he turned and walked away.

###

James J Crofoot has traveled for most of his life, on sea and land. Throughout, he has written. Now he is starting to put the stories into the public eye. In addition to this story, he has a book published with MuseItUp publishing, The Journeys of a Different Necromancer. Above all else, he wishes you to enjoy his work.

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Published by Karl Rademacher on June 30, 2014. This item is listed in Novellas, Serial Novellas

Hero’s Choice

by A. Merc Rustad

Hero’s Choice was originally published by Silver Blade Magazine in October 2009.

Dark Lord Mrakota raised an eyebrow at the squirming infant. “This is the brat that’s prophesied to kill me in fifteen years? He doesn’t look like much.”

The boy waved a chubby fist and gurgled. A tuft of ebony hair covered his head, and large blue eyes stared up at the Dark Lord with infant wonder. Mrakota had to admit the brat was cute.

“Yes, Your Eminence.” The Stargazing Wizard stroked his beard. “I quote the ancient words, ‘And a child with a star upon his brow shall rise up, and on the final hour of his fifteenth year he will slay the lord of shadow whose name means dark.'”

“Ah.” Mrakota squinted as torchlight reflected off the bright, metallic blue birthmark shaped like a star in the middle of the baby’s forehead. “Hard to miss that, isn’t it?”

His Trusted Lieutenant, Darren, fidgeted and shifted the baby to the crook of his arm. “What will we do with him, my Lord?”

Mrakota looked out at the misty riverfront from where he stood on the bank. A star blazed across the sky with a distinctive blue cast to its tail. His men had caught the midwife trying to sneak the baby out of the village and to the river, where a basket floated at anchor. When questioned, the old woman said the mother died in childbirth and she didn’t know who the father was.

“Typical,” Mrakota muttered.

“My Lord?” Darren asked. “What are we going to do with the boy?”

“It should be obvious,” the Stargazing Wizard said. “We must let the babe be sent downriver where he will be adopted and can grow to manhood—”

“And in fifteen years come kill me.” Mrakota gave his advisor a deadpan look. “Brilliant strategy.”

The Wizard huffed and turned away in a sulk, petting his crystal ball.

Darren’s face was impassive, although a hint of tension kept his shoulders stiff. “Kill him then, my Lord?”

Mrakota considered that as he lifted the infant out of his Trusted Lieutenant’s arms. He was chilled from being out in the autumn night, and he didn’t want to get another cold. He had just overcome the first one a few days ago.

“Might want to support his neck, Sire,” Darren whispered.

Mrakota nodded and looked into the boy’s eyes. The baby smiled and cooed, a bubble forming on his tiny lips. The Dark Lord smiled. “I’ll adopt him.”

“What!” The Stargazing Wizard spun around, his eyes bulging. “But that’s just not done, most glorified Evil One!”

Mrakota shrugged. “I like being unconventional.”

It seemed unfair to snap the infant’s neck. He preferred killing uprising peasants and resistance leaders. For three years he had ruled the empire with only a moderate amount of brutality. Besides, he was nearing his self-imposed quota of needless slaughter for the month. He didn’t anticipate the upcoming board meetings over that.

The concept of fate didn’t appeal to him anyway. He had gained the title of Dark Lord from his own ambition and skill.

“Your Magnificent Darkness, I must protest this outrageous decision.” The Stargazing Wizard drew himself up and looked down his beak-like nose at Mrakota. “This is folly.”

Mrakota wrapped the edge of his heavy, fur-lined cloak around the boy. “If you study the histories, you’ll see most chosen ones had a vendetta against previous Dark Lords — death of their people, parents, village, whatever.”

“Yes…”

“Well, Hero—” he nodded at the boy he’d just christened “—will have no reason to hate me.”

Darren offered a lopsided smile. “Reverse psychological tactics, my Lord?”

“Exactly.”

The Stargazing Wizard twirled the hem of his embroidered robe in what Mrakota took to be an Ominous Gesture. The wizard was getting good at those. “Be warned, my Dark Liege, only your demise will come with this.”

Mrakota shrugged. “Same thing would happen if the prophecy comes true though, wouldn’t it.”

“Yes, Spawn of the Pits, but—”

“Everyone dies eventually,” Mrakota said. It was a philosophy he had accepted half a lifetime ago, at the age of eleven. “I’d rather have my heir learn how to rule my empire the proper way if he’s going to kill me and take over.”

He waved for his men to head back to the Lair of Malice, his castle.

Holding his new son against his chest, Mrakota whispered, “Whatever happens, Hero, you’ll always have a choice. That I promise you.”

#

“Something is wrong.” Adom paced around the small hovel, etching a track in the dirt floor. “She should be here by now.”

“Calm down, she’ll be here.” The ranger Greenhood — tall, lean, and with the obligatory stubble on his jaw — lounged on the only stool in the hovel. He was honing an already sharp dagger on a whetstone. “I contacted the midwife myself. She’ll send the babe to us.”

Adom rubbed his thick white beard. “What if she was found?”

“Stop fretting. If something’s happened, I’ll just go rescue the boy and bring him here myself.”

Adom frowned at the ranger, although he couldn’t see the man’s expression for the deep green hood shadowing it.

“Things were better in the old days,” Adom said, “when we didn’t have such unpredictable Dark Lords running the land.”

There hadn’t been a bout of razed villages or magically deranged creatures produced from the pits since Mrakota’s predecessor. It just wasn’t natural.

Greenhood chuckled. “True, but it makes some of my jobs a little easier.”

“Speak for yourself.”

Adom needed to get the Chosen One, then bring the child to his adopted parents in a backwater village for fifteen years. As usual, some disaster would destroy the hamlet, and he would rescue the boy and train him for his grand Destiny.

Appointed to be the Chosen One’s wise old mentor by the Fates, Adom had embraced the calling. He spent a decade meditating at the Stone of Fallen Heroes. Two days had he spent wrestling philosophical concepts in the Seven Winds — did it matter it was a pub? He’d even taken up magic theology and fencing on the side, and had long practice in being obscure and cryptic in his speech, thanks to years as official representative of the Force of Resistance.

The Resistance never accomplished anything, but it was a prime testing ground to work on his vagueness. It had worked well on his late wife whenever she had demanded to know where he was. “About the matters of the Fates,” was a better excuse than saying he’d been pub-crawling.

A tiny hearth fire crackled, and the room was stuffy with smoke. They had boarded up the single window and put a big wolf hybrid outside to warn them of anyone’s approach. The waiting strained Adom’s nerves.

He huffed and made another circuit in his pacing. He needed a smoke.

Greenhood handed him a tamped pipe.

Adom mumbled his thanks and lit up. The spicy pipe weed helped distract him. A sharp, pungent smell filled the room. Wonderful calm flowed through him, relaxing him, blurring the edges of his vision.

“What time is it?” he asked.

“After midnight.”

Adom grumbled under his breath. The child should have been brought to their doorstep by now. Why was this not going according to plan?

A deep growling outside made Adom jump.

Greenhood rose with all his ranger-trained grace and walked to the door.

“The Dark One has the boy,” said a quiet voice from outside.

“What!” Adom shoved Greenhood out of his way and glared at the messenger, another ranger. “What do you mean?” He hoped his eyebrows bristled in the appropriate manner.

Cloaked in dark green and brown and with the hood pulled over his eyes, even in the strong moonlight, Adom couldn’t see the ranger’s face. “The midwife failed, and the Dark Lord has taken the child to his castle.”

Adom spluttered on his pipe. This was inconceivable. “What do we do now?”

“Well.” Greenhood stepped outside. “I guess that means we have to rescue him.

***

It wasn’t a problem to find a wet nurse, but one who wasn’t working against him was difficult. Mrakota did his best to shush Hero by whispering a poem about “seventeen hundred ways to kill a man for fun” in lullaby-fashion to the baby. Hero refused to tone down his demands for food.

Mrakota gritted his teeth and kept smiling. “Haven’t you found anyone?”

Darren shook his head. “I’m sorry, my Lord. I have all my men asking their wives and sisters if they would be willing to nurse Hero. I’ll ask my wife as well.”

“Well, get some harpy milk or something. Oh, and add some honey, I’m told that always works.”

“Yes, my Lord.” His Trusted Lieutenant bowed and hurried off.

Alone with Hero, Mrakota sat in his personal chambers, a rich suite of rooms decked out in deep scarlet and black. The combination fitted his rank and the deep tones were soothing. Still, something brighter&38212;maybe in pale blue— would be more appropriate for his son.

Hero wailed again.

Mrakota began questioning traditional fathering practices, if he was going to be kept awake at such hours. He’d owned a hellhound whelp once, and when it was small, it had suckled his finger until its mother could feed it. The healers had eventually mended the blackened nub of his finger afterwards. He wondered if the same trick would work for Hero.

The boy sucked on his finger, soft gums and warm tongue an odd sensation on a hand used to holding a scepter or a sword. Mrakota smiled.

The door opened, slamming against the wall. Mrakota looked up sharply. “Don’t slam—”

An old man in a gray robe, large hat and a gnarled walking staff stood glowering at him, accompanied by a ranger.

Mrakota blinked. Damn it, did someone leave the secret passages unlocked again? “Yes?”

“Unhand that boy.” The old man leveled the end of his staff at Mrakota. “At once.”

“Why?”

The ranger swung his bow up and aimed a notched arrow at Mrakota’s chest. “We will not allow you to kill the Chosen One.”

“Ah.” Mrakota nodded in understanding. He wasn’t worried—not yet. “You must be his future wise mentor and guide?”

“Yes, I am Adom and this is the most feared, unstoppable ranger, Greenhood.”

“A little early to be storming my castle to kill me, isn’t it?”

“To rescue our charge, a task appointed to us by the Fates? I think not!”

Mrakota narrowed his eyes. “Keep your voice down, you’ll wake him.”

The old man obliged. “Give me the boy.”

“Or what?” Mrakota offered a practiced sneer, the one he saved for appropriate occasions. “The ranger will kill me?”

“No, I’m supposed to leave that to the boy.” Greenhood lowered the arrow tip until it pointed at Mrakota’s stomach. “But I can still shoot you where it hurts.”

Mrakota tensed, hoping no one noticed his sudden, rapid heartbeat. “And traumatize the baby by getting blood on him? How virtuous of you.”

“Enough!” Adom thumped the end of his walking staff hard on the carpeted floor. It made no sound. “Without your pathetic minions of terror to protect you, you are helpless. It would be easy to take the Chosen One, just as it was easy to break in here.”

“You’re mocking me.” Mrakota raised an eyebrow. “Isn’t that my job?”

“Er, well…” It was difficult to see if the old man had blushed, given his thick beard.

Mrakota conceded that in this position, they did have an advantage. He couldn’t reach for a blade while still holding Hero, who was now asleep. “What kind of life would he have with you, old man? He might not live past his first birthday.”

“And you expect me to believe you would treat him and raise him well, spawn of evil?”

Mrakota cleared his throat. “Don’t flatter me. My son —”

“I knew you were his father!”

“Adopted father.”

“Hah.” Adom’s bony fingers tapped his staff. “Right.”

Mrakota refrained from enlightening the two intruders. As far as he knew, he was the only Dark Lord in recent history to remain a virgin this long.

“Pin him to that chair,” Adom said, looking at the ranger.

Mrakota stiffened, although he kept his expression nonchalant. He carefully brought one arm up to shield Hero. Where the hell were his men?

Adom took a step forward. “We must be away before the minions are alerted to our presence.”

“Actually, all my men were just in the barracks,” Darren said from the doorway.

Mrakota relaxed, pressing a finger against his mouth. His men obeyed as they surged forward, completely silent.

The arrow went high when one of the Legionaries tackled Greenhood from behind. The shaft stuck in the headrest of Mrakota’s chair, startling him.

The Legionaries overwhelmed the ranger and the old man in seconds. To their credit, the intruders held their tongues. Hero continued sleeping.

The Legionaries gagged the ranger and the old man, confiscated all their weapons and other belongings, and forced them to kneel.

Mrakota looked at his Trusted Lieutenant in expectation. “Well?”

Darren bowed. “My Lord, I found a wet nurse for the child. Lila says she won’t mind another child with our daughter.”

“Excellent!” Mrakota stood and handed the sleeping Hero to Darren. He wiped his sweaty palms on his trousers. “Tell her I’m most grateful.”

Darren bowed his head, his voice just above a whisper. “My wife and I are happy to serve, my Lord.”

Mrakota nodded, pleased Hero would be in good hands. The thought of Darren asking his wife to nurse another baby in the middle of the night impressed Mrakota. His Trusted Lieutenant had backbone.

Darren slipped out, holding the baby. Adom stared after him in pure envy.

One of the Legionaries tilted his head at Greenhood. “Sire?”

“Take the ranger and chain him in the dungeon somewhere. He can be tortured and released in the morning.” It was better not to piss off the entire Ranger Alliance just yet by killing Greenhood, but there were standards he had to adhere to as well. Plus, he enjoyed the sounds of a ranger’s screams now and then. “I can handle the old man.”

His soldiers saluted and dragged Greenhood out with them. They shut the door.

Adom glared at Mrakota and mumbled something into the gag.

“Oh, yes.” Mrakota untied the strip of cloth and tossed it into the fire.

“Plan to reveal your malicious scheme to me now, evil one?”

“Actually, I thought I’d just kill you.”

Mrakota picked up one of the sabers from a rack of gleaming blades on the wall next to his chair. Then he turned and walked over to his prisoner.

“Wait—you can’t kill me!”

“Why not?”

“I haven’t mentored the Chosen One for the minimum time required yet!”

“Oh.” Mrakota titled his head to one side. “You do have a point.”

Adom’s mustache twitched. Mrakota assumed he was sneering.

“In that case… ” Mrakota shrugged and stabbed the would-be mentor through the chest. “Do it in the afterlife.”

***

Two Years Later

Mrakota paused outside the nursery. It was past Hero’s bedtime, yet he detected a quiet voice droning on and on. He narrowed his eyes. This had better not be yet another botched rescue attempt.

Carefully, Mrakota opened the door and peered around. The dim lamplight gave the blue walls a comforting glow. Toys, rattles, and blankets lay scattered on the rugs. In the lavish crib made of bone and cushioned with velvet, two-year-old Hero lay snoring. He clutched a cloth dragon doll in one chubby hand.

The Stargazing Wizard sat beside the crib, reading from an aged scroll. “…’And a child with a star upon his brow shall rise up, and on the final hour of his fifteenth year he will slay the lord of shadow whose name means dark.’ That’s you, boy. And Mrakota is the one you must kill. You are the Chosen One, and you have a grand destiny to fulfill—”

“What the hell are you doing?” Mrakota asked.

The Stargazing Wizard jumped and almost fell off his chair. He bowed with a flourish of his cape. “Most Dreaded Evil One!”

Mrakota folded his arms over his chest. “Yes. Now answer my question.”

“I was only reading to the child the hallowed prophecy—”

“You’re indoctrinating him.”

The Stargazing Wizard shiftily fingered his staff, a long, black rod with a carved head shaped like a star that had a demonic face. “He must know of his destiny.”

Mrakota snorted. “He can’t even speak a coherent sentence yet. Now’s not the time to tell him he’s supposed to kill me when he grows up.”

“Your Wickedness, the prophecy cannot be avoided. Is it not better that he understand you are evil incarnate and that he hate you from a young age so that it will be easy for him to fulfill his destiny?”

Mrakota concentrated on keeping his voice down. “No.”

He had listened to his advisor’s ceaseless disapproval on watering down his dark nature by having a family and caring about someone — other than himself — so often it was background noise. The Stargazing Wizard couldn’t tolerate shades of gray.

But now it was getting personal.

“You’re trying to turn my son against me. Stop.”

The Stargazing Wizard’s eyes flashed. Mrakota knew it was just a bit of magic to make him look intimidating. It didn’t work.

“Your Malevolence surely jests. I am loyal to you.”

Right. It had been awhile since anyone had tried to double cross him, and a betrayal was inevitable. “Are you?”

“Yes. I seek only—”

“What?”

“Uh…” The Stargazing Wizard made another Ominous Gesture. “We all are pawns of the Fates.”

Mrakota rolled his eyes.

“It is my destiny to prepare the Chosen One,” the Stargazing Wizard said at last.

“You’re the one who wanted to send him downriver in a basket. Besides. I thought Hero has — had — some old mentor for that.”

“One can never have too many guides.”

Mrakota snorted. “Has it occurred to you that if Hero kills me, you’ll be out of a job?”

The Stargazing Wizard waved a hand dismissively. Mrakota assumed that meant he had no doubts he could find a different Dark Lord to leech off in the future.

Mrakota stepped between the wizard and Hero. He put an extra measure of threat into his stare. “Save your lessons for when he’s older. And, until then, stay away from my son.”

Glowering, the Stargazing Wizard picked up his staff and swept from the room.

Mrakota sighed and took the chair. He rubbed his forehead with a thumb and forefinger. “This isn’t going to be easy, is it?”

The past two years had gone by with fewer catastrophes, attempted assassinations, mass local uprisings, plagues and wars than usual. Hero hadn’t done much except play, eat, drool, and cry when he was tired. He’d tried to grab the candle flames whenever near them, as well. Still adorable, but hardly a threat to Mrakota’s reign.

Knowing how stubborn and persistent the Guild of Old Mentors was, there would be someone to replace Adom. And it wasn’t as if the Stargazing Wizard had been overly subtle in his own ambitions.

Mrakota still doubted the inevitability of the prophecy. But how long would that last once Hero grew up?

***

Five Years Later

“Aha!”

Hero jumped, startled awake by the ethereal voice. He rubbed the sleep grime from his eyes and glanced around his bedroom. Nothing had changed. The chest of toys rested against the wall, and the glowing skulls on the fireplace mantle gave off a soft, yellow glow. Hero didn’t like sleeping in total darkness. “Who’s there?”

“Over here, boy.”

Hero turned around. He clapped his hands over his mouth and muffled his scream.

A ghost stood by the headboard, leaning against the wall. It was an old man, dressed in a long robe and pointed hat. He glowed faintly blue-silver and there was a hole in his chest.

Hero calmed down. Just a ghost. He’d never met one, of course, but ghosts couldn’t hurt him. Daddy always said that.

Hero scooted a little further away just in case. “Who are you?”

“I’m Adom. And I was going to be your Wise Mentor.” The ghost scowled. “Until that son of a…” He mumbled something incoherent into his beard.

“What?” Hero said.

“You’re too young to hear such words. Anyway, your oppressor—Mrakota—killed me.”

“Why?”

Adom waved the question off. “It took me seven years to figure out this ghost vocation.” He huffed and folded his arms over his translucent chest. “You must be warned, boy. Your so-called ‘father’ will never let you live.”

Hero scratched his head. “But he’s my dad. The prophecy says I have to kill him.” He decided to ask Daddy in the morning.

“Exactly!” Adom leaned forward in a conspiratorial manner. “You know he’s a Dark Lord, boy.”

“Hero. My name’s Hero.”

“Yes, yes. But think about it, boy. Dark Lords always kill anyone they must to keep their own lives. Family—hah! They don’t matter. You don’t matter. He may pretend to care about you but—”

“Are you trying to indoctrinate me?” Hero asked. He’d heard his father use that word before. It sounded important.

Adom scowled. He looked like the Stargazing Wizard, and that sent a shiver over Hero’s back. He decided it was a good thing Daddy had made Adom a ghost.

“Of course not, I’m just trying to show you the truth of things, boy.”

Why didn’t the ghost seem to understand he had a name? “What’s that?”

“Mrakota will kill you, boy! That’s his whole plan—to keep you from doing any good, as your Chosen One status proclaims you will, and then he’ll kill you before your fifteenth birthday.”

“Oh.” Hero thought about that. “But I thought the prophecy was about me.”

“It is.”

“But how can they both happen?”

Adom opened his mouth, then snorted. “Well, of course he won’t succeed—”

Hero scratched his head. “Then why are you upset?”

The ghost stared at him. “Um, well. He could grievously wound you.”

Hero yawned.

“Mark my words, boy,” Adom said, shaking a finger at him. “Mrakota will try.”

Hero didn’t want to think about Daddy killing him. “Go away or I’ll tell Daddy you’re here. He’ll re-kill you.”

“No you wouldn’t—”

“Daddy!”

The ghost glared and faded away.

Hero flopped back on his pillow and pulled the blanket up over his head.

#

Mrakota twitched and debated stabbing himself or simply murdering everyone in the room.

Unfortunately, given it was a mandatory board meeting, he couldn’t get out of it unless he was dead—assuming he was fortunate. Advisors manifested quicker than would-be heroes.

Across from Mrakota, the Minister of Finances shuffled a handful of papers. “Even with raising the taxes until the peasants can’t afford to eat, the quotient of rebel leaders and peasant uprisings is low this quarter. We’re going to have to be selective in villages razed or we won’t have the sufficient funds for the winter—”

“Speaking of which,” the Minister of Violence interrupted, toying with his battleaxe. “Your Impressive Darkness, there’s been a bloody decrease in public executions lately. We didn’t make quota last quarter. There’s also not enough falsely accused innocents being executed or criminals being made examples of.” He sounded disgusted at the shortcomings of society.

“No new Old Mentors have been caught?” Mrakota asked.

Since there hadn’t been a massive wave of prejudice against some minority in the last few years, he had decreed all Wise Mentors outlawed. The rangers were doing a solid job of protecting the geezers from his Dark Legionaries so far.

“No, Sire.”

“Never mind that,” said the Minister of Terror. “I’ve been taking a census on how much the population lives in dread under your rule, and the numbers are sinking rapidly.” She tapped a chart with squiggly lines splattered across it. “The mention of your name is just not inciting fear into their hearts like it used to, Evil One. I’ve outlined a plan…”

“That doesn’t matter!” The Minister of trade pounded the bone table they were all gathered around. “What about our shipping routes with the lich king’s realm? Sales of corpses have plummeted and inflation on imported enchanted weapons is becoming unreasonable.”

Mrakota pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed as his advisors began arguing over whose points deserved his consideration first. He’d placed a decapitation ban on his meeting room after the mess last time. The stains hadn’t come out of his favorite silk shirt. Now he considered removing the decree.

He’s promised Hero they could feed the swans today, and yet he was trapped inside the tower with half a dozen advisors who tested the limits of their vocal chords and his patience. At the back of the room, the Stargazing Wizard watched him from the shadows, petting his crystal ball.

He’d promoted the Stargazing Wizard and sent him to oversee the far end of the empire. To Mrakota’s extreme annoyance, his advisor had used his position to make frequent visits to discuss matters of state, such as now. And he would often sneak away to speak to Hero when Mrakota was otherwise occupied.

Mrakota had serious considerations about firing his advisor-turned-regent—at the stake.

It would have to wait until after business was taken care of.

Mrakota tipped back in his chair and cleared his throat.

None of his advisors noticed.

Mrakota narrowed his eyes. He surveyed the table, then calmly stepped onto it, walked over to the Minister of Trade—the easiest to replace—and ran the man through the neck. He sidestepped the spray of blood.

“Pay attention, all of you.”

The room fell silent.

Mrakota nodded and resumed his seat.

The dead trade minister slumped over the table with a gurgle.

“And send his corpse to the lich king,” Mrakota added.

“Won’t that be taken as an insult?” the Minister of Violence asked. He licked his lips.

Mrakota considered. “I’ll call it a promotion and relocation. The lich can reanimate him to handle the trade finances on that end.” Mrakota accepted a towel from the Minister of Terror and cleaned his saber. “As for the rest of the issues brought to my attention…”

Mrakota left the Minister of Terror to her plan for inciting a better percentage of fear in the populace. He ordered his agents to stage a massive rebellion that his troops would crush next month. “See if we can get six thousand or so rebels taken prisoner and then crucify them along one of the major roads.”

Nods of approval came from around the table.

“That should make up for the slump in quota,” Mrakota went on, “and leave room for three or four villages to be slaughtered. Make sure they’re plague-infested or too poor to pay taxes. That ought to decrease the surplus population and not negatively affect the economy.”

He stood and waved off further questions. “Any other trifling details you can handle yourselves. It’s why I pay you.”

He swept out of the tower, rather than fleeing, and left his traitorous advisors to scheme among themselves for the rest of the day. He meant to spend his afternoon with his son.

#

“Daddy?”

Mrakota and Hero sat by the garden pond where the black swans swam. The Dark Lord looked at his son. “Yes?”

Hero fretted his lip with his teeth. “Will I have to kill you when I grow up, like the prophecy says?”

Mrakota tossed a crust of bread to the birds, wondering if the moat had been filled with fresh piranha yet. The swans ate as many fish as the piranha did the birds. He handed Hero the rest of the loaf.

Denying the conversation unnerved him was pointless. It wasn’t like they were discussing the results of the recent tourney or the latest dragon raid.

“That depends on how much faith you put in destiny, Hero.”

The boy swallowed. “I don’t want to hurt you, Daddy.”

“Then don’t.”

Hero looked at Mrakota, forehead crinkled in confusion. The expression bent the lines of the star-shaped birthmark. “But won’t I have to?”

Mrakota snorted. “Hero, do you know why most prophecies come true?”

“Why?”

“Because people want them to. That’s why they believe in fate, or curse the gods when things go wrong, so they have someone to make tough choices for them, and someone else can take the blame.”

“So I don’t have to obey fate?” Hero tossed the rest of the bread to the swans. “The Stargazer says I have to.”

Damn that wizard. “Look at it this way,” Mrakota said. “If I was as ‘evil’ as the prophecy seems to indicate, why would I have taken you in?”

Hero pulled the firestick out of his pocket and struck it against his pant leg, then watched the tiny red flame. It was a good six inches long and packed with oil and a flint-and-tinder starter and wick. He’d carried it everywhere since Mrakota had given it to him for his birthday. It had been easier than having Hero steal live coals from the hearth so he could light hay bales on fire with glee.

“Because you’re a good Dark Lord?” Hero asked.

Mrakota’s lips twitched. “I’m as evil as necessary, but you don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do.” He gave his son a rough hug. “I hear there’s a black stag loose in the forests. Want to go hunting?”

Hero’s face lit up. “Yeah!” He snuffed out his firestick and jumped up.

Mrakota grinned back. “Race you to the stables.”

Hero took off. “Can’t beat me, Daddy!”

Mrakota let him win.

Panting in mock exertion, Mrakota leaned against the stone arch that formed the doorway to the stables. A column of Dark Legionnaire troops marched by in perfect military formation. Mrakota beckoned his Trusted Lieutenant over.

Darren saluted. “Yes, my Lord?”

“I think it’s time I found a new advisor to replace the Stargazing Wizard. Since he’s here on business, I might as well finish his promotion. Something involving fire, a rack, and rusted blades sounds fitting, don’t you think?”

A slow, appropriately wicked smile showed Darren’s teeth. “A marvelous idea, my Lord.”

“See to it by the time I get back.”

***

The woods were thick and lush in midsummer. Mrakota breathed deep, enjoying the ripe, woodland smells: earth, leaves, and rotted wood. After a day of hunting, he would return to a find the results of an execution, that of the Stargazing Wizard. Yes, it was a good day.

“It kind of stinks in here,” Hero said.

Mrakota ducked under a low maple branch and smiled back at his son, who rode a black, red-eyed pony named Fluff. “You’ll get used to it.”

“Can I burn down a tree?”

“Not right now.”

Hero sighed.

“Maybe when we get home, though.” Mrakota didn’t need an uprising of dryads like his predecessor. “Keep your eyes and ears open for that stag.”

He turned his gaze forward once more and stared down the steel-tipped length of an arrow.

Mrakota started and reigned in his horse. A green-clad ranger crouched on a broad limb, balanced with uncanny grace, the long bow stretched to its limit. The ranger’s hood shadowed his face, but a swath of sunlight that angled down through the trees showed his mouth and the grim set of his jaw. Greenhood.

I’m too merciful for my own good, Mrakota thought.

“Stop,” the ranger said.

“I just did.”

From his peripheral vision, Mrakota noted other rangers gliding from behind trees and encircling his small hunting party. The horses stamped and nickered in unease. He’d taken only four escorts. They weren’t even that far from the Lair of Malice. Mrakota’s hand tightened on the leather reins.

He worried that Hero might be hurt in a fight. Despite being paid to serve him, and die if necessary, he never did like seeing his men ambushed and slaughtered.

The four Dark Legionaries eased closer, ready to surround Hero and protect him.

“What do you want, ranger?” Mrakota asked.

“The boy.”

“No.” Mrakota forced a lazy smile. “If I recall correctly, you won’t kill me.” With a fluid motion, he drew his saber and backed his mount until he blocked Hero and the pony. “Which you’ll have to do to get him.”

The string creaked as the ranger drew it further back. “I never planned to kill you.”

Too late Mrakota recalled Greenhood’s other threat. “Oh, hell.”

The bow twanged and the arrow slammed into his stomach, just below the ribs. Pain flared through his torso and Mrakota toppled to the loamy forest floor when his horse reared.

A loud baying from a wolfish dog sent the horses into panicked rearing and bucking. Mrakota gritted his teeth and turned on his side, one arm shielding his head.

One ranger grabbed Mrakota by the arm and dragged him off the path before the horses trampled him. Then the green-cloaked man faded into the shadows. Mrakota glared after him. It hurt to breathe, and he knew his black silk shirt must be ruined. Damn that ranger.

Hero’s frightened shout hurt Mrakota’s ears. He struggled to his knees and his spine brushed against one of the massive blackthorn trees. A lump of terror for Hero’s safety dulled the pain for a moment.

Mrakota jerked his head around to where he’d last seen Hero. Fluff pranced around in confusion. The pony’s saddle was empty.

“Help! Daddy, help!”

Mrakota snapped his gaze up.

Greenhood gripped Hero around the waist with one arm and hoisted the boy into the tree. Hero waved his firestick at the rangers, but the flame guttered before doing any damage.

“Hold on!” Mrakota pulled himself to his feet with aid of the tree. The pain in his stomach made quick, graceful movement impossible. He swore under his breath.

Something hard clubbed him on the back of the neck. Mrakota dropped face-first into the dirt and leaves. The arrow shaft snapped, sending a new jolt of agony through his side. That’s it, no one is ever leaving my dungeons again.

He blacked out.

#

Hero tried not to cry. That wasn’t how the son of a Dark Lord handled fear. His eyes stung anyway and he sniffled. When was Daddy coming to save him?

Greenhood strode into the meeting hall, pulling him along by the arm. Hero didn’t like the ranger. He didn’t like this drab, drafty hall, either. Columns supported arched wooden rafters and ugly furs hung over the windows. There was an open fireplace and a pot full of something that smelled like dead animals and rotting vegetables. Stew.

There was a table in the middle of the room, and seven old men dressed in robes sat around it. Wizards? They didn’t have the mysterious aura that the Stargazing Wizard had. They all looked grumpy, like Adom. Hero took a step back, but Greenhood didn’t let go of his arm. He clasped his firestick, wondering if setting the ranger on fire would work.

“So, this is the Chosen One.”

The speaker was the grumpiest looking of the men. He peered out from bristling eyebrows, a pipe clenched between his thin lips.

Does he ever start his beard on fire when he lights that? Hero wrinkled his nose at the pungent smell of weed.

“Come closer, boy,” the old man said.

Greenhood grunted and nudged Hero forward.

Hero swallowed, but drew himself up. “My name is Hero. And you’d better be nice to me. I’m going to be the next Dark Lord, you know.”

The table rocked as the old men pounded their gnarled fists on it and howled with laughter.

Hero’s face grew hot. He glared at them and wished Daddy would stride in, black cloak swirling around him, and shut them up. His heart pounded. What had happened to his father? None of the rangers would tell him.

“Boy,” the first pipe-smoking man said between bursts of wheezing laughter. “You’re Destined for much more. You are the embodiment of Good and Light and the salvation from the man who has you imprisoned and deluded in his castle.”

Hero frowned. No one had him in a dungeon, and he wasn’t sure what deluded meant. “What?”

“Be patient with them,” Greenhood murmured. “The Guild of Old Mentors is a little… eccentric.”

“Oh. But what are they talking about?”

One old man leaned forward. “You don’t know, boy?”

Hero struggled to keep them straight, but they all looked the same. “Know what?”

“You are the One.”

“Yeah, I know.” Hero fiddled with the firestick. “Daddy told me all about the prophecy.”

The old men raised their shaggy eyebrows in unison.

“And,” Hero went on, shuffling his feet. He didn’t like being questioned like this. It was too much like a surprise test one of his tutors would spring on him. “He said I don’t have to do what it says if I don’t want.”

“Bah!” all the Old Mentors growled.

“It is Fate,” the man with the grayest beard said. “You can’t deny it.”

“Daddy says I can.”

“He’s wrong.”

Hero thrust out his jaw. “I don’t believe you.”

But he wasn’t sure. What if Fate made him do something bad?

“Boy, there is much we can’t tell you now, because the time isn’t right,” said the one with the puffiest eyebrows. “But know this—we only do what’s best for you. You, boy, are the Chosen One. You have a grand Destiny.”

“I have to pee,” Hero said.

Greenhood tugged Hero’s arm. “Lavatory’s this way.”

“Wait!” commanded the Old Mentors.

Hero jumped. He hoped they wouldn’t decide that he was better off dead since he wasn’t going to listen to them.

“We must complete business here,” one of the Old Mentors said ominously.

Hero fidgeted.

“You must go on a quest and attain the Sword of Peace,” the old man continued. “You will be accompanied by faithful companions. When you have found the Sword of Peace, you will have found the weapon to defeat the Lord of Darkness—”

“You mean my dad?”

“Yes, yes. Mrakota. His very name means ‘dark’.”

“I know,” Hero said. “His mom gave it to him.”

The speaker huffed. A smoke ring curled up and burst when it touched his eyebrow. “And when you have returned, after vanquishing many evils—”

Hero clenched his thighs. “I really have to go.”

The old man almost screamed the last words of his speech. “You will return and fulfill your Destiny!”

“All right,” Hero said. “Can I do that after I pee?”

#

Mrakota struggled to sit up in bed. The fireplace crackled with amber flames, and the dusky scarlet walls of his private sanctum glowed. The light caught on the golden threads interwoven into dark tapestries and made the pictures appear to dance and shift. It didn’t help Mrakota’s pounding head.

The healer, who had identified herself as Valerian, pressed her smooth hands with exaggerated gentleness on Mrakota’s shoulders. “You are injured. You need rest.”

“I don’t have time for this.”

“You—”

He glared at the robed herbalist and spoke through clenched teeth. “My son has been kidnapped.”

“And you have been shot.”

Mrakota gave Valerian a level stare. “Obviously. Now get the damn arrow out and get out of my way.”

The healer pursed her lips and brushed her brown hair back from her face. “Hold still. I will draw the pain into myself and then close the wound.”

“Why?”

“I beg your pardon?”

Mrakota struggled not to smack Valerian. She was, after all, just doing her job, even if his Dark Legionnaires had captured her and brought her to him at sword point. “Why not just let me keep the pain and you concentrate on healing me?”

Valerian blinked. “I guess it’s possible…”

“Do it!”

Mrakota winced at the sharp twang in his stomach. The silk shirt, made of the finest, toughest threads, had prevented the barbed tip from ripping into his guts. A painful hole still opened his flesh, but it could have been worse. There was a method behind his dark, brooding fashion sense.

The woman sighed. “As you wish.” She closed her hands around the wound and mumbled under her breath, “One… two… three!” She yanked the arrowhead out.

Mrakota yelped. Blood welled and dribbled over his stomach.

Valerian ignored him and pushed up his ruined shirt hem, then pressed her hand over his abdomen. A faint blue glow surrounded her fingers and a sharp tugging sensation dug into Mrakota’s muscles. He clenched his teeth, and the pain subsided to a dull ache.

The healer straightened and wiped her hands on a towel laid out for her. “There.”

Mrakota squinted down at himself. There was a puckered white scar but nothing else. “That’s it?”

She shrugged. “I could bother with herbal poultices and salves and ritual cleansing and all. But since you are in such a hurry, yes, that’s it.”

Mrakota smiled. Once she got past the passive healer training and needless patient coddling, she had an attitude toward her art he appreciated: direct and no-nonsense.

“I still recommend a week of bed rest and lots of herbal teas,” she said. “You dash around on rescue missions and your head is only going to hurt all the worse.”

“I’ll worry about that later.” Mrakota pulled his shirt down and swung his legs over the bed. His vision spun. Gingerly he touched the lump on the back of his skull and winced.

Valerian smirked as she began to repack her handbag. “I told you.”

Mrakota knew he’d regret moving so soon after regaining consciousness. But until his son was back in the protection of the Lair of Malice, he had no time to rest. “Darren will pay you and then you can go.”

Valerian spun back towards him. “You’ll pay me?”

“Of course. Why so surprised?”

“No one ever pays me. Something about being a healer gives them impression gold would insult me.” She rolled her eyes. “You think I wear this shabby robe because I like it?”

Mrakota smiled despite himself. A tighter dress would be more attractive. He cleared his throat. “I’ll double your payment.”

She smiled, her teeth white against her tan face. “I should work for Dark Lords more often.”

Mrakota chuckled. “Just me.”

He nodded at Darren and did his best to stride to the door. Each step sent a sharp twinge of pain through his side. Mrakota steadied himself against the wall with a hand.

“Easy,” Valerian said.

He gritted his teeth. “Darren, pay her and let’s go.”

“Yes, my Lord.”

Mrakota staggered into the hall outside his chambers. The arched stone passage was a sharp contrast to the warm, comforting humidity of his private sanctum. He needed a way to find where Greenhood had taken Hero.

The Stargazing Wizard might be able to scry the location in his crystal ball—

“Except I ordered him executed,” Mrakota muttered. “Damn it. Darren, is my advisor still alive?” He preferred long, torturous executions for the times when he might need to spare the condemned after all. At least for a little while.

“Um, I’m not sure, my Lord.”

Mrakota narrowed his eyes. “What?”

Darren adjusted the chin strap on his helmet. “It’s just—”

“Tell me, Lieutenant.”

“He’s gone, my Lord.” Darren looked straight ahead. “His tower is empty, and none of his entourage has seen him. Actually, I think his entourage is gone as well. The Stargazing Wizard has fled.”

Mrakota leaned against the wall, finding it hard to catch his breath. He reminded himself to find some enchanted armor the next time. “So it’s a good bet he was gone before we left on the hunt. He could have betrayed our location to the rangers.”

A muscle twitched in Darren’s jaw. “It sounds like him, my Lord.”

Mrakota took a slow breath. “Then I just need to figure out where that ranger would have taken Hero.”

“Why not ask the healer, my Lord? She’s bound to have knowledge of all the hidden bases.”

Mrakota leaned his head against the wall and tried not to laugh. How could he have missed that? He turned to his room and almost collided with Valerian.

She took a step back, her expression determined. “I will not betray my friends.”

“I have no intention to initiate an all out slaughter. It wouldn’t fit in my schedule, anyway. I just want my son back.”

“You swear you will not hurt my people?”

Mrakota sighed. “As long as they stay out of my way. You know where Hero’s been taken?”

“The Guild of Old Mentors. Where else?”

“Show me.”

“I expect to be paid.”

Mrakota’s teeth showed in a grin. “A mercenary healer. That I like. Before you go, would you take care of this head injury?”

***

Hero bit his lip and slouched down in his chair, hoping the old men wouldn’t notice if he sank into the floor and disappeared. The shouting kept getting louder until it hurt his ears.

The Old Mentors couldn’t agree whether to send him on a quest now, or train him for several years and send him when he was older. The prophecy didn’t say. Added to that, they couldn’t decide who should be his mentor now that Adom was dead. Hero didn’t tell them Adom was haunting his bedroom.

He glanced around, running his thumb over the firestick. Well, Daddy would want him to try and be sneaky, to get away on his own. Greenhood stood in the shadows near the door, watching.

Hero waved at the ranger. “I have to go again.”

None of the Old Mentors noticed.

Greenhood jerked his head at the door. Hero covered his mouth to hide his delighted grin. The plan was working! Once he got outside, he would set the building roof on fire, creating a distraction, and—

A swirl of blackish purple smoke exploded into the middle of the hall. Hero gasped. The old men shut up.

Emerging from the oily mass, his ugly staff lit with flickering red light, came the Stargazing Wizard.

“Silence!” he boomed, even though no one was speaking.

Hero tried to make himself as small as possible. The magus always smelled like mold and never made any sense. And he glowered ominously all the time, which gave Hero bad dreams.

“I shall take the boy,” said the Stargazing Wizard. “I will train him well and prepare him for his grand Destiny.”

Hero turned towards the exit. If he ran fast, he might get away while everyone was distracted.

The door burst inward and smacked Greenhood in the face.

Mrakota stalked in, a gleaming saber in one hand. His sable cloak swirled about him and a dark expression clouded his eyes. “No one is taking my son for any damn reason.”

Hero clapped his hands. “Daddy!”

There were more of the Dark Legionaries following—Hero saw them outside—but Greenhood kicked the door shut, locking them out. He whipped out a hunting knife.

Mrakota didn’t even look at the ranger. He simply reversed his saber and stabbed backwards. Greenhood blinked in shock, then looked down at the length of steel in his middle.

“Serves you right,” Hero said.

Mrakota withdrew his blade. Greenhood fell backwards.

Mrakota looked around the room with the perfect measure of contempt and threat.

Hero mimicked his father as best he could. One of these days he would master the Dark Lord look. For now, he stayed put since he didn’t want to get in the way. He didn’t have a weapon. Maybe another wizard to teach him how to create fireballs.

The Stargazing Wizard’s eyes bulged with temper, then he chanted something and flashes of red lightening flared from his staff.

Hero ducked under the table.

So did the collection of Old Mentors. Someone booted Hero out and he tumbled on the floor. He landed on his back and stared up at the magus.

The Stargazing Wizard extended a hand.

Hero gasped scrambled backwards on his heels and elbows. A purple net, glowing and sparkling, tangled his feet and started dragging him forward. It made his legs itch. Magic. Hero tried to kick it aside, but the magic hung on. “Let me go!”

The Stargazing Wizard laughed.

Before anything else happened, a dark cloak swept between Hero and the Stargazing Wizard. Mrakota’s saber flashed down, cutting through the net. The magic popped and hissed, then let Hero go.

Mrakota kept himself between Hero and the magus. “You always did have to waste too much effort on show.”

The Stargazing Wizard let out a frustrated howl, then the fog swirled around him and he vanished.

“I hate it when he does that.” Mrakota reached down and pulled Hero up. “It always leaves such a stench in the room. Not to mention the smoke stains on the floor.” He glanced down at the Old Mentors huddled under the table.

They stared back in embarrassment.

Relief poured over Hero. He scrambled up and flung his arms around Mrakota’s neck. “I knew you’d save me!”

His father hugged him back, then swung him up piggyback style and carried him toward the door. Hero didn’t care that it made him feel like a baby. He looked over back at the dumbstruck Old Mentors.

They gaped at him.

Hero stuck out his tongue and thumbed his nose for good measure.

Then the door slammed shut behind him, and he was outside. The Dark Legionaries crowded around, surrounding Hero and Mrakota in a protective circle. Rangers lurked on the edges of the clearing and wisely stayed there.

Mrakota put Hero down, then knelt to face him. “Are you all right?”

Hero nodded. “Are you all right, Daddy?”

Mrakota smiled lopsidedly. “I am now.”

The Dark Legionaries parted a moment and a woman in a tattered brown robe and bare feet stomped across the lush grass of the clearing that surrounded the Guild House. She planted her hands on her hips and glared at Mrakota.

“How many casualties did you create?”

“Just one.”

Her nostrils flared.

“He got in my way.” Mrakota took Hero’s hand.

The woman huffed and folded her arms. But she didn’t protest.

“Daddy?” Hero asked as he looked back at the hut.

“Yes?”

“Can I set it on fire?”

Mrakota smiled. “Go ahead.”

“What!” Valerian sputtered. “You said—”

“I’m not the one doing it, am I?” Mrakota said.

Hero wasn’t listening anymore. He whooped and dashed back to the building, flicked his stick, and threw it up on the roof. The thatch caught fire, exploding in brilliant flames. The heat knocked Hero on his back and he stared at the inferno in awe.

The Dark Legionaries surrounded him and pulled him away from the conflagration. Hero jumped around in excitement but let them lead him away.

This was why he wanted to be a Dark Lord, just like his father.

Four Years Later

Mrakota feinted at Hero’s side. “Keep your blade up. Up!”

Hero scowled and blocked. He was trying, but there was so much to remember in his lessons, and besides, Mrakota was always better than he was.

He blinked sweat out of his eyes, determined not to mess up. It was the first time Mrakota had let him fence with a real sword. He couldn’t lose or make an idiot out of himself.

They circled in the courtyard. Overhead, the sky was darkening with thunderheads. Hero sulked because rain would stop him lighting the local village shrine on fire like he’d planned.

Mrakota slapped the flat of his saber against Hero’s arm. “You’re making this too easy.”

Hero jumped. He glared harder—he didn’t like sword fighting, he wanted to learn how to cast fireballs. But none of the wizards would teach him that because Mrakota said so. It wasn’t fair.

“I’ve won twice now,” Mrakota said in a bored voice. “Going on three times…”

Furious, Hero parried and lunged forward. He was going to win this time!

He knew he’d overreached and he felt his foot slip. Thunder cracked above and he stumbled forward, leading with his short sword. The blade met resistance, then Hero crashed into Mrakota and they both went sprawling on the ground.

There was something hot and sticky on his hands. He looked down.

His sword was sticking out of Mrakota’s side. Blood was starting to leak onto the courtyard stones.

“Ow,” Mrakota said, staring at the sky. He looked pale.

Hero gasped and sat back, horrified. “I didn’t mean it! Dad, I’m sorry!”

“Get Valerian…”

Hero could only stare.

Already the Dark Legionaries were running to fetch the healer and Darren pressed a cloak around the wound, cursing.

Hero blinked back tears, stunned. He hadn’t meant to stab his father—they were just fencing. Mrakota couldn’t die.

He’d seen people killed, sure, but they were just peasants or rangers and none of them meant anything. This was his father.

Valerian hurried out and shoved Darren away, then knelt by Mrakota’s side.

“Do you like sharp pointed objects in your guts?” she snapped.

Mrakota spoke through gritted teeth. “It… seems so…”

He turned his head towards Hero. For the first time in his life, Hero thought Mrakota looked scared.

Hero jumped up and ran for the lavatories before Mrakota said anything. He couldn’t see straight.

It was an accident. Wasn’t it?

Hero scrubbed the blood off his hands, then kept washing until they hurt. What if next time he did it on purpose, like the prophecy said? What if his Destiny made him do kill Mrakota for real?

Darren said training accidents happened all the time. Hero didn’t think this was a common mistake.

It felt a lot more like someone had shoved him.

Three Years Later

Mrakota caught the spy by the arm and smiled disarmingly at the boy. “I need a word with you. Benson, isn’t it?”

Benson gulped. “Yes, Most Evil Dreaded One.”

Mrakota nodded and steered Benson amiably towards an alcove in the castle hallway, where they had the illusion of privacy.

Benson wasn’t more than fourteen, but he’d joined the kitchen staff last year and had seemed so innocuous, butchering animals with a delight that Mrakota approved of, that the Dark Lord had thought nothing of it.

Until now, when his plans were being thwarted and he was losing profits due to information leaks. He’d narrowed the list—and body count—down to gawky, happy-to-please Benson.

Mrakota hated loose ends. He leaned against the alcove wall, watching the spy. “I’ve been noticing your work, Benson.”

“Um, thank you?”

Mrakota nodded. “I admire your skills in the kitchens, but not so much elsewhere.”

The color drained from Benson’s cheeks. “Um.”

So eloquent.

Mrakota patted his shoulder and drew a knife with his other hand. There was no point in cluttering up the dungeons and he hated the upkeep expenses. “It’s not a question of your loyalty.”

Benson stammered. “It’s not?”

“Not at all.” Mrakota knew the kid was unflinchingly devoted to his cause in the Rebellion. They always were. It was admirable, really. It just wasn’t practical on his end to let it continue. “This is simply a matter of necessity. I can’t take any chances you’ll undermine my rule later on. You understand.”

Mrakota stabbed Benson in the heart and dropped the body. The maids would clean it up later.

#

Hero stared at the corpse. He’d overheard the entire scene and wasn’t sure whether being numb was a proper response for a Dark Lord in training.

He’d liked Benson. They’d set the kitchen on fire once, laughing the entire time.

And now he was dead. Sure, Mrakota was entitled to kill whomever he wanted. That was what Dark Lords did, right?

Hero swallowed and shuffled off in the opposite direction. He and Benson looked a lot alike, they were the same age, and the parallels weren’t lost on him. Benson had been loyal—he wouldn’t double cross Mrakota. Hero had been certain about it. After all, he’d been more than eager to light the entire kitchen on fire. No one did that with Hero and wasn’t trustworthy.

So if Mrakota could kill Benson that easily, why couldn’t he do it to Hero too?

Now Adom’s ghostly babbling about Mrakota trying to murder him was sounding much more plausible.

***

One Year Later

Hero glowered. “I’m old enough to do this on my own.”

Why did Mrakota have to always boss him around, treat him like he was an incompetent two-year-old? Parents never understood. No, it was always do this, don’t do that, stop burning down the local villages, and a hundred other things that always spoiled everything.

Hero folded his arms and gave his father his most belligerent look

Mrakota wasn’t moved. He still had that same I-know-better-because-I’m-your-father expression Hero loathed.

“Just last week you were saying how you never wanted to go on a quest,” Mrakota said. “And now you do?”

Hero scoffed. “I need a damn reason for everything?”

“You damn well do.” Mrakota didn’t relent with his cold stare. “So. Care to tell me why you’re so eager to dash off?”

Hero worked his jaw. “Hell no!”

All Mrakota did anymore was spend time with Valerian. Hero shook his head. Valerian was nice—he didn’t have a grudge against her. Hell, she would understand him, but she wasn’t interested in talking with him. No one tried to see things from his perspective.

Didn’t anyone understand the pressure to be the Chosen One and live up to that?

Adom had been in his head for years now, nagging away. Hero hoped that a quest would give him the perspective, and distance, he needed. He wanted a definitive answer on how much of a choice he really had.

Plus, he kept remembering Benson’s body in the alcove. He’d wake up at night wondering if he’d end up the same way. It made him shiver.

“It’s not like you really care.” Hero kicked at the cobblestones of the courtyard, scuffing his boot. “You just like to control everything.”

Mrakota sneered back at him. “I’m ruler of the largest empire in the known world, what else do you expect?”

Hero glared harder. This wasn’t the first argument they’d had, but it was working towards being the most explosive. He almost brought up Benson, then thought better of it. No sense in encouraging Mrakota to try that same it’s-not-a-question-of-loylaty-I’m-just-killing-you-out-of-necessity shtick on him. “You’re always telling me I have these stupid ‘choices’ but you never really let me do what I want.”

Mrakota’s expression hardened. “A quest is dangerous. I don’t want you to get hurt.”

Hero laughed, scornful. “Right, or maybe it’s because you’re scared that if I do go, I’ll come back and kill you.”

His father spoke through gritted teeth. “This has nothing to do with the damned prophecy.”

“Is that why you didn’t want me to play with weapons when I was younger?”

“You were five years old. Of course I didn’t want you playing with the enchanted battleaxes.”

Hero almost shouted back that the last duel they’d had, several years ago, had nearly gotten Mrakota killed. Now who was the one getting hurt? “That’s just it! It’s always about you, what you want.”

Mrakota shook his head. “Hero, calm down.”

“No, I’m sick of listening to you, and being controlled, and—and everything about this stupid place.” Hero turned and stomped off. “I’m leaving! And you can’t stop me!”

“Come back here!” Mrakota called after him.

Hero didn’t turn around. “Don’t follow me, Dad.”

He blinked hard, surprised to find his eyes were watering. It had to be from the harsh sunlight in the courtyard.

Hero saddled his warhorse—a massive black steed to replace Fluff once he’d outgrown the pony—and swung up. Taking his short sword and his cloak, he kicked Fluff the Second into a gallop and thundered out the gates. Dark Legionaries got out of his way in a hurry.

The wind keened in his face as he rode. He’d made the right choice; he needed to get away from the Lair of Malice and all the laws and “protections” and his father’s overbearing rule.

All he had to do was stay away for a whole year—the prophecy stipulated he’d kill his father on the final hour of his fifteenth birthday. If he wasn’t here before he turned sixteen, maybe he could get out of it all together.

#

Mrakota ground his teeth as he watched Hero storm. Anger made his breath short, but a deep wedge of guilt cut into him, too. Maybe he had been hard on his son the last few years; he’d made sure Hero knew all there was to being a Dark Lord.

He’d needed to see Hero was ready. Had he messed up somewhere? He sighed. It was easier to kill a teenager than raise one.

“Shall we bring him back, my Lord?”

Mrakota turned to find Darren watching him from a safe distance. He wasn’t surprised. Everyone who had been in the courtyard had gone into hiding when the argument had started. When Hero became angry, things—and people—often got set on fire.

Mrakota shook his head. For the first time in his life, he had no idea what to do.

“No, just let him go.”

“He’ll come to his senses, my Lord,” Darren said. “I have a daughter his age, you know. She’s the same way.”

Mrakota smiled wryly, even if he hadn’t calmed down yet. “You may have a point.”

“Indeed, my Lord.”

Mrakota turned back to the Lair of Malice. He was meeting with an emissary from a goblin horde later that afternoon, to discuss the raid route scheduled for the autumn. Just because he was having family problems didn’t mean he could neglect terrorizing the populace.

#

Adom smirked, watching from the bedroom window. As he had always known they would, the Fates were seeing their will done. With the boy off on his quest, it would be too easy to banish the illusions he had about Mrakota anything other than soulless evil.

All his training to become the Chosen One’s mentor wasn’t about to go to waste. Not while he could still manifest. Being trapped in the castle didn’t frustrate him half as much as not having his pipe.

When Hero slept, Adom found he could sneak into the boy’s dreams, even from a distance, and speak to him. He saw Hero’s disillusioned resolve not to fulfill his Destiny wavering.

Adom chuckled. Hero couldn’t withstand flawless logic or the persuasive wisdom and charm Adom possessed. Soon enough, the boy would see the Truth, and he would return when the time came and kill Mrakota.

And when that happened, Adom would finally be free to haunt some other place. A pub sounded delectable.

***

One Year Later

Candlelight flickered on the ebony velvet tapestries draped over the walls. A refurbished crystal ball sat on a pedestal in one corner and played sultry, low-key string music. In the middle of the table, held in a blood-red vase, a single black rose blossomed. There was a delicious array of fresh salad, grilled fish, crispy bread garnished with butter, and silver chalices brimmed with a non-alcoholic grape vintage.

Mrakota found it hard to breathe. He’d had several romantic dinners with Valerian before. They’d been spending a lot of time together, even more since Hero had left. But this night was different. This time, he really would tell her.

Under the table, Mrakota clutched the small ivory box. Come on, you’re a Dark Lord. Just ask.

What if she said no?

He’d fought slavering monsters, laid waste to stretches of countryside, and led campaigns at the head of his Dark Legionaries. He had crushed insurrections and fought off assassins. Battling sorcererous creations, defeating giants, surviving the occasional board meeting—all that hadn’t unnerved him.

Proposing to Valerian scared the hell out of him.

“This is a lovely rose,” the healer said, smiling at him across the table. She wore a pale green dress adorned with rich, mauve accents. It was low cut and tight fitted. Mrakota appreciated the tailor who’d designed it. He appreciated how it showed off Valerian’s figure even more.

“I didn’t know you could develop such delicate violet and scarlet highlights in the petals.”

“I’ve been working at it,” Mrakota said. “I decided to save it for a… special occasion.”

A coy smile turned up her lips. “Oh?”

“Yes.” Mrakota took a sip of the grape juice. It didn’t help his dry mouth.

Just act, damn it.

Mrakota stood, walked over to Valerian’s chair, and went down on one knee. He offered her the ivory box. “Will you be my Dark Lady?”

“You mean marry you?”

“Um, yes.” Mrakota’s heart pounded.

Valerian smiled. “It took you long enough to ask me. Of course I’ll marry you.” She opened the box and examined the plain gold ring. “It’s gorgeous! And not too flashy, just what I like.”

Mrakota grinned. “If you put it in the fire, the words ‘I love you’ show up as ancient runes.”

Valerian laughed in delight. “That’s precious of you, Mrakota.” She slipped the ring onto her finger, then she leaned forward and kissed him.

Before Mrakota could suggest they continue the evening in the more comfortable bedroom adjacent to the chamber, someone pounded on the door.

“A dragon is attacking!”

Mrakota sighed. “Can’t it wait?”

The voice paused, then shouted again. “No, my Lord!”

“Damn it.” Mrakota smiled apologetically at his fiancée. “I hope you can excuse me for a bit?”

“I suppose.” She smirked. “As long as you make it up to me later.”

“Love to.”

#

Mrakota buckled on his spelled breastplate and donned a black cloak.

It annoyed him that he hadn’t heard any sounds of attack yet—not from the dragon or his men. Was this really such an emergency?

Mrakota swept through the halls until he emerged in the courtyard. He stopped short and looked at Darren. “You could have told me.”

“Sorry, my Lord, I didn’t recognize him at first. Not with the beast and all.”

Glowing in the numerous torches around the courtyard and on the battlements, a massive red dragon sprawled on its side. Its curling gold horns glittered with a crust of jewels, and its enormous bat-like wings stretched out nearly the length of the wall. The dragon was snoring.

The young man standing near the dragon’s head held Mrakota’s full attention.

Dressed in travel-worn finery, his dark hair falling in mussed curls to his shoulders, and the star-shaped birthmark gleaming in the torchlight, Hero stood with easy confidence and studied his nails.

Relief rippled through Mrakota. His son was alive, unharmed, and had returned. He waved off his Dark Legionaries, then nodded at Hero. “Welcome home.”

“Yeah.” Hero hooked his thumbs into his belt. “Thanks.”

“So, how did your quest go?”

Hero shrugged. “Fine.”

Mrakota forced a smile. “Good.”

“Yeah.”

They stared at each other in awkward silence. The dragon continued snoring.

Mrakota had so much he wanted to say: how glad he was Hero was back, to assure him he wasn’t angry, ask him about his trip, et cetera. They could feed the swans and piranha and talk.

Mrakota cleared his throat. “Why don’t you come in, have something to eat?”

“Sure. Uh…” Hero glanced at his dragon. “Mind if I leave Fangs here?”

“As long as it doesn’t eat anyone.”

“Nah, he had lunch before we left.”

A rather disquieting thought, considering it was now dinnertime.

“Lieutenant, watch the dragon.”

Darren swallowed. “Yes, my Lord.”

Mrakota nodded towards the front gates of the Lair of Malice. “Coming?”

Hero sauntered across the cobblestones. Mrakota dismissed his guards and led Hero to the small dining room alone. He took a seat at the head of the table, and Hero straddled another chair to his immediate right.

They stared at each other again.

Hero looked away first. “You know what day it is?”

A tendril of nervousness wrapped around Mrakota. “You’re sixteen in a few hours.”

“Yeah. One, to be precise.”

“Happy birthday.”

“Thanks.” His mask of teenage nonchalance weakened, and stark uncertainty flickered across his expression. He turned his head away.

Mrakota leaned back in his chair. “This is the day the prophecy said you are supposed to kill me.”

Hero winced and fiddled with a black crystal fork on the table. “Yeah.”

Mrakota hid the sudden flicker of anxiety in his stomach. He’d deliberately not thought about this day since Hero left. “Well, there’s no rush. Tell me how your quest went.”

Hero shrugged again. “I set off with six companions. A mercenary guard, an elf, a dwarf, this thief we picked up in the eastern regions, some old guy supposed to be my mentor, a babe said to be my True Love—” Hero rolled his eyes “—and I swear, she was a total moron. Well, we were supposed to find the Sword of Peace. Turns out the last owner had turned it into a plowshare, which is why took us a whole damn year to find.”

“What did you do with it then?”

“Left it to the farmer. No point in reforging it again, right? I mean, who wants something called the ‘Sword of Peace’?”

“It wouldn’t fit a Dark Lord.”

“Exactly. So on our way back, we got ambushed by goblins and fled into this network of caves. The old guy got lost; fell down some bottomless pit or something. Not like I care. He was irritating as hell. Then we found the dragon.” Hero’s eyes brightened. “There was a freaking load of treasure, too. But old dragon-breath didn’t feel like sharing. He chomped the babe and that thief like that.” He snapped his fingers.

Mrakota chuckled in appreciation. “What did you do?”

“Stayed the hell out of the way, that’s what. Once Fangs had toasted our guide for trying to snitch some of the gold, he seemed pretty content to talk. So I asked him if he’d mind flying me back here. I said I’d make sure he had a steady diet of peasants. Hope you don’t mind?”

Mrakota shook his head. “There’s usually a surplus anyway.”

“That’s what I thought.” Hero balanced the fork on its prongs and held it there with one finger. “So Fangs flew me here, and, yeah, that’s it.”

“What about your other two companions?”

“Oh, the elf and dwarf are following on foot. They know how to get here. And since I had to leave Fluff the Second outside the mountain, I’m hoping he knows how to get back as well. So. Quest is over, and…” Hero let the fork topple to the tabletop. “I guess I get to finish my Destiny.”

Coldness seeped into Mrakota’s chest. He offered a tight smile. “I suppose.”

Hero took a breath. “Did you ever think about… killing me?”

Mrakota’s eyes narrowed. “Why would I?”

Hero shrugged. “You know, to thwart the prophecy and all.”

“No.” Mrakota leaned forward. Hero didn’t make eye contact. “I’d never hurt you—regardless of what happens.” He paused. “Why do you ask?”

“Oh, this ghost named Adom has been on a mission to convince me you’re evil and will try to kill me. He’s been at it for years.”

Mrakota snorted. “I need to find a way to permanently get rid of that mentoring idiot.”

He didn’t want to pay someone to do an exorcism, but that was looking like his only option.

Hero stood and fingered the hilt of his broadsword. He walked to the door, dropped the cross latch down, and turned back to Mrakota.

Then he drew the blade.

Mrakota’s throat tightened. He’d never wanted to believe Hero would turn on him. He couldn’t bear that.

***

Hero swallowed and walked back to the table. His heart thudded so hard he marveled that his father didn’t hear it. “Aren’t you going to fight me?”

Mrakota tipped his chair back and shook his head. “Your ‘destiny’ is your choice. I’m leaving it up to you.”

“Yeah, but… um… if it can’t be avoided, you could at least fight back.”

“And wound you? I don’t think so.”

Hero’s knees quivered. He kept waiting for Mrakota to lash out — verbally or physically, or both. It unnerved him how calm his father remained. His stomach was already so twisted with dread he was glad he’d not eaten anything. He’d have gotten sick for sure, and that would have been a pathetic way to end this confrontation.

If only he had more time. He’d missed Mrakota. He’d missed the Lair of Malice. Even though his bedroom was haunted, he missed the old comforts of home. Now he didn’t even have a chance to enjoy them.

“Go on, boy, you have no choice.”

Startled, Hero glanced sidelong at Adom’s ghostly shape hovering a few paces away. Hero snapped his attention back to his father. Mrakota didn’t seem to notice the apparition.

“Do it,” Adom persisted. “Before he springs a trap on you and tries to kill you!”

He’d never kill me. Hero bit his lip. Would he? He remembered seeing Mrakota murder the kitchen boy to avoid “future risks”. Hero hadn’t forgotten how easily that could have been him under the Dark Lord’s knife rather than Benson.

“Of course he would,” Adom said. “This is all a ruse. He’s going to pull a lever under his chair and send you falling into a pit of firedrakes!”

We have firedrakes under the dining room?

Adom stamped a foot in the air. “Just kill him, boy.”

At last Hero met Mrakota’s dark gaze, and they stared at each other, unblinking. The blue star on his forehead itched with sweat.

Mrakota spoke, his voice steady. “So choose.”

Hero didn’t want to hurt Mrakota, but he wasn’t sure he had a choice.

“Why else would you be here?“Adom said, his tone urgent. “If you had a choice, would you have returned just in time to fulfill your Destiny?”

Hero had no answer for that. The timing, the way events had played out to bring him home just before his sixteenth birthday…

“Kill me,” Mrakota said, “or sheathe your sword and let’s have dinner.”

Hero’s jaw worked. Didn’t Mrakota hate him?

It would have been easier if Mrakota was angry. Then he wouldn’t feel so guilty about this.

“You know,” Hero said, “during the quest, everyone kept telling me how this would play out. You’d be set on stopping me, raving and threatening, and it’d be a long, drawn-out, bloody fight. That you’d fight dirty and use treachery and all that.”

Mrakota smiled wryly. “I live to disappoint.”

Hero couldn’t bring himself to smile in return. “But I guess they were all wrong.”

“Looks like it.” He titled his head. “Is there a draft in here?”

“I don’t feel anything.” Hero didn’t look at Adom.

“Strange.”

Hero’s breath came harsh and rapid.

His whole life had been leading up to this moment.

“Do it!” Adom shouted. “You’re a failure otherwise. Do you want people to think you are weak, cowardly worm, boy?”

I’m not a coward.

“Prove it, then. Destroy the spawn of darkness!”

None of them had every considered how hard it would be for him. This wasn’t some faceless evil hiding in the shadows. It was just his dad.

Over the course of his journey, he’d fought brigands and monsters and fiends. He’d battled useless hirelings of over-ambitious fief lords, driven off would-be thieves, and crossed swords with hired mercenaries. Being the Chosen One had its perks — he’d won all those conflicts. Intensive training from the Dark Legionaries over the years had helped, too.

But he’d never murdered anyone. Hero couldn’t look his father in the eyes any longer. He didn’t want Mrakota to see the tears in his own.

His hands trembled when he lifted his blade and pointed it at Mrakota’s unprotected neck.

Mrakota’s knuckles whitened on the arms of his chair. But still he didn’t try to defend himself.

“Good, now run him through. It’s easy — do it, boy.”

Hero readied his arm to strike.

Mrakota braced himself.

What would happen if he didn’t kill Mrakota? Would Fate intervene and force him to act? All his so-called faithful companions claimed they were loyal to him until death. He saw through it. None of them gave a damn. As long as he did what they wanted, they mouthed the right words and mimed the right actions. It was never sincere.

But Mrakota had always cared, and even if he never said it, Hero knew his father loved him.

Hero couldn’t find his voice, his vision blurring. How could he go through with this? The point of the sword quivered and touched Mrakota’s throat, drawing a drop of blood. Did being the Chosen One — of what and for what purpose, no one had even been able to tell him — mean he had to become a monster?

No.

“No?” Adom shrieked. “Why not?”

Hero lowered his arm. He was sick of not knowing. If Fate was inexorable, it could damn well possess him and make him finish it.

He had made his choice.

“I can’t do it.” Hero wiped a hand across his eyes. “Screw fate. I’m not going to kill you, Dad.”

Mrakota swallowed and dabbed his neck with a napkin. “Ah, thanks.”

Adom wailed and then disappeared out in a translucent puff of mist.

“In fact,” Hero said, “this whole Chosen One business sucks. You never get to burn down the occasional village for the hell of it.”

“True.”

“I’d much rather be a Dark Lord.” Hero smiled, hopeful, desperate to have Mrakota forgive him for how close he’d come to making the wrong decision. “When you retire, of course.”

Mrakota stood and clapped Hero on the shoulder. “Of course.”

Relief washed through Hero. He rubbed his nose. At least Mrakota didn’t hug him. That would have been embarrassing.

“Although I doubt your companions will be as pleased,” Mrakota said.

Hero laughed, remembering the horrified look on Adom’s face. “Hey, I can always feed them to Fangs. He’s not a picky eater.” He’d never liked the elf or dwarf anyway. He didn’t even remember their names.

Hero wiped his forehead, hand shaking. “What’s for dinner, anyway?”

Mrakota rubbed the back of his neck. It took a moment for him to reply. “Was thinking of drake stakes, just the way you like them.”

Hero grinned. “Flame broiled. By the way, do we have drakes under the floor?”

Mrakota looked blank. “Why the hell would I have fire-breathing lizards under the dining room?”

“Oh, I don’t know.” Hero shrugged. “It might be cool.”

Mrakota’s lips twitched.

A thunderclap shook the room, startling them. Mrakota stiffened and Hero’s eyes bulged. He recognized that entrance all too well.

“No!” boomed the Stargazing Wizard. The smell of smoke filled the room and tendrils of dark purple mist swirled around the table legs. “You must fulfill the prophecy, boy!”

“I’m getting sick of hearing that,” Hero said.

“So am I.” Mrakota spun around to confront the Stargazing Wizard.

Swathed in violet smoke, eyes glinting with magic, and his demonic staff leveled before him, the Stargazing Wizard looked pissed off. “This was not meant to be!”

“Shut up already,” Mrakota said. “No amount of whining will change things.”

“You don’t understand, Most Evil and Despicable One.” Spittle flecked the wizard’s beard. “The second prophecy declares that I shall reign when you are dead!”

So that’s why he was so desperate for me to fulfill my prophecy, Hero thought. What a jerk.

Mrakota gestured at Hero to retreat to a safe distance. “Let me handle this.”

Hero backed towards the door. “Yeah, good idea.”

Mrakota could handle the ex-regent. Hero remembered too well the purple net of magic that had snared him the last time he’d seen the Stargazing Wizard.

Hero didn’t recall any prophecy about the Stargazing Wizard, but then, he’d never made a point to look into them. He’d only paid attention to the verses concerning him.

“You will die.” Red lightning crackled on the end of the Stargazing Wizard’s staff and around his head. “I will rule!”

Hero’s jaw clenched. He was never hiring any wizard advisors.

Mrakota took an imperious step towards the magus. “No you won’t.”

“It is my Destiny!”

“I don’t think so.”

“It is.”

“Is not.”

“Is!”

Hero tried not to snicker.

Mrakota scoffed and took a step sideways.

Multiple functioning weapons decorated the walls. Mrakota had once told him, “You never know when you’ll need a spear, flail, saber, mace, or any other standard or exotic weapon.” Hero was glad his father always thought ahead.

Mrakota bounded toward the nearest wall and the Stargazing Wizard roared in fury.

Magic spat from the staff head. It struck the floor where Mrakota had stood. The Stargazing Wizard readied another blast.

Hero sprinted to the table, grabbed a candelabrum, and hurled it at the magus. It bounced off the Stargazing Wizard’s staff. The second bout of red lightning missed Mrakota by a blade’s width.

The heat singed the hem of Mrakota’s cloak and the smell of burnt fabric added to the unpleasant stench of smoke.

“Stop running, my former Liege of Darkness. It is useless.”

Mrakota lunged at the wall, grabbed the hilt of a saber, and then rolled to safety. He jumped up. With a practiced flick of his hand, he unclasped his cloak and tossed it aside.

Hero’s heart pounded in his throat. He didn’t want to get close enough to the magus and get zapped, but he had a sick feeling the Stargazing Wizard might be better than Mrakota this time.

Chips of stone exploded around Mrakota as a third blast hit the wall. A steel lance melted into a molten stain on the granite. The rest of the weapons in a fair radius were blackened.

Hero took a step back, keeping the table between him and the magus. He had to think. Mrakota needed help, a distraction, something. Hero didn’t have time to summon the Dark Legionnaires. What could he do?

The table was empty of candelabra, so he scooped up a handful of crystal silverware and hurled them at the Stargazing Wizard.

With contemptuous ease, the magus flicked his staff around and a violet barrier appeared, scattering the utensils. The Stargazing Wizard muttered an arcane word and Hero’s legs jerked out from under him. He landed on his back, the wind knocked out of him.

It gave Mrakota the opening he needed. Hero struggled up in time to see Mrakota grab a dagger from the wall and hurl it at the wizard. The magus spun and erected his shield again. The dagger ricocheted. A gout of red lightning seared at Mrakota in return. The Dark Lord dodged with a curse.

Hero used the edge of the table to pull himself up. He kept hold of his sword. It was a simple, mundane weapon. After seeing how the elf’s Bow of Might had misfired, bounced an arrow off several rocks and shot the elf in the ass, Hero had foresworn all magic weapons. Ordinary steel was good enough for him.

Mrakota spun to face the wizard, who glowered back, looking petulant that his attacks hadn’t left Mrakota as a smudge on the stone floor.

Mrakota flicked a bit of soot off his shoulder. “You need to work on your aim.”

“I will not need to, you fool. You cannot escape your fate — you will die.”

“No chance, moron.” Hero straightened, but still kept the table between them. “Wouldn’t you know it, the clock just ticked the hour.” The gong atop the astrology tower sounded, proving him right. He smirked but he didn’t like the way the magus was looking at him. “I’m sixteen — birthday is over.”

The Stargazing Wizard’s eyes bugged. “No! This cannot be happening.”

“It just did.”

Power swelled in the end of his staff, building into a torrential surge. “Then you will die as well!”

Hero’s mouth went dry. Oh hell, I shouldn’t have pissed him off.

Mrakota stalked towards the Stargazing Wizard.

Hero kept his sword at the ready. He wasn’t going to get blasted cowering. His legs shook but he held his ground. A Dark Lord didn’t break down and start begging at the first sign of defeat. Well, not a true Dark Lord.

“You think you can defeat me, boy?”

Hero’s temper flared. That was it. No one was calling him “boy” and living to tell about it.

“Actually, hell yeah I think I can.” He stomped around the table and headed straight for the Stargazing Wizard.

The ex-advisor looked startled, but the power in his staff kept growing.

Mrakota was almost within striking distance. Hero smiled. Together, father and son would take down this annoying fanatic.

The Stargazing Wizard whirled with a cackle and let loose his magic straight at Mrakota. Hero opened his mouth to shout a warning. Too late. Mrakota tried to dodge. But the magic was faster. It slammed into his chest, throwing him across the room.

Mrakota hit the wall and slumped to the floor. He didn’t get up.

Hero screamed. “No!”

Boiling temper flooded through him, giving him more strength than he’d ever felt. He charged the wizard. With all his might, he swung his blade at the wizard’s head.

The Stargazing Wizard blocked the stroke with his staff. Hero attacked again, so enraged he couldn’t see straight. This wasn’t fair. He’d chosen — he’d chosen — to keep his father alive! The Stargazing Wizard had no right to kill Mrakota.

Hero swung again, battering at the staff.

This was for his father.

***

Mrakota couldn’t breathe. The breastplate smoked and it was far too hot in the room. Stars danced in front of his eyes. His ears rang and his limbs refused to respond to his commands. Damn it, this was not a time to deal with rebellion.

Over the war drums pounding in his head, Mrakota heard Hero’s scream of rage and denial. The Stargazing Wizard laughed. The sound of steel hitting wood resounded with an unnatural crash.

Mrakota blinked, took a deep, shuddering breath, and with tremendous effort pushed himself away from the wall.

His fingers stiff and every muscle and joint protesting against the slightest movement, Mrakota pried at the buckles and at last detached the ruined breastplate. At least the spelled metal had warded off the worst of the magic. It clattered to the floor. Neither Hero nor the Stargazing Wizard noticed.

The two combatants moved in a furious duel, sword against staff. Hero was inexorably gaining the upper hand. His teeth showed in a snarl and he battered away at the Stargazing Wizard’s staff. The lack of a magic sword prevented the blade from slicing through the wooden stick.

Step by step, the Stargazing Wizard backed towards where Mrakota lay. Though he was pressed to defend himself, the magus didn’t appear desperate. Did he have some final surprise up his robe sleeve?

Mrakota gritted his teeth against the pain and got to his knees. He pulled a new saber from the wall and held it ready. His shirt was ruined, and there were smoke burns on his clean-shaven jaw. The wizard would pay for that.

Then the Stargazing Wizard barked words in an unfamiliar language and Hero froze in mid-swing. Purple light encased his arms and hands.

Mrakota stared, horrified, as Hero stood and began to turn his sword towards his own chest.

“What are you doing?” Hero gasped. “Let me go!”

“You cannot break the binding spell, boy.” The Stargazing Wizard laughed again. “The prophecy has been fulfilled. Even though you refused to obey, you have still been responsible for your father’s death.”

Mrakota plunged the sword into the Stargazing Wizard’s back. “Shut. The. Hell. Up.”

The magic snapped and Hero dropped his sword.

Hero stumbled back, wide-eyed. “Dad! You’re alive.”

“Yeah.”

“Not… possible… ” The Stargazing Wizard feebly tried to push the saber out of his chest. Blood added a nice pattern to the front of his robe.

“I live to disappoint.” Mrakota jerked his blade out and the Stargazing Wizard crumpled to the ground. His body disintegrated into a pile of violet ash and his staff withered into a crooked twig. Mrakota smiled in satisfaction.

The doors slammed against the walls, busted open with a battering ram. Darren burst in with a squad of Dark Legionnaires. Valerian followed close behind.

Damn, now he had to replace the door.

Mrakota waved them aside. “Everything’s under control.”

Valerian sighed and smiled. Mrakota returned the smile in relief and Darren sent one of his men to fetch the servants to clean up the mess.

Hero kicked the Stargazing Wizard’s remains away and threw his arms around Mrakota. “Thanks, Dad.”

Mrakota hugged him tight. “Any time, Hero.”

• Continue Reading

Published by Karl Rademacher on June 30, 2014. This item is listed in Novellas, Serial Novellas

Bring Back Your Dead

by Eric Del Carlo

Eric Del Carlo’s short s-f, fantasy and horror have appeared in Futurismic, Necrotic Tissue, Talebones and many other publications over the years. His work was recently accepted at Strange Horizons. He is the coauthor, with Robert Asprin, of the Wartorn fantasy novels published by Ace Books.

Bring Back Your Dead was originally published by Silver Blade Magazine in August 2010.

This land of Ghremoin is sickened by magic, so declaimed Srahund of the Black Desert silently in his jail cell. His was not a dank subterranean hole, with pale fungus sliming the walls and cockroaches running amok. He had served brief sentences in such dungeons, for the petty crimes of his young adulthood. His present accommodations, however, were of a wholly different order. This cell was aired, roomy enough for nearly eight extensive strides along its length; he had charcoal and walls to draw on; the water was clean and the food tolerable. Perhaps most lavishly, he had a sweeping view through the barred window of the city of Lakya-ris, Ghremoin’s capital.

Such were the rewards for committing a notorious murder in so grandiose a metropolis, it seemed.

Srahund had spent the past three years occupying this cell, high atop Bone Hill. He had devised a clever assortment of ways to pass the time–exercise, meditation, the numerous and labyrinthine games of logic and mathematics he played out on his walls with his stick of charcoal, completing one puzzle, wiping the slate, starting another. He hadn’t atrophied and hadn’t lost his mind. But these three years could only be called a beginning. At his trial, a more elaborate affair than any he’d been subjected to before, his prosecutor had argued passionately but cunningly for an interminable sentence, since capital punishment was already falling out of favor. Srahund remembered the plump man, his thin hair, his precise manner. For some long while the image of this prosecutor, whether dreamed or summoned to his mind while conscious, threw Srahund into a rage. What a hateful toad of a man! But, no; eventually he’d come to regard him as a person performing a learned and complicated job. Surely Srahund meant nothing to him. It was Srahund’s crime–that infamous murder–that aroused such passion in the man.

It was with these first three years behind him that Srahund realized he would be broken by this jail sentence. His upbringing in the uncharitable Black Desert and subsequent seasoning as a petty criminal–and, later, a most professional one–notwithstanding, he had to finally acknowledge that he didn’t possess the inexhaustible will necessary to retain his humanity in this cell for the rest of his life. His mind would inevitably shatter. He would become a groveling, mewling, limp thing. He would live inside a waking nightmare. None of his imaginative distractions would stave off his fate indefinitely.

This realization, solidifying over the course of many weeks, terrified him.

So it was that on a day when he’d listlessly foregone his morning exercises, barely touched his first meal, left his charcoal untouched, and stood at his window with arms dangling through the stout iron bars and gaze roving the busy freedom of Lakya-ris spreading ever outward from the foot of foreboding Bone Hill–so on that day came his visitor in the dark green robe of a magicmaker.

The jailors knew Srahund’s sentiments about magic, and two accompanied the visitor into his cell. They warned him sternly, reminding him how much worse his stay here could be. Srahund’s blood was seething in his veins at the sight of the green-robed man, but he calmly reassured his keepers that he would behave appropriately. In the time after he’d left the Black Desert and before his early days of minor crime, he had been schooled; he retained that breeding, as well as his practiced intellect. It was a shame, truly, that his advantages hadn’t saved him from a disreputable life. But what else could he have done, considering the circumstances in which he had found himself? Nothing. He’d had no real options. So he often told himself.

“Shall we sit?” said his visitor in a tone both amiable and businesslike.

He had already taken the stool, another relative luxury for a jail cell. Srahund, every other impulse carefully checked, stepped away from his window and squatted on the floor.

“My name is Isquita. I see the Black Desert in your eyes.”

“That’s where it usually shows,” Srahund said, not a rude reply; natives of the Black Desert, at Ghremoin’s easternmost fringe, had eyes of a narrow–some said sinister–cast.

“Do you know how long you’ve been in here?” Isquita had fair hair, thick, flopping this way and that. His build was slim but healthy, evident even swathed in the dark green robe.

“I know,” said Srahund, whose body was much broader, hair an inky shade. The shock of having a magicmaker in his cell had burned off the awful lethargy he’d woken to. That listlessness, he feared, was the harbinger of worse apathies to come, the start of his true decline. He felt a conflicted gratitude toward his visitor, a man who obviously engaged in the repulsive practice of magic.

“You know, do you? Good. Your faculties are still functioning, then. Three years can be longer for other people.” Isquita’s hands were folded casually in his lap.

Srahund couldn’t fathom what the man was doing here. His sentence had been quite final. The prosecutor and judges had been in delighted agreement, even after a more than cursory defense was mounted by his advocate. Had this Isquita come to gloat or to belatedly castigate him for Festhrahal’s murder? That seemed farfetched.

“Your views on magic are known,” Isquita said, continuing the curious interview. “They came out at your trial. You—”

“I was asked questions, and I answered.” Srahund was squatting almost within reach of the robed man on the stool. But, no; he’d promised his jailors, who were quite correct about how much harsher his days in here could be.

“Yes. You answered the prosecutor’s questions. One of your answers gained a bit of notoriety, I wonder if you knew. People debated it on the streets, in the taverns. Government officials used it as a tool, turning it to whatever purpose they saw fit.” Some spark of emotion showed through Isquita’s affably bland demeanor. “Your words were these: Ghremoin is sickened by magic.”

Srahund remembered uttering the phrase in the gleaming brass and oiled wood confines of the court. There had been a dark splendor to the place, the air heavy with the grave mechanisms of justice. He had murdered Festhrahal, an important magicmaker, a personage among the race of practitioners from Ghremoin’s far westward marches.

“I think you might have earned a different sentence,” said Isquita, “if that statement hadn’t captured everyone so.”

He really had merely answered a question when he’d said it, Srahund reflected. “If it hadn’t–what? I’d be free? Hanged? I didn’t take Festhrahal’s life because he was a magicmaker. If you know of my trial, you know that. What are you getting at?” Impatience surged in him, which was somewhat ridiculous. If this man hadn’t visited, he’d still be doing nothing of more importance than staring lethargically out the window.

“You took the lives of three people. A woman and two men.”

“Three people. Yes.” Srahund snapped his reply now. He had been apprehended for Festhrahal’s killing, but the other two murders had been found out only after his arrest.

“Do you think your sentence just?”

“Just what?” A sarcastic snarl.

“You retain humor as well. That is excellent.”

He was here to gloat, then, Srahund decided in a growing fury, unsure how much longer he could stay squatted on the floor like this.

“Your opinion of magic,” Isquita went on, still perfectly composed, “did you come by it in the course of your life, or is it a bigotry learned in childhood? Those of the Black Desert aren’t known for their sophisticated views.”

“You reveal your own prejudice.” One of his hands was bunching into a white-knuckled fist.

“True. Again, excellent. What I need to know, Srahund of the Black Desert, is if you will participate in an exercise of magic. If you succeed in this undertaking, there will no longer be any need to incarcerate you. Can you overcome your aversion so to taste freedom again?”

***

Through thick iron bars in the night, he looked down upon Lakya-ris’ red and green and yellow roofs, its epic columns, the verdant gardens and corkscrewing streets. A prosperous city, brightened here and there with magiclight.

Magic is evolutionary, Isquita had said. It is a discipline, very ancient, and it is tirelessly studied. Always new ways are sought, techniques refined. What would have seemed utterly modern forty years ago, in the home territory of my people, now appears nothing more than trickery, a carnival stunt, a muttering of arcana to no tangible end. What I have proposed to you, Srahund of the Black Desert, is the newest mode, the current innovative peak of the art, developed during these past three years of your imprisonment.

Lakya-ris looked far grander than he remembered it, when he’d first arrived on those dizzying winding streets. Of course, he was gazing down from high atop Bone Hill, with the capital laid out below like some artistic display. He had heard whispers that the economy had improved dramatically, that the new popular government was providing services never before available to the citizenry. But Srahund wasn’t down there, with the scent of the streets in his nostrils, gauging the general affluence by the coins in his own pocket. No, he was far above it all.

Isquita wasn’t the only person to ever speak to him of magic. Growing up in the admittedly harsh Black Desert, Srahund’s father had weighed in on the subject.

Magic is a cheat, not just a trick. Understand that distinction. We are people, and this is the world we live in, and everything we could ever require or conceive of is available to us. Mind you, some things need to be enhanced. A stone is just a stone. Take it, split it, attach it to a sturdy branch, and you’ve an axe. But that’s the physical and natural process of invention. We have sciences for growing food, for making metal and books, and those things get improved generation to generation. But no one should be able to chant some imbecilic sounds, wave hands and have a miracle occur. Nothing is accomplished that way. It’s a cheat, a sickening cheat.

Srahund, alone at his window through the long night, his second meal untouched on the floor by his cell’s door, came to his decision as predawn blanched the sky and the bursts of magiclight indicating the casting of spells across the sprawl of the city faded into the coming day. He wasn’t pleased with what he had decided, but, then, neither decision available to him would have cheered him.

* * *

Being taken from his cell for the first time in three years didn’t provide the breathless heart-pounding thrill it should have, owing to the dark thoughts weighing in Srahund’s head. Before leaving, he had erased all the charcoal marks from his walls and tidied the pallet on which he slept. He was escorted by his jailors, counting off ten full uninterrupted strides, then twenty, then simply losing track and following the corridor to another room, this one an office, appropriately decorated. All its bric-a-brac seemed hopelessly luxurious and frivolous to him. Isquita was present, as were several grave-faced prison officials. Another magicmaker stepped out of the room’s soft shadows as Srahund was told to sit. The chair was upholstered, with arms and a back. He sank into it, felt wonderfully consumed by it.

But the tense atmosphere in the office wouldn’t allow him to relax; neither would the distaste and trepidation he felt.

“I have explained the process fully,” Isquita said, sharing in the tension, a hand fidgeting with his floppy hair.

The officials who administered this jail atop Bone Hill murmured acknowledgments.

The second magicmaker approached Srahund. She was aging, her tight skin the color of paper. Nonetheless, she had vitality in her face. Her dark green robe was trimmed with gold. She peered at Srahund in his chair. His hands tightened on the arms, and he nearly told her and everyone present to call this off, he reneged on his agreement, he would serve his sentence and have nothing to do with this magical abomination. But he didn’t speak.

The woman began the flamboyant gesticulations. Srahund shut his eyes but heard the incantations start as well. The sounds were gruesome tongue-tangles. Repugnance welled up within him.

I am sickened by magic, he tried to say aloud but couldn’t. The spell of vast power and complexity was already underway, and the room was being bathed in coruscating magiclight.

***

Sky. An unbelievably huge sky, unobstructed, loose, roofing all of reality as far as he could see in any direction. Its immensity was staggering, to say nothing of the crispness and clarity of its colors, its composition. Blue sky, daubed with plumes of pearly cloud. In school he had studied, among many other subjects, art; this sky above him now satisfied art’s requirements with its beauty, its balance.

It had been a long time since Srahund had stood outdoors.

He was doing so at this very moment, when only an instant or so ago he had been ensconced in a padded chair inside the jail crowning Bone Hill in the city of Lakya-ris. All those details of location were meaningless now, gone. He was elsewhere. He was outside. He was far from the capital. He was, in fact, elsewhen.

Or was he? Natural incredulity overtook him. He lowered his narrowish Black Desert eyes, shading them with a hand. This was indeed away from the sturdy walls of his prison. This landscape lay open all around him. It looked as tasteful as the sky.

The ground was a soft sandy shade. It rolled pleasantly, making mild slopes. Trees lined the ridges, slim and looming, alight with luminous yellow needles. Tiny snap-birds flitted individually and collectively from one tree to another. Their chirps were extremely high-pitched, almost beyond hearing, but the music was cheerful. A warm breeze washed the scenery, the scent it carried alive and moist—

Of course. The Blue Waters. He was standing at the foot of the green marble stairway. It led a long way up the gentle rise.

But these stairs should be gone, replaced with black slabs of some stone Srahund hadn’t recognized on the one journey he had made back to this place in his adulthood. He looked around more, seeing other changes. Or, rather, things unchanged, for this was the setting as he’d known it in his schooling days. His father had doggedly assembled the proper funds, saving every coin he could from his business’ profits, and had sent his precocious child out of the Black Desert, so to attend the Institute at Miinrolah. This place of the Blue Waters was a half hour’s walking from the campus.

And if these green marble stairs were here…

He lowered the hand shading his eyes. He looked at it, at both hands, spreading and flexing the fingers. They were strong, with more than a hint of callus, for like any Black Desert boy he had labored, but these hands weren’t so rugged as they would become. These hands hadn’t committed the deeds that would ultimately put him into jail. These were younger hands.

In a gasping rush Srahund touched his face, his limbs, his torso. His features felt smooth. His arms, though well-toned, were shockingly absent of most of his adult muscle. He started to search frantically for scars that weren’t there, wounds picked up on dubious escapades he hadn’t yet engaged in.

Before he could encroach on hysteria, he caught himself, forced his emotions to settle. Isquita, after Srahund had asked to see the magicmaker again, had explained the procedure and its effects in meticulous detail. Srahund had remained skeptical, but recognized this as a reflexive cynicism. Whatever else he thought about magic, he acknowledged that it was real.

Still, this was utterly fantastic! He was his seventeen-year-old self again, after fifteen months of joyous learning at the Institute. And all around him lay Miinrolah’s outskirts as they had been. He could turn southwestward from this spot right now and march to the campus, to see it as he’d experienced it as a youth, with the krakka bushes manicured into sculpture at the center of the main quad, with the venerable Temple still standing, though just barely. That Temple was the oldest structure, the founding block of the Institute, so to speak, where Ghremoinian priests had once hoarded their books of knowledge—

All that was gone in the present day. On his foolish revisit to the Institute as an adult, he’d learned the krakka bushes had died of a virulent strain of rot; the Temple, grown too unstable, had been razed; nothing but a plaque was there now. Srahund had only come to Miinrolah to transact some illicit business anyway, far different from the upstanding trade his father had worked in all his life.

A vertigo tried to seize him, but he fought this off too. Isquita had warned him, had cushioned him for all this. He wasn’t here on a jaunt. He had a mission, a critical purpose. The notion of freedom was very appealing. To leave behind Bone Hill forever, for that he would do just about anything.

He took several experimental steps with his young body. It was an achingly familiar form to him, so fresh with offhand vigor, with instantaneous excitements. He could even feel the whirl of emotions within himself, their intensity almost giddy, but he had control, the adult Srahund.

Somewhere in an office the shell of him sat in a chair, he knew. Isquita had been very clear about this aspect of the process. In a sense, his captors held him hostage. He could not just escape into this vividly real past. He had to accomplish his objective.

Toward that end he set a softly booted foot to the bottom step of green marble. He was dressed in a student’s semi-ornate raiment, with jewelry tinkling on his forearms. At his wide leather belt was a dagger carved from the vertebra of a primeval lichiwundu beast; harvesting these ancient fossilized remains for their mineral and aesthetic value was a prime occupation among the rugged inhabitants of the Black Desert. Srahund’s father had given him the knife as a fond farewell gift. It had an acoustical quality; tapped against a hard surface it chimed a single sweet clear note. What hopes for a finer life Srahund’s father had had for his son.

Feeling his unlined and barely shaven face settle into a deliberate cast, he started his way up the decorative stairway set into the delicate and artistic surroundings. The giddy sentiments leaping inside him with youthful energy weren’t all happy ones. Far from it. In his breast at this moment he felt the sting of real hurt. It was an awful piercing feeling, now that he was aware of it. It was composed of jealousy, betrayal, dismay and a childish stubbornness that was awesome in its magnitude. Had Srahund truly had feelings like these? They were so unwieldy, so exaggerated. How had he ever concentrated on his studies with this whirlwind within him?

But it hadn’t always been like this, he knew. Today was a special day. Besides, these weren’t his emotions anymore; he was unwittingly borrowing them, being subjected to their unpleasant zest. It was an effect of his displacement to this time and place.

He climbed with more determined strides. The wide green steps, showing their wear a century after their installation, were littered here and there with blossoms that visitors often brought with them. Had Cheunth left one of these white or ruby or coral blooms on the stairs as she’d gone ahead to the place of the Blue Waters? Srahund, the boy-man of seventeen, had asked her here at this hour, then had arrived after her.

The flower-strewn stairs led up through a break in the trees. Yellow needles glowed on either side as Srahund paused on the ridge. He gazed down on the site, ringed with alabaster, where the world’s deep heated waters came up. At this hour, on this traditionally busy day of the week, no one was visiting. He himself should be engrossed in his lessons this very minute; Cheunth too. But here she was, strolling before the Blue Waters, which filled and emptied from a crescent pool. At the moment the water was absent, but curls of steam were visible at the craggy maw from which the routine eruptions came.

His heart caught in his chest. His young lungs sucked air, but it was the adult embodying this spry form that felt the true shock. It was her. This was the last day on which he’d seen her. Since then, he’d lived nearly another seventeen years, while she had not.

He felt the yearning, the harsh and unremitting longing; he felt too the jealousy, the paranoia, and these feelings disgusted him. Where was the love? Where was the searing heat of passion he’d remembered all these years? It was present, yes; he felt it. But it was so distorted now, so blemished by these less worthy, though frighteningly potent, emotions.

She turned, her gaze rising from the dry crescent pool. She saw him. She went still.

It prompted him into motion. Had he hesitated like this before, here on this ridge, or had he stridden down into the shallow valley of the Blue Waters without a pause to study her? He didn’t know. This was that same occasion. But this was also a new event. So Isquita had explained.

Srahund descended the shorter flight of steps, down into the half-bowl of alabaster rock. More flower petals had been scattered here.

He approached Cheunth, consciously not racing toward her. She wore a filmy gown over a dark red suit. Her hair hung to her delicate jawline, an auburn which quietly sparkled in the sun. Her eyes were long-lashed, her lips slender. Her nose flared when she was distressed. Her body was supple, with high small breasts. Her earlobes were painted a becoming shade of orange. She was young and exquisite, and he loved her with every particle of himself.

“Thank you for meeting me,” he said, then blinked at the inanity of his statement. Here was Cheunth! The female who had imprinted herself on his soul. Take her in your arms, you fool!

No. No. He hadn’t come here for that.

Her well-molded face stayed neutral. “I’m here as a courtesy.”

“And I appreciate that.” He spoke this sincerely. But hadn’t he said these same words–sarcastically, caustically–on the original occasion?

She folded her arms, glancing away, her eyes a winsome brown. She was waiting.

It was time to question her about Dorbalo, to start the interrogation, the trial. Here was when he raised his voice; here was when the terrible fury started to truly coalesce, when plans that were mere vague impulses began to gain discernable shape. Dorbalo was a waif of a boy, in Srahund’s view, a gaunt weak lad overly attached to sentimentality. He played a reed instrument that no one at the Institute had ever seen before, something of myriad joints and unexpected pipings, an implement of his home. That home was far to the west.

Dorbalo had another talent, one even more dazzling, it seemed. It too belonged to his home and his people. Srahund had seen it demonstrated once, as social groups gathered in the evening on the quad beneath the sculpted krakka bushes. Cheunth had been with Srahund then, her head snugly in his lap amidst the general warm chatter, until the flash of peculiar light had come. She’d sat up sharply. Cheunth, who’d been Srahund’s lover for several glorious months, had gazed rapt at what scrawny Dorbalo had wrought.

It had taken another month, a very painful month, before their romance had ended. In the past week Srahund had wept and cursed and slept hardly an hour at a time, and had tried desperately to keep Cheunth from breaking off with him, even though it was obvious she wanted to, and finally, when she’d formally done so, he had turned to inventing ways to win her back. And nothing he did mattered; nothing could unite him again with this, his first, most cherished lover.

“Dorbalo is a Westerner,” Srahund said.

Cheunth closed her eyes, and softly and sadly shook her head.

He had said these same words too; but again he’d refined his tone, taking the accusatory sting out of them. He tried to infuse this younger version of himself with what blunt adult wisdom he had. “He’s a magicmaker, Cheunth. They’re coming out of the westward reaches now, for the first time. They are starting to travel Ghremoin. They’re mixing with the rest of its citizens.”

“Srahund—”

“No! It’s an inevitable thing, Cheunth. It can’t be resisted.” He was speaking from his future vantage, of course. The people of Ghremoin’s West, traditionally isolated in their heavily forested territory, had by some general accord initiated a program of relocation, of resettlement. Some stayed in the West, naturally. But now those people permitted themselves the same privilege as all other peoples of Ghremoin, the luxury of traveling this land wherever they fancied. Dorbalo had been the first to successfully enrol at the Institute.

“Srahund”–she had opened her eyes; they appeared weary–“why must you obsess? Dorbalo is a being just like yourself, just like me. You want to believe he’s…I don’t know…some evil trickster. You—”

He shook his head. No, he was being big-hearted; he was forgiving her, applying his adult years to this adolescent farce. Why couldn’t she see that? He still yearned for her. She caused his body to throb with need and pain.

Srahund’s hand was twitching at his side. He brushed the dagger at his belt repeatedly. It wasn’t unusual that he carried it, as a reminder of his father.

“Why have you asked me here?” Cheunth’s voice choked, and her nose flared. She was upset; she was tired of his infantile games. “Do you want to talk about Dorbalo? Why? What good will come of that for you?”

It was at this point, he realized with a dull cold shock, that he had asked her if she’d told anyone about this meeting of theirs. Near to tears, she had said no, no, not even Dorbalo, twisting the name with frustration, hurling it at him, summoning for him torrid awful images of the two of them together. She had drawn breath to say something else, but he had lifted the carved bone knife from his belt and rammed it to the hilt beneath her left breast. Jewelry jingled on his forearm. He had let her fall and then stood over her. Her eyes did not meet his, and a moment later they stared, immobile, at the sky. His mind had ticked steadily at this point. He remembered feeling very little. He had extracted the blade from her body, wiping it on her filmy gown and returning it to his belt. The steam curling from the geyser’s mouth had increased, and a minute after that the Blue Waters erupted. He watched them, the bright jets rising high, higher. The water was almost sapphire in color. The spurts grew more intense, and he was flecked by droplets. Normally visitors sat on the worn natural benches of alabaster. The crescent pool filled. Srahund, mind still working at a surprisingly useful speed, hit upon the finale of this event. He lifted Cheunth’s slack form and laid her in the pool of gleaming blue. The geyser’s cycle was ending. As he watched, the flow reversed. The gushes stopped, and a strong force sucked at the pool, drinking down the exotically hued subterranean water, draining the crescent. It took Cheunth with it.

He stayed for the next eruption, to see if she would go shooting up into the sky, all dead-limbed and grotesque, but she didn’t. He drew his dagger again and tapped it on the edge of the crescent pool. The note it sounded was numb, graceless. In stabbing Cheunth he’d ruined the knife’s acoustical integrity. He’d spoiled his father gift to him.

It didn’t matter. His father would be dead within a month, before he’d even gotten word that his son had quit the Institute and departed Miinrolah. Some at the school speculated whether he’d eloped with his former lover; or whether Cheunth herself had impulsively withdrawn from the Institute and he had pursued her. No one would ever know. Not until many, many years later, when a man in a dark green robe, interrogating Srahund for the murder of Festhrahal, would uncover the crime through a treacherous act of divination, literally taking the memory from his head.

“Dorbalo,” he said, finding his voice also choked with emotion, “is the future. I am the past. Be happy with him, Cheunth. That’s all I wanted to wish for you today. Be happy.”

She was wary. She eyed him carefully. Was this some sarcastic feint; was he about to turn on her with verbal assaults? No. He meant this. Srahund saw this thinking play out on her lovely features.

“Then I thank you for your wish,” she said, very formally. That formality was dreadful, but he probably deserved no better. He had made this past month most upsetting for her.

The steam was coiling faster and in greater volume from the geyser’s maw.

“I should go,” Cheunth said.

“Yes.”

“I wish you happiness too.” Slightly less formal now.

“Thank you.”

Still not entirely certain this wasn’t some cruel ploy, she strode toward the steps. Srahund did the best thing he could do for her; he did not turn to watch her go, but merely gazed at the mouth of the Blue Waters until it reached its climax and burst forth.

After it attained its peak and started to taper off with less enthusiastic jets, he stepped up to the crescent pool’s stony brim and removed the knife from his belt. It was, truly, a beautifully crafted item. His father had never been a demonstrative man, as was the way of the Black Desert. But Srahund had always sensed the man’s quiet stubborn love.

He touched the bone blade to the rock as the sapphire water was being forcefully drained back into the deep reaches of the earth. A perfect intelligible note rang from the implement. He smiled softly. Then he struck it on the rim again, harder now, hammering it down. It jarred his arm, just as it had in another lifetime–another reality, apparently–when he jammed it into Cheunth’s body.

The dagger didn’t ring again. Srahund tossed it into the geyser’s mouth, just as the final waters were sucked down. Originally he had buried the murder weapon in the sandy plains, after he’d stolen a pedaled biwheel–his first theft–in the town proper of Miinrolah and raced frantically northward, jouncing on the contraption’s seat and barely keeping his balance.

His father would still die soon. But whether he knew it or not, his only offspring would not be the murderer of a young woman with sparkling auburn hair.

***

The spell was still on him, cast by that aged woman with the tight papery skin. Srahund, dazed, returned to vague awareness in his cell, on his pallet. Had he dreamed the experience? No. Isquita sat with him, spooning food into his mouth, holding a cup for him to drink. Srahund felt like an infant. He felt too a revulsion for the touch of this magicmaker, but he couldn’t resist; and he needed this sustenance.

“Cheunth is a widow, with four children, living in the hamlet of Trokadilv,” said the green-robed man gently. “Her oldest daughter is a composer. Her youngest, a boy, reads books about the Black Desert. He wants to be a fossil hunter.”

It broke loose some nub of happiness within Srahund. She had lived. Somehow Isquita had gotten this information to him, probably by magical means, he realized. But even that didn’t spoil it for him. Cheunth had married–who? Dorbalo? it didn’t matter–and made a family in Trokadilv. She hadn’t died at the hands of a jealous lover in her sixteenth year.

Yet what of Srahund’s own life? Undoubtedly it too had altered. He hadn’t stained himself so permanently with Cheunth’s killing. Had he remained at Miinrolah, embroiled in his studies? Had he made good on his early promise and become a truly learned man?

The spell was still on him. Of course. Isquita had explained already. In a sympathetic tone the fair-haired man explained again. Srahund was at the eye of the storm, the fixed point, the changer who could not himself be changed by the reconfigured event. There were immutable metaphysical principles involved. Isquita tried to elucidate these, but Srahund, weak and weary, stopped him. He rested; he ate; night came; he slept. The next day he was sent to meet Stattlehime, the gambler.

* * *

He tasted the stormy air, recognizing it. These were Ghremoin’s northward lands, which were whipped seven months out of the year by weather systems of varying ferocities that swept in from the North Deep. This region enjoyed a bounty of growing things, many of them edible, but Srahund, seasoned and embittered by several years of dissolute living, was blind to the territory’s lush splendor. It was mere sweaty jungle to him, a place to lose himself between bouts of cheap crime. He had skulked from city to village, always keeping to the fringe, to whatever tropical shadows were handy. He could never fully join in the rites of the living, the social ceremonies enacted on the streets, in the squares, even inside the taverns where he often sipped a miserly mug of wine. Normal life had long since gone on without him, not needing him or his contributions. He, after all, produced nothing; he merely took, poached, pilfered. What he lived on was always something that someone else had made.

Srahund found himself slipping into this old mind-set. All the bitter emotional mechanisms were right there, waiting. He had left school and become a criminal, and these were the years when he’d had little success at it. Already he’d served a brief term in a squalid jail and had another similar sentence soon ahead of him. This was a time of vast self-pity. His actions degraded himself, and he was fully aware of this unbearable fact.

This was some twisted form of self-punishment; so he had told himself and would believe for years to come. He had killed the love of his youth, though he’d had no choice in the matter. Cheunth couldn’t just say she loved him, then change her mind and shift her affections to a vile Westerner. No, no choice for him. Still, the murder had changed him, and he had fled north, to subsist on petty crime—

Yet, that hadn’t happened. He had spared Cheunth. He remembered distinctly. He hadn’t stabbed her at the place of the Blue Waters. She had married and given birth to four children. One was a composer now.

No. The thought flipped again in Srahund’s strained mind. He had the memory, yes. He hadn’t committed the murderous deed, and so should not have fled to the North. But here he was. Above was a sky striped with moonlit deep grays, with moving black, alive and electrical. This was the city of Nurm. He was trying his hand at gambling. The homicidal incident he had altered, the correction he’d made at Isquita’s behest, didn’t affect this moment, not for him. This event was imbued with a supreme inevitability.

He must face it. As he had faced Cheunth at the Blue Waters.

He stood on a shadowy side street in Nurm. The day had long since waned. There was mud underfoot. In the North one often found oneself standing in mud. Nurm’s structures were hut-like, made of native materials. Srahund wore rough anonymous clothing. He drew little attention. Bartenders ignored him; women rarely gave him a second glance. He used this lack of visibility to his advantage, of course, snatching up any loose unguarded thing of worth he chanced upon. But he always felt that exclusion, like a personal affront.

What a self-involved complainer he was! Srahund was stunned. Here he was, immersed in his own bygone emotional state, and he could scarcely stand it. How embarrassing that such puling pitying thoughts had ever sat so heavily on his soul. What a useless creature this man was. Here in Nurm he had just finished gambling away the better part of the lean sum of coin he’d accumulated over the past few months. He had imagined, for no reason he could fathom now, that luck might be with him at the dicing tables. Today he had thought fortune might be on his side at last. In one of Nurm’s gaming dens he had put together a respectable streak of decent throws. Coins had started to pile in front of him. He had been playing against both the house and the other gamblers gathered around the table. He was consistently beating them all.

The man running the game, with a face of acute angles and a hint of the Black Desert in his own eyes, had even favored Srahund with a shallow but courteous bow on a toss that earned him more than a scattering of coins. Pride had swelled Srahund’s broad chest. He’d taken up the dice again in his roughened hand; and thrown; and thrown.

And then the new player joined the table. A tallish figure, who moved with a calm fluidity, who bought into the game with a casual placement of coins on seemingly random betting squares. He was a handsome male, probably Srahund’s age, though he looked younger–or, really, Srahund appeared much more used by his own years. The new gambler flashed a dazzling smile. Drinks were brought to him.

His bets paid well. More, they were laid in such a way as to slowly undermine Srahund’s position. He was forced to extend himself so to keep control of the dice; but even this didn’t last long. The numbered cubes of amber went to a woman in a yellow frock with a stiff mouth, who lost her stake in two throws. Then it was the new player’s turn to toss. Toss he did. To great effect. And each throw was adroitly covered by his various bets. He gathered coins to himself. It happened quickly, though surely not so fast as Srahund had imagined. To him, there at the table’s edge, it seemed the handsome man simply reached over and scooped up everything Srahund had won that evening, as well as nearly all he’d brought with him into the den.

Soon he didn’t have enough to place another decent bet. Sulkily, tasting cold defeat in his gut, he vacated the premises.

But two hours later, in a tavern some distance from the den, he was surprised to see the suave gambler again. He entered with a woman on each arm, flaunting the same confident smile. Srahund, mumbling repeatedly for attention, was finally able to ask the bartender who the man was.

“Stattlehime,” he was told, and no more. Srahund had purchased only the one mug of inexpensive wine since he’d come in.

Watching Stattlehime from the dimmer recesses of the establishment, a structure of black bamboo and still-growing crimson vines, he decided to buy another drink, a stronger one, and another; and another.

Stattlehime was holding court, having drawn several of the other patrons into the extroverted warmth of his personality. He often paused to caress the arm of one or the other of his women, or to stroke silky hair. He paid for numerous rounds of drinks, until others started paying for him, until even the bartender was supplying free rounds of spirits.

Srahund was drunk, all on his own, when he saw the flash of magiclight.

It returned him to the campus at Miinrolah. He saw Cheunth sitting up suddenly from his lap, startled and instantly intrigued. He had seen other magicmakers since his school days, since gaunt Dorbalo. Westerners were fairly common by now. They dwelled in the North, just as they did elsewhere in Ghremoin, so he’d heard. Srahund wasn’t the only person to harbor apprehensions about the practitioners. Others shared his views, though this was never a source of bonding for him with anyone else. The magicmakers encountered their share of intolerance and difficulties. Served them right. They were bringing their deceitful practices to places that had never seen such skills before.

And just now Srahund had seen that telltale glare that meant a spell had been cast. And there sat Stattlehime with the last few hangers-on at his table as the tavern readied to close. Even his two women had slipped away at some point. Stattlehime had performed some trick for those who remained at his table, perhaps a feat of divination or the levitating an empty glass or drawing a symbol in green fire in the air. Srahund drained his mug and slipped unseen, always unseen, out of a door.

Into a side street, where he waited, with the moon lighting a turbulent sky. There would be a downpour before midnight, as there had been last night. He hated these jungly climes.

Wine buzzed in his head. He was aware of it; he was also aware of the somewhat less younger–as compared to his student self–man’s lack of awareness about his condition. This Srahund, whose shape he was inhabiting, had convinced himself that all of today’s events had been cunningly arranged in advance, from his burst of good luck at the dicing table, to Stattlehime’s taking over of the game–no doubt assisted by the croupier–and that same gambler’s appearance at this particular tavern. All a setup, all a cheat. And it had been chiefly perpetrated by a Westerner, a magicmaker.

Trick the dice to do your bidding, Srahund thought with growing drunken malevolence. Stattlehime would be stepping out at any moment. Srahund would run at him, knock him down, steal from him. He would commit the first violent crime of his life; the first, that was, if he didn’t count his murdering of Cheunth.

Except that he wouldn’t merely knock the man flat as planned a few minutes from now. He would tackle him, would blindside him with the full lumbering might of his large inebriated body. He would strike Stattlehime low, nearly at his hips, and he would damage the man’s spine badly. Stattlehime would live for several more minutes, gasping, unable to move his limbs, unable to keep his lungs functioning. Srahund wouldn’t even rob him. He would grow frightened and run off as the magicmaker/gambler sucked a final pitifully thin breath.

Two figures exited the tavern and went reeling off into the deserted night. Neither was Stattlehime.

Srahund wouldn’t flee the region after this accidental murder. He would only relocate to the other side of Nurm, and continue with his morose life of petty criminality. Stattlehime’s death wouldn’t immediately affect him, though it would plant the seeds of the next phase of his existence. He would eventually view the killing as a sloppy mishap, an amateur’s mistake. He would come to this conclusion after he’d improved as a thief, when he truly started to apply himself to his profession, drawing on the same instincts that had once propelled him through his studies at the Institute. He became competent, then proficient. When he finally left the North, it would be a rational move, made for professional reasons.

But Stattlehime’s murder did affect him, he amended as the critical moment drew closer and closer. When he had killed Cheunth at the place of the Blue Waters, it had been unpremeditated–so he told himself–yet was also an act he’d had no choice but to carry out. It was a crime steeped in great passion, inspired by a love young and terrible. Stattlehime deserved to be assaulted and robbed, since Srahund had suffered the same misfortunes, at least figuratively. But instead he would lose his life, an unbalanced exchange. This would change Srahund’s thinking on a subtle level: there were no even trades in the world; there was no “fairness”; justice was a manufactured concept. These new principles would serve him well in the professionally criminal life he would lead. They would harden him and permit him to function at peak efficiency. When he would eventually resettle in Lakya-ris, making a stopover at Miinrolah on the way, he would at last make a true success of himself. For a time, at least.

Still standing at the muddy mouth of the side street, he stiffened and focused his somewhat hazy vision. The magicmaker was stepping alone from the now dormant tavern. He moved with the overpronounced precision of one who is very drunk and determined that no one should know this fact. He stood at the bottom of the bamboo stairs, looking about, getting his bearings.

Srahund at last emerged from his shadows.

Stattlehime, tidying his clothes as if preparing to enter a palace, heard the squelchy footsteps and turned slowly. With vast inebriated dignity he surveyed Srahund as he approached. Originally Srahund had run at this figure, so already this situation had changed.

“A lovely night,” remarked the Westerner.

“It’ll rain before midnight,” Srahund said, halting, gazing intently at the man.

“A good reason to get off the streets. This place has shuttered. Come, my fellow. Let’s you and I find another, where the wine flows like—”

He was as expansive and convivial as he’d seemed holding forth at his table earlier. Fumes rose from him, but Srahund too was dizzy with drink. He had not come charging at this gambler, no, but he was dismayed to feel the anger of the moment still upon him, all that pent-up betrayal and sullen dissatisfaction. The ugly emotions remained centered on this individual, and Srahund found he couldn’t quite get an absolute hold on them.

“Not another drink, no.”

Stattlehime blinked in great dramatic surprise. “How unheard of. Who comes to Nurm but those bent on imbibing and wagering? I do think I’ve seen your face before.”

“I was in this tavern earlier.”

“Why didn’t you join me and my friends?”

“I don’t usually drink with other people.”

“Those words sadden me. Now another a cup is definitely in order. Come along. Or–don’t. You seem troubled. Perhaps you’re not the ideal drinking companion.” Something suspicious moved behind Stattlehime’s eyes, though he maintained his gregarious manner.

Srahund took another step, bringing him very close to the magicmaker. Old resentments were popping and crackling in his wine-soaked skull. Some persuasive voice within was telling him to take what was his, to rob this trickster of his coin, much of which rightfully belonged to Srahund. Beneath that voice, in grave bass tones, a second voice advised taking a more extreme revenge. Srahund was the larger man, with heavy shoulders and strong hands. He could take this individual from the West and thrash him, crush him, obliterate him—

“I also saw you at the dicing tables today,” Srahund said, enunciating carefully with a thickened tongue.

Again it set Stattlehime to blinking. Finally he said, less congenially, “Ah. Yes. I do remember. An unlucky man. What do you want of me?” This last was said briskly. The man’s stance had shifted subtly. He might be readying to draw a hidden blade, or to simply turn and run, though somehow Srahund doubted his dignity would allow him to flee, no matter how wise it might be to do so.

Srahund felt chords pulling in his throat as his teeth tried to grind into a sneer. He fought it off. Why had he accosted this person? Why hadn’t he just let him be, not staged this encounter at all? He was here not to murder him, so why put himself within striking distance at all?

It was a condition of the spell, some dark sober part of him supplied. He had to confront this terrible event squarely.

“What do you want of me?” Stattlehime asked again, a sharper edge in his voice.

Quite suddenly Srahund knew what he wanted. He asked, “Did you use magic to win at the gaming table?”

He didn’t blink now; his eyes went theatrically wide, and he drew his shoulders up and puffed out his chest. And then he deflated visibly, and made a tight little shrug. “No. Honestly, no. I am of the West, though I can’t see how you’d know that–ah, I enacted a spell for play, didn’t I? And I did make my journey to Nurm with secret thoughts of using my talents to improve my gaming. But these gambling halls have strict security, even the tawdriest ones. No spell can be cast inside one, since–you may or may not know, since magic is still somewhat new to these outer lands–every spell announces itself with the light of expended spiritual energy. It can’t be concealed. However, I have done well without this edge. Very well. It’s perhaps a shame that in order for me to gain, someone else’s fortunes must necessarily ebb. Or perhaps it is no shame at all. Rather, merely the hallowed rules of existence in this world.” With this last he had resumed his extroverted deportment. He even flashed that dazzling smile.

Srahund let his hands go limp. He cast away the voices echoing in his intoxicated head. Stattlehime had beat him at dice. The fact was just that simple and dumb. No conspiracy to fleece him of his coin had ever been afoot.

He bid goodnight to the Westerner and left him there on the muddy street. Walking off through Nurm’s humid jungle-scented night, he looked up at the moon and the malevolent sky and felt on his face the first drops of rain, arriving earlier than he’d remembered.

***

His disorientation felt more like delirium this time. He couldn’t even be sure he was back in his cell. His familiar pallet–if he was indeed lying on it–warped into a sumptuous bed of furs and silks, then became a gigantic bird’s nest, then he thrashed and moaned on the broad back of a living lichiwundu, which was utterly impossible. Around him colors swirled, and images cascaded out of dreams. He sweated profusely and experienced random peaks of intense fear.

Isquita appeared again and again, until Srahund decided he was actually present. The robed magicmaker was cradling him, rocking him, speaking soothing words. Srahund made little sense of them, something about Stattlehime’s accomplishments during the life he’d lived since that night in Nurm some nine years ago. Srahund was near to sobbing. This, he realized, was something of the degenerative condition he had feared, a whimpering madman, helpless and useless, driven beyond reason by too long an imprisonment.

But he needn’t stay in this jail. He had succeeded twice. He had undone two of the murders he had committed. Only one remained.

Isquita continued to coddle him, and Srahund found himself taking comfort in the green-robed man’s ministrations, despite the Westerner’s repugnant nature. Magic had done this to Srahund, after all, addling his mind and making his world whirl and splash with phantasmagoric colors. The old women, her dark green robe trimmed with gold, had sent him into this nightmare.

Yet, he had agreed to this, he managed to remind himself, drawing on his reserves of will. He would see it through, so to taste freedom again.

“You’ve done so well! So well!” Isquita was still holding him, now stroking his face like a lover; Srahund could do nothing to deflect his succoring touch. “The spell has worked, and you have performed magnificently. Srahund, Srahund of the Black Desert, you are succeeding! I’m so pleased, so pleased!” The magicmaker’s voice gagged with heavy emotion. “Just one more, the most important of all. You will succeed. Bring back your dead, Srahund. Bring back your dead!”

* * *

He sat quite composed at the small outdoor table, drinking the cafe’s charmingly bitter tea from a striped bowl. Even as he assumed occupation of his three-years-younger self, he didn’t ruffle his sedate demeanor. He had long since adopted a code of professionalism and perfectionism. By now, after some six years of successful thievery here in the capital city, he was virtually unflappable.

Srahund was dressed in mid class fashion, his clothes clean and well-kept. He looked very much like any of ten of thousands of Lakya-ris’ hard-working citizens, those who owned small enterprises or worked as an overseer for a large freight service or assisted some loftier personage in executive tasks.

When he had arrived for the first time in his life on the corkscrewing streets of Ghremoin’s grandest city, he had instantly recognized that such paltry and under-planned crimes as he’d committed in the North would do him little good here. This was a sophisticated metropolis, with a paid force of organized sentinels. Suspicious characters were watched, sometimes detained. Srahund had no wish to be jailed for infractions he hadn’t yet executed; yet, of course, was the proper word. He wasn’t about to take up a legitimate profession, having no marketable skills.

But he had already remade himself as a very capable criminal. He need only adapt his talents to this new and admittedly exciting environment. He wasn’t dazzled by Lakya-ris, with its higher costs for goods and its overabundant gardens and its exotic streets, some of which wound as tight as a spiral staircase; but he had a healthy respect for it. He saw the city as a challenge, one he felt confident of meeting.

That confidence hadn’t been misplaced or delusional. In careful tactical stages he had established his routines–burglaries, the moving of contraband, even some pickpocketing–then had branched out into a series of scams. The first were small, simple, one-two artifices, which succeeded or failed without the quarry being wiser either way. Later, as he learned the more lucrative frauds and even invented one or two of his own, he took in some better coin. But as the operations grew more complicated, so too did they require more diligent and shrewd planning. He took on partners, working often with the same people, though usually not all at once, rotating them, not letting anyone in on the full sweep of his affairs.

So it was that he gained, quietly, almost mutely, a reputation as a successful and reliable charlatan.

This was why he had at first balked at the notion of taking on a job of assassination, and why he’d thought the offer a joke, then a trap of some sort, then was purely mystified by it, when it was plain that those who wished to hire him were utterly earnest.

Srahund drew a long swallow of the tea, savoring its acrid flavor which came from scarlet bubble-top berries grown in western forests. The West had much influence in the capital, of course, as well as throughout Ghremoin as a whole. Over the past decade magic had been introduced to the land entire. The Westerners, whether by design or happenstance, had reshaped the general thinking about magicmakers. The old reflexive prejudice was gone; or at least it couldn’t be counted on as before. People had changed their minds. Magic wasn’t an obvious evil, a cheat of the natural order of things. No. Magic was beneficial. Magic eased the hardships of living. If one needed to dig a well now, one hired a magicmaker to divine the local water table. If one was injured or ill, one asked for a visitation by a magically trained revitalizer. Magic was used in farming, in building construction–those levitators were useful–in divination of every sort.

They had adopted dark green robes as a general uniform. They had infiltrated the ranks of the sentinels of Lakya-ris; they had taken serious roles in the government. They were, by all estimations, in position to assume Ghremoin’s most powerful offices.

But, in the meantime, crafty and methodical Srahund, late of the Black Desert and currently a denizen of Lakya-ris, had continued to successfully conduct business. One had to be ever more careful, of course. The pall of magic that had enveloped the capital was detrimental to the swindles he orchestrated. More than once these past few months he’d had to abandon some project just before fruition, having been tipped off by paid informants that the diviners were too close to discovering him. In truth, Srahund was at the height of his game…but that game was becoming impossible to play any longer.

He cast about the street, enjoying the soft sunlight on the white-washed walls. Lakya-ris had a nearly perfect climate, without any of the environmental inconveniences of the desert or the jungle. Today was a fine blue day, with just a few fish scales of cloud overhead. This slim minor street, not one of the city’s fancifully corkscrewing ones, sloped toward the civic plaza and its always bustling marketplace. During these six years in the city he had seen the economy rock unsteadily, one way and the other, merchants crowing about their fortunes and then braying over their losses. A stability was needed. Everyone knew that. Most thought that the magicmakers, who seemed to solve every difficulty they encountered, were the key and that they would presently assume full power.

However, that might not happen. Not if one of the most eminent and influential of the Westerners were assassinated–say, today, in a matter of moments, while coming down this small street after a mishap had obstructed the greater boulevard a short distance away.

It was an underground that had hired Srahund for this chore. They wanted him to murder, not knowing he had already killed twice before; they were counting on his expertise in deception, in criminality in general; they were fanatics and fools. But they were also rich. Srahund didn’t know how many members this so-called underground had absorbed. He doubted the number was great, though anti-magic sentiment in Lakya-ris was hardly an aberration. Judging by the three adherents to the cause who he had met, the organization was likely comprised of feverish radicals who saw the serious encroachment of the Westerners as a reason to concoct grandiose plans and rally their personal angers and frustrations to a common cause. So be it. At least one of those members apparently had access to significant wealth. The sum they had named and proven they could deliver would buy Srahund a villa in the capital’s Chrysanthemum Quarter, a place of his own of crystal spires and sprawling grounds and a staff of menials to keep him in luxury for all his days and more.

Srahund had been immediately tempted by that money, and after a reasonable portion of deliberation he had succumbed to the astounding sum. Then he had outlined his plan. The radicals had devised the distraction he required. By now it had already been effected; in the near distance, carried on a faint breeze, he could hear the commotion on the boulevard. An omnibus had been struck by a runaway dray. Horses and people were raising a great confused hullabaloo.

This self was not so long ago. Srahund almost liked himself as this man, sure, accomplished, respected among those few who knew what he did for a living. He felt an ease in this body that he certainly hadn’t experienced inhabiting his two younger incarnations. As before, he was subject to the innate currents of the moment. Though he sat collected at his small streetside table, he was coiled and readied, his hand poised to drop to the venomed spike tucked into a carefully lined pocket of the tailed coat he wore. Srahund, who lived at a time three years past this point, sought to exert control. But again, as before, he felt the resistance toward deviating in any way from the original undertaking. He hadn’t stabbed Cheunth, and he hadn’t broken Stattlehime’s spine; but plainly this Srahund was acting as though those events hadn’t been amended. He was at this very table on this same sloping street, waiting for the approach of Festhrahal, the powerful magicmaker he would assassinate.

Already he could see the disturbance, up the narrow street’s incline; not another staged accident, this, but the small entourage of the important political figure setting out on its detour. Festhrahal’s destination, the civic plaza, was a short distance from here. The boulevard would be a hopeless snarl of confusion by now. Festhrahal, on days when the traffic there thickened to a standstill, would abandon his caroche and use this same way to reach the nearby official buildings were he presided. Srahund had researched the man’s itinerary, movements and habits.

Those of the underground were gutless, he had decided some while ago. They had their zeal and their pronounced hatred of the Westerners and a deep-seated fear–not unfounded, Srahund thought–that the magicmakers would change the shape of Ghremoin forever. The radicals had hired him, he who wasn’t even a paid killer but merely a successful criminal. Of course, what with the tighter policing of this city, a professional murderer would have a very difficult time operating these days. Yes. It was a good time to give up all criminality in Lakya-ris, and by committing this final deed, Srahund would be set up for life.

He took a last sip of the bitter tea, then neatly set aside the striped porcelain bowl. Even he, a trenchant despiser of those of the West, drank their tea. The magicmakers’ influences were inescapable.

Now the green robes appeared. Srahund squinted already narrow Black Desert eyes at the approaching group. Festhrahal was among it, flanked by three attendants. He was being recognized by those who inhabited this minor street, the workers and idlers. Here someone gaped dumbfounded as the notable strode by; here someone else called out a gaudy hail; here a person glowered silently. Festhrahal waved cursorily, even as his subordinates fed him a tireless stream of official chatter.

Srahund’s heart was making a hard steady thumping. With unhurried movements he stood from the little table. He felt a cold-blooded purpose. He saw what he had to do. There was no choice. Festhrahal’s kind had made it impossible for him to thrive in the city. But beneath that stolid grim resolve there simmered an enmity that had been with him all his life. His father had spoken the truth, long ago: magic was a cheat; it was a fundamental iniquity.

And so this assassination would have an element of pleasure to it.

Would it? Would it? Had he enjoyed murdering Cheunth or Stattlehime? Hadn’t their killings, unavoidable though they were, stained him? Didn’t he forever bear the violence on his soul?

He could see Festhrahal’s features now, a graying beard on a round face, benevolent eyes, a man of late middle years, his stride confident. He had almost reached the cafe.

Srahund’s gaze flicked briefly away. He saw, a little further along the downslope, the barefoot boy of twelve or so hopping about in anticipation, excited about the appearance of so significant a person on this little street. His eyes were wide, his mouth hanging open. This was the boy who, having witnessed the plunge of the spike into Festhrahal’s chest, would unexpectedly heave himself at Srahund as he started to flee. The boy would be a thrashing maniac, punching, elbowing, biting, clawing. Srahund would get a hold of him, seizing him around his scrawny waist, and hurl him against a white-washed wall. But the delay would cost him. He would continue his escape as planned, but the alarm would already be raised, and sentinels would converge. He would not even reach the marketplace. The boy’s interference was an unfair complication, but Srahund had long since discarded the notion of fairness.

It would be for nothing, he told himself now as Festhrahal’s entourage swept toward him. Nothing! The magicmakers would still gain a majority in the government. They would control all of Ghremoin. They would make magic common and accepted.

He felt the poisonous spike weighing in his pocket. The impulse to act was still there, still potent, despite everything he knew. Srahund stepped out into the middle of the street, directly into the path of the dark green-robed figures. Festhrahal was at the forefront. His eyes flashed toward Srahund. Something registered there–wariness, an intuition of danger.

Srahund drew a breath. He declaimed in a loud, almost jubilant voice, “You sicken Ghremoin with magic!”

Then he laughed, just as loud, putting back his head.

The entourage paused briefly; then Festhrahal’s attendants scurried and hurried their superior around the lout, who continued to laugh for many minutes afterward.

***

Half a year after his release from Bone Hill, Srahund made up his mind to leave Lakya-ris. It was as obvious a decision as any he had ever had to make in his life, but he’d tarried over it nonetheless, putting it off for a day when he had the mental energy to be decisive. For many weeks now, that day of deciding had remained always ahead, belonging to a tomorrow that might never arrive. And yet, finally, it had come. He would go.

He was glad to be delivered from his incarceration. Though he had traveled beyond the jail’s confines three times under the auspices of that old magicmaking woman, there was nothing to compare with actually being outside again. Or so he told himself. Really, secretly, it seemed no more or less real to him than those journeys he had made into his past. Still, what a joy to free! To walk the capital’s streets, to take a meal when he wanted, to ogle women–these were great treats for him. He relished what he’d earned for himself.

But Lakya-ris wasn’t as it had been. It had changed since the time of his imprisonment, naturally; three years had gone by, and he had heard whispers and rumors of the improved economy and social conditions. More than that had transformed, however. Festhrahal had not been abruptly assassinated just as he was about to move into true power. Instead, the prominent magicmaker had advanced his political career. He was a dynamic figure, an effective leader. He had a talent for initiating civic programs that did the most good for the greatest number of people. The impoverished of the city–a small but significant class–suffered less. Crime dried up. Good jobs were available to honest workers. Festhrahal ascended and ascended, until a new governmental post had to be invented for him. He didn’t openly abuse his great power. He seemingly applied himself solely to the task of improving the lives of every person in Ghremoin, for very soon his benevolent influence was felt throughout the land.

Naturally he made use of his inherent magicmaking abilities, as did his court of fellow Westerners and his advisors, as did the police of Lakya-ris and the national army he was said to be raising to combat potential threats external and otherwise.

A time of prosperity for Ghremoin, like nothing the land had known before.

Srahund remembered still his original life, with all its homicidal incidents in place, though these events had been expunged for everyone else not involved in or aware of the intricate spell’s casting. That magic stayed upon him; it would never fade. He had, yet hadn’t, committed those mortal crimes. Occasionally he had nightmares filled with the same delirium as had come after his three temporal travelings, and woke to a sweat-wet bed; but Isquita, who he had never seen again after his release, had warned him of this.

In the capital city the diviners’ skills had much improved, Srahund found. He had coin in his pocket, clothes on his back and a few rooms to call his own; so he committed no wrongdoing. But some he had known during his peak days of criminality–although these individuals no longer knew him–had been snatched up for deeds they had scarcely thought about executing. Such was the way of things now. Of the three members of the so-called underground he had met, he saw no sign.

Srahund was weary of Lakya-ris’ corkscrew streets and rank gardens and mighty columns holding up red, green and yellow slab roofs. He determined to depart. No one would miss him. He had no old friends here, and had made no new acquaintances since being freed.

On the day he quietly made his way toward one of the city’s majestic imposing gates, he passed many, many figures clad in dark green robes, spread all throughout the streets of winding white-washed edifices, magicmakers about their daily business, a sea of green gradually blotting out every other shade. Srahund wouldn’t journey to Nurm, nor to Miinrolah, nor to obscure Trokadilv where a certain widow resided, nor to any other place he had seen during his adult travels. He would simply head eastward. The Black Desert lay the farthest distance from the forests of the West, and so it was Srahund’s home which would be the last place in Ghremoin to feel the seductive dominant touch of magic.

End

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Published by Karl Rademacher on June 30, 2014. This item is listed in Novellas, Serial Novellas

The Mists of Blackfen Bog

By CL Lynn

39 Astradis

The stink of the brown waters assaulted my nose. Reeds decayed in mirror-still shallows, and the tattered carcass of a fen ray bobbed under the greedy attention of a crow. Vapors oozed from the spongy earth. As the sun descended, they chilled and thickened into mist.

Perched upon the snowy flanks of the Moonfall Mountains, the sun was a vigilant eye. After traveling the bog for three days, I had learned what happened at sunset. I tried not to think about mournful faces coalescing out of the mist.

Tonight I hoped to see village lights winking on the horizon, but there were only plains of darkening water, grim faces of encircling mountains, and the endless dyke upon which we traveled. Shifting on the cart’s hard bench, I asked the Venerable Orn, “Shouldn’t we be there by now?”

Hunched beside me, the reins laced through his fingers, my mentor sighed, “Soon, Imaen. The men from Stonewenn Ford assured me that we’d reach Fellwater within two days. There we’ll have proper shelter and hot ray stew and a mug of ale.” A contented grin crinkled his close-cropped beard.

I glowered at him. After enduring the icy wind for three hundred miles, sleeping on rocky ground and in flea-ridden inns, and staring at the swaying arse of the black mule, it would take more than ray stew to make me happy. “I thought you said the people of Fellwater wouldn’t be hospitable.”

“I said, ‘Don’t expect a warm welcome.’ Doesn’t mean they’ll abuse us as they did our predecessors. It was the villagers who sent for us this time, after all. I’m sure the bog-dwellers are fine people. They just don’t like outsiders intruding on their ways. Unless they feel their need is great.”

“Humph. I suppose even bog-dwellers would consider an outbreak of restless spirits a great need.”

When a summons had arrived at the Temple of the Merciful Dragon, pleading for the aid of a Darashani exorcist, Orn had insisted I accompany him. Short of kicking and screaming, I had no choice but to climb into the two-wheeled cart and suffer the long, jostling ride north from Iryth to Rahn’s borderlands. Now, the tired black mule tugged the cart along tracks worn into the top of the dyke, and my bones throbbed a revolt against the bench seat.

“Never fret, Imaen,” said Orn. “The people of Fellwater may have changed their tone since Venerable Raelos paid them a visit. The hauntings have clearly gotten worse.”

“So I’ve seen.” The memory of our first night in the bog sent a shiver through my skin. We had stopped in the village of Briar’s Nest, where the people offered us a hovel that smelled strongly of moldy sheep’s wool and yesterday’s fish. The bog-dwellers’ roundhouses, erected upon stout stilts, were large enough to accommodate us comfortably, but the people of Briar’s Nest had made it clear that a priest and priestess of Darashán weren’t welcome.

Just as we’d laid out our bedrolls, Orn and I heard a mournful sob rising from the waters. Beneath the collar of my under-robe, the hairs on my nape had pricked up. I followed Orn out onto the decking. In the twilight, the wraithling wandered from pool to pool, a girl-child, no more than five years old when she’d died. Long wet hair dripped about a swollen gray face, and she wrung her hands, weeping, “Lost . . . lost, mama . . . lost.”

Orn ventured into the squelching mire in an attempt to communicate with the wraithling, despite my frantic attempts to stay him. On the decking of a nearby roundhouse, a young woman emerged, hands over her ears, and sobbed, “Hazel, go to sleep! Leave us, oh, gods, leave us.”

The wraithling paused amidst an icy pool, as if hearing the familiar voice from across a great distance, but she soon continued her aimless wandering. By the time Orn reached the ice-encrusted pool, the little girl had vanished into the gathering mist.

The cart splashed through a muddy hole. “Gods,” I sighed, “how did I let you drag me into this forsaken wasteland? I almost miss the cloister.” Clean, bright, and blessedly free of restless spirits.

Orn chuckled softly.

I rounded on him. “If you brought me along hoping I’d regain fondness for the temple, you’ve failed miserably. As soon as we return, I mean to hand you my resignation. Again.”

“I shall decline it. Again.”

“I don’t belong there, Orn!” I pleaded. “I should never have taken vows.” The marble halls had witnessed my faith withering like an arthritic hand. Now my faith trailed after me, useless, agonizing, and Orn refused to let me shed it once and for all.

He cast me a wise, affectionate smile. “Abandon Darashán, child, and you’ll always regret it. You’ve the most tender of hearts, and you’ve seen how the dying trust you in their time of passing.”

“That was before Cambryn Island,” I retorted, hoping to put an end to the argument. Sometimes I dreamt the fever had resurged, and this time I could not escape it. I knew for certain I was dying. Always I awoke weeping and lying in sweat-chilled sheets.

Traveling through Blackfen Bog, I found myself part of a new nightmare. Here, the dead walked night after night, torn somehow from the natural order. I might’ve been one of them, I realized, drifting between worlds, unable to find my way. . . .

“How are we to exorcize so many?” I asked.

“We don’t. We just find the source of the problem.”

“But what could be causing this . . . infestation?”

“Forgotten your studies as an acolyte?”

“Of course not, but –”

“Then what caused the haunting of the royal castle in the Third Year of King Tiriel?”

Annoyed that I was being tested like an initiate, I said, “Necromancy, of course.”

“Precisely. And who knows what kind of magic these bog-people dabble in. Likely they brought the problem upon themselves, and it’s finally gotten out of hand.”

His nonchalance amazed me. Truly, Orn was without fear.

Smiling fondly, I gazed over his graying head at the summit of the Iron Finger; the remnants of orange light had bled out of the snow. A shudder stole through my robes. I could blame the chill on the late winter air, but I would be lying to myself. Dusk had fallen, and neither of us had noticed. The sun, hidden behind the ragged face of Mount Godscrown, bled a flush of feverish color onto the underbellies of low, swift clouds.

Orn hauled back on the reins. The mule complained, shook her ugly head, and stopped amidst the ruts. “We’ll camp here.”

Generations ago, the bog-dwellers had shaped the dyke, load by load, into a straight, mountainous structure that ran on for fifty miles. Far below, winter-yellowed sedge gathered in tufts, and new growths of cattails had begun creeping out of the mire. Patches of snow still clung to the north side of the slope, and fragile ice glistened on the edges of the pools.

“I don’t suppose you can net another of those fine fowl for supper?” Orn asked, climbing from the cart.

He knew me well; putting me to work was the surest way of staving off my fears. I retrieved the net from the back of the cart but saw few waterfowl paddling about the pools. I refused to go trekking through the stinking mud to scare up a covey. Still, while Orn unloaded the night’s provisions, I searched the nearby reeds for a stray duck or skite.

I found a wraithling instead.

He appeared beside me, not a yard away, both feet sunk in deep where the waters touched the dyke. The whites of his eyes were as gray as his face and they stared at me, desperate, pleading. “Let us in,” he said, voice accompanied by the sound of unsteady breathing, loud as a storm in my ears, though the naked youthful chest didn’t move. “Is it you I’m to ask? I don’t remember. They’re lost, don’t you see? Now I’m lost.” Rotted weeds dripped from long reddish-brown hair, and water coursed in rivulets down his face, fell like rain from his fingertips. How fair he was, and unblemished. Neither disease nor wound had taken this youth’s life. “He won’t let us in,” he said, grief emanating from him like a winter’s breath. “Please . . . won’t you show us the way?”

Pity was a stone in my throat. I longed to take his hand, lead him away into the waters. Safe. Dark. Silent.

My hand rose to touch that sorrowful face, but they passed through the apparition as if through cold water. I snatched back my hand, remembering fear, and heard Orn calling, “Imaen!” He was running down the slope of the dyke. The wraithling dissolved into a dense gray mist and drifted away over the water.

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Published by Karl Rademacher on June 30, 2014. This item is listed in Novellas, Serial Novellas

Kestor

By Patrick Keating

Kestor was originally published by Silver Blade Magazine in February 2011

Chapter One

D’Ahid burst into the woodsmith’s shop, scattering clouds of sawdust under his feet. “The Imperials captured Kestor. They’ll execute him.”

The woodsmith continued to work. “Good.”

D’Ahid could scarce believe his older brother’s words. “Abra…”

“That criminal and glory-hound names himself after a figure from legend, and thinks us stupid enough to believe he’s that same hero returned. I pray to Ruala he dies in agony.”

“Has your gumption galloped off? Kestor saved our lives.”

“Father died. I’d pay to spit on Kestor’s head when the Imperials put it on display.”

“Kestor has helped us all.”

Abra glared at him. “Helped? Thanks to Kestor, our homes and shops were searched time and again at governor Katral’s whim. All the while Kestor remained safe in those mountain caverns.”

He blew some sawdust aside. “At last life can return to normal.”

Normal? D’Ahid thought. Without Kestor, matters will downslide.

Abra resumed working. “Have you finished packing?”

D’Ahid stabbed a finger at a canvas bag in the far corner.

“Off with you, then. Best you don’t run late.”

“You don’t care what befalls Kestor?”

Abra sighed and ran his hand through his thinning blond hair. “Enough of Kestor. Concern yourself with your journey to Serlo and your apprenticeship to Drenu. Few enjoy that honor.”

D’Ahid grit his teeth at Abra’s obstinacy. He’d have better luck teaching fish to fly. Abra wouldn’t listen. He never listened.

“I know. I appreciate the opportunity, but I– Are you sure you don’t need me here?”

“I’ll be fine. We’ll all be, with Kestor now in chains.”

D’Ahid exploded, despite himself. “You ungrateful, callous… mule brain! You’d be dead if not for Kestor; and if the Imperials kill him, we’ll all be antelope among the lions.”

He grabbed his bag and slammed the door behind him.

* * *

Abra blinked away the sawdust, and resumed sanding the plank with quick, sharp thrusts. D’Ahid was ungrateful, not him. Because that terrorist had caused Father’s death, Abra had been forced to raise D’Ahid and forego the opportunity to study in Serlo.

In time, D’Ahid would understand. At least they didn’t idolize Kestor in Serlo; and Drenu would keep the boy busy, teaching him woodworking skills that would exceed Abra’s own. D’Ahid would soon forget about Kestor.

* * *

The village of Ijnag lay nestled in a small valley in the Ikswok mountain range, and was home to both the wood hovels of the six hundred residents and the stone garrisons of the less than two hundred Imperial invaders who ‘policed’ the community. As he walked north along the cobblestone L’Eroii Road towards the carriage station, D’Ahid glanced to the west, at the old mines where villagers of all ages had once toiled.

“I warrant Abra would gripe about Kestor causing their closing,” he muttered. He kicked a stone, and watched it skitter ahead of him.

Time and again, over the decade since his arrival, Kestor had sabotaged mining operations until the Imperials had wearied of the battle and abandoned the mines. They should have left Ijnag as well.

Why couldn’t Abra understand that Governor Katral had killed Solmon; and if not for Kestor, the sons would have died with the father?

A funeral atmosphere permeated the market stalls. Even the gossips kept quiet. Perhaps the people realized that without Kestor the Imperial terror would worsen. But if they had any gratitude, they’d storm the ancient castle at the southern end of the square and free the rebel leader, the Imperials’ penchant for ruthless reprisals be damned.

True, some had given Kestor covert succor over the years; but now no one spoke for him. The people would remain quiet, denying Kestor if asked where their loyalties lay.

The thought filled D’Ahid with disgust, but who was he to complain? How had he helped Kestor?

He looked to the eastern mountains, and knew he’d never see Serlo; never study under Drenu. For years, he’d vowed that one day he’d join the rebels. He’d wait no longer. Let others cower in their homes. He would take a stand.

He didn’t move.

For a long moment, D’Ahid worked to dredge up his courage. Then, steeling himself, he stepped into a nearby shop and purchased a lantern.

On the way out, he paused to pet the stray silver-furred cat the shop owner had adopted years ago. Soon after Kestor’s appearance many had asserted that the animal— whose fur was the same hue as the rebel leader’s hair— had heralded his arrival. Many also believed that showing kindness to the cat would bring good luck. D’Ahid needed luck. As did Kestor.

Suppose the rebels didn’t want his help? He forced the doubt aside. He owed it Kestor to try.

As Abra’s brother, D’Ahid had leave to enter the greenwood at the foot of the mountains and fell trees as needed for the woodsmith’s shop. The guard on duty, used to seeing him on a regular basis, gave him an indifferent glance as he went by.

Once out of sight, D’Ahid climbed the slope toward the caverns. Once, years before Kestor’s arrival, he’d gone into the mountains, imagining himself a great explorer. But he’d found the caverns dark, cold and frightening, and had run away.

Not this time.

The chilly, dusty caverns proved a labyrinth. No wonder the Imperials raided about as often as a full-twice moon in one month. Slim odds of finding the rebels. And often the rebels made lightning strikes against those troopers still in the village during those raids. But they should have done more than act as a burr under the saddle; more to make clear their displeasure.

After upwards of an hour, D’Ahid came to a passage that curved to the left; and at that curve shadows danced on the wall. He tip-toed forward. Someone had anchored a sconce to the rock, and set a lit torch within it.

Several feet further on, another sconce had been set on the opposite wall. His pulse quickened and he hurried on.

And found no one.

He wandered through more torch-lit passages and caverns for what he reckoned was another twenty minutes, before stepping from a large open cavern into a smaller cave. He’d scarce taken another step when a voice echoed around him.

“Who are you?”

D’Ahid spun around, his heart hammering. A lithe, comely girl had come into the cave behind him. She held a torch in her left hand, and her shaved head— save for a single lock of red hair on her forehead— marked her as one of the Noret Mountain people. How had she ended up in Ijnag, as one of Kestor’s followers?

“I want to help Kestor.”

She chuckled. “You help Kestor, lad? You?” She spoke with a pleasant burr, despite her challenging tone.

“I….” She spoke truth. What help could he give? He should go, not embarrass himself further.

No. He’d come this far. He’d not turn tail. “I’m no child. I’ve reached twenty summers, lass. How many have you known? Eighteen?”

She smiled. “Twenty-four. I like your attitude, boy. But why would you help Kestor?”

“He saved my life. My name is D’Ahid, and long ago–”

“In Phaned’s name!” She grabbed his arm. “Come with me.”

She rushed him through the labyrinth until they came to a large cave lit by a score of torches. Her words echoed through the cave as she called out.

“Lan, Telrac. I have an intruder in the council chambers.”

Several tunnels extended from the cave like the tendrils of a spider’s web, and D’Ahid had no idea which they’d taken. If they didn’t believe him and left him here, would he ever find his way out? He’d heard that the caverns extended as far as Noret, and the girl’s presence— the woman’s, he corrected himself— seemed to confirm that.

“I— I did come to help. Kestor once saved–”

She waved him off. “He makes an interesting claim.”

“What does he claim?” A voice came from somewhere to D’Ahid’s right. He held out his lantern and two men stepped into the light. One was a head taller than D’Ahid and muscular, with thinning gray hair and the thick beard of a farmer— though D’Ahid had never seen him in the market. The other stranger was leaner, and wore his long brown hair braided on the right in the custom of the southern Cinat region.

“Who is this, Jeni?” The bearded man spoke as if D’Ahid were a dinner guest. The Cinat said nothing, but he wore an aura of alertness; his eyes darting about the cavern.

“He claims he wants to help us, Lan,” the woman— Jeni— said. “Tell them your name, boy.”

“My name is D’Ahid. I’m-”

The men exchanged glances. The Cinat caught D’Ahid in his gaze, and his eyes narrowed. “Impossible. Thou cannot be D’Ahid.”

“D’Ahid.” the bearded man— Lan— spoke with an almost reverent tone. “We witness the fulfillment of Kestor’s first prophecy.”

“He can’t be D’Ahid,” Jeni insisted.

“Kestor’s prophecies have always come to pass.” Lan grasped D’Ahid’s shoulders, as if bestowing a blessing. D’Ahid tensed.

“Welcome, my friend. Long have we expected you. You wish to help Kestor?”

D’Ahid was nonplussed. “I- If I can. I don’t understand. What do you mean? I didn’t tell anyone I was coming.”

“Why didst thou come?” Telrac demanded.

“I— I wanted to help. To repay Kestor for saving me.”

Lan nodded. “And you shall help us rescue Kestor.”

“How?”

“By becoming him.”

* * *

Governor Katral drank in the sight of the silver– haired man standing shackled before him.

At last!

“Can this be the mighty Kestor?” He cast a disdainful glance at the outlaw’s ‘clothing.’ Barbaric. Unlike Katral’s own machine-stitched, tailored uniform, Kestor wore a hand-sewn stiff leather jerkin reinforced with interconnecting bronze links, and leather trousers protected by bronze greaves.

The outlaw’s one blue eye blazed with defiance. Even in shackles and rags Kestor projected a commanding aura. As a soldier, Katral admired that defiance. He also would not cower under threat of death.

“Can this be the insignificant Katral?” Kestor’s raspy voice— the result of an incompetent assassin’s attempt to slash his throat four years earlier— sounded bored.

A guard struck him. “Show respect.”

Kestor laughed, as blood flowed into his thick beard. “Respect for a murderer and coward? Never.”

The guard raised his hand again, but Katral shook his head. “Let him be. He attempts to cover his fear of impending death with bravado. I don’t skulk in the mountains, Kestor. I don’t hide behind a mask.”

Kestor chuckled. “Fear of impending death? I’ve known for years I would die today. Do you Imperials not know the legends of my people? ‘Kestor sees beyond tomorrow.'”

“Then I trust you’ve seen the need to say your final prayers. You should have killed me years ago when you had the chance.”

The outlaw smiled. “That would have been a joy; but you weren’t destined to die that day. You will soon enough; and if I told you the circumstances, you’d wish I had killed you. At least you’d have died with a modicum of dignity.”

He grinned. “The knowledge of your fate is satisfactory revenge.”

Katral frowned. Revenge? He’d never met Kestor before the outlaw’s arrival in Ijnag. Yet, there was a familiarity about him, though a census at the time had accounted for everyone. So where had he seen the man? No matter. Kestor would soon die.

And his own death lay decades away.

“Shall I escort him to the square, my Lord?” the guard asked.

“No. The people will see his head on display soon enough.”

Kestor watched with a calm, indifferent expression.

“Shall I reveal your future? You’ll not be governor much longer.”

“Indeed. Your execution means my promotion.” And about time. While lesser men wield power back home, my talents have been wasted in this insignificant colony.

Kestor smiled, and lowered his voice to a whisper. “In a manner of speaking. Shall I tell you something else? If you had not agreed to Rehar’s request for access to Enkelrea— in the hopes that whatever science he found there would help extend your power and prestige— I would never have come here. You would not have faced my rebellion.”

“That’s not possible. Rehar—”

A knock interrupted Katral’s reply. He turned to the lieutenant in the doorway. “Yes, Josald?”

Lieutenant Josald bowed. “My Lord, Lord Tragh will arrive within the hour.”

Success. At last, Lord Tragh had consented to visit. And at the moment of Katral’s greatest triumph. He’d soon enjoy responsibilities at the Royal Court.

“Excellent. Kestor’s head will greet him.” He gestured to the guards at the doors, even as he dismissed the outlaw’s ramblings. “Bring in his followers.”

Katral regarded the outlaw. Kestor still showed no concern, and instead appeared to await the climax of some private joke.

Moments later the troopers shoved three shackled and bloodied outlaws— two Cinat women and a Noret man— into the room. Hatred blazed in their eyes. The man was lanky, and blood encrusted his blond lock. One woman was stocky and had a hint of gray in her dark, braided hair. The other was of medium build; with hair that might be honey-colored when cleansed of blood.

Katral turned back to Kestor. “Any final words? You may beg forgiveness, but that will not accord you clemency.”

“Beg? We will beg for nothing from you. We need nothing from you. Noule is a free country, and we will drive you out, just as we closed your mines.”

Katral laughed. A free country? Noule was a loose assemblage of city-states with no central government and meager trade. No one from Ijnag had traveled more than twenty miles from home; and travel was the only means of contact with another community.

He glanced at the burnished bronze oval receptacle on his desk. By contrast, he could dispatch messages throughout the castle via a network of pneumatic conduits; and another pneumatic system, beneath the streets, communicated with garrisons in neighboring villages. The Empire brought such civilized benefits to these primitives. If Noule ever did become a country, it could thank Imperial guidance.

No, Kestor and his rabble had only been a local nuisance. Katral could have re-opened his mines with ease, had the Royal Court not focused Its attention on mining operations elsewhere. Those operations had continued unabated, while Katral’s mines remained closed. Did those incompetents at the Royal Court not understand how that decision had bolstered Kestor’s credibility?

He forced himself to relax. He’d soon transfer out. Let another deal with Ijnag’s problems.

“We’ll still be here long after you’ve faded from memory.”

The outlaw met his gaze with a look of calm assurance. “Kestor will never die.”

With a fluid movement, Katral unsheathed his ceremonial dagger, and drove it into the outlaw’s chest. “Indeed? Tell me more about this amusing theory.”

As Kestor sank to the ground, blood pumping from the wound, a trooper burst into the room. He drew up short as the guards raised their swords.

“M– my Lord, we’re under attack.”

Katral regarded the dying outlaw. “Seems your followers are a bit tardy. Underlings. How unreliable.”

He nodded to the guards, who lowered their swords. “Why the panic, trooper? Without Kestor, the outlaws are only a rabble.”

The trooper stared wide-eyed at the man at Katral’s feet. “Sir, they’re- they’ve-”

“Out with it!”

“My Lord, Kestor leads them.”

“Impossible! Kestor is here.” Katral kicked the outlaw, who groaned.

“I swear by all that’s holy, my Lord. Kestor and the other outlaws are at the inner gates.”

Katral rushed to the balcony and looked down at the courtyard. “It’s not possible,” he whispered. A man dressed like Kestor, but also wearing a bronze breast plate and the outlaw’s famous battle mask of heavy gauge leather, had engaged the palace guard. He fought alongside the rest of the outlaw’s followers.

He looked back at the man he’d stabbed, and blanched. “It’s a trick.”

The dying man managed a weak smile. “Kestor is eternal, unlike you.” He fell back and lay still.

“My lord, what do we do?”

Katral said nothing, his attention torn between the dead outlaw before him and the living one leading an assault on his stronghold.

* * *

As D’Ahid squeezed the trigger of a stolen Imperial weapon again and again, he shouted curses at the troopers. He didn’t care that they couldn’t hear him over both the noise of the fight and the material of the battle mask he wore. What joy to see fear in an Imperial’s eyes for a change.

Even so, he trembled beneath his disguise. How could this impersonation help? So much could go wrong. The metal mesh eye patch over his left eye let him see— after a fashion— but he still lacked peripheral vision. And even if he hadn’t needed to hide the fact that he had both eyes, how could he hope to rescue Kestor?

It seemed as if a windstorm had swept him to this moment. The rebels had rushed him to a cave where they kept a copy of Kestor’s battle armor. Before he knew it, he was wearing it. Then they’d taken him to a small, hidden dell. There, the rebels stabled their horses, and kept a humble garden for food.

D’Ahid stole a glance at his companions as they pressed forward. The horse he rode had been well trained, and responded to his clumsy attempts at commands. Jeni, at his right, fired a steady salvo of shots. Lan and Telrac, to either side of them, unleashed their arrows with lethal accuracy.

“Don’t give them a chance to regroup,” she ordered. “Imperial troopers fear Kestor. Use that fear.”

“But I’m not Kestor. They must see that.” And the castle guards outnumbered the rebels at least four to one.

“No. They only see the armor and what it symbolizes.”

A volley of shots rang out from within the castle. Telrac drew his mount up next to D’Ahid’s. “There. Our brethren hath escaped.”

“Give them cover,” Lan ordered.

Two Cinat women and a Noret man raced across the courtyard. The man carried the limp form of a silver-haired man over his shoulder. Kestor.

“Kestor’s dead,” he said. He lay the rebel leader’s body across Lan’s mount, as D’Ahid clutched tight the reins of his own steed. His ears must have deceived him. Kestor couldn’t be dead. And if he were, how could that man sound so calm?

Before D’Ahid could speak, the women doubled up behind Jeni and Telrac, and the man behind him. Then the rebels galloped into the mountains. The man and one of the women fired back at the pursuing troopers. The other woman regarded D’Ahid with narrowed eyes.

“Who be this?”

“Later,” Lan said. D’Ahid saw that he fought back tears. “Let’s get Kestor home.”

* * *

D’Ahid kept looking over his right shoulder as the rebels raced toward one of the caverns.

“Worry not,” Telrac said. “Our enemies will not find us.”

“That man said Kestor is dead. Of course I’m worried.”

“We still live and shall continue to fight.”

As the rebels rushed through the maze— the way illuminated by the tiny lanterns they’d pulled from their saddle bags, and lit while still moving— D’Ahid felt renewed respect. Even in half darkness, and at a full gallop, they knew their way around the labyrinth as well as he knew his own hovel.

At length, they dismounted in a small cave. The stockier woman took Kestor, and lay him down at the far side of the cave with reverence. Then she turned on D’Ahid, venom in her voice.

“Who be thee? How dare thou mock us?”

D’Ahid’s trembling fingers struggled to remove the battle mask and armor. “I– My name is D’Ahid. Lan asked me to wear this. I’m sorry.”

“D’Ahid?” The woman turned to Lan with an expression of disbelief. Lan nodded.

“He’s the one, Marifo. The one Kestor said would come.”

What one? “I don’t understand. How could Kestor— or anyone— have known I’d come to you?”

“He doesn’t know about the prophecy?” the Noret man asked.

“Not everything, Adrow. I’d hoped we’d have succeeded, and would’ve thwarted the second part of the prophecy.”

Adrow looked over at Kestor’s body, which Marifo had begun wrapping in a linen shroud. “Katral killed him just as you began your assault. You couldn’t have saved him. Not even I could have, and I stood as close to him as I do to you.”

Lan bowed his head. “Kestor said we’d fail to save him. I’d hoped he’d be wrong this once; that he’d train the boy himself.”

“Thou hast always said prophecy cannot be averted,” Telrac said.

“I- I’m not a boy. And what are you talking about? Please.”

Lan gave D’Ahid a wan smile. “Forgive us. Ten years ago, Kestor came to the people of Noule, and he saved both your brother’s life and your own.”

“I know.”

“Not even we know whence he came, but he arrived as if in fulfillment of the ancient legends that he’d return when needed. On that day, he made his first prophecy.”

“Lan,” Telrac cut in, a warning tone in his voice. “I would speak with thee.” He indicated the far end of the cave.

Lan nodded. “If you’ll excuse us, D’Ahid?”

“All right.” D’Ahid glanced at the others. What lay behind their stares? Did they blame him for Kestor’s death? He hadn’t wanted to impersonate the rebel leader. He’d only wanted to help.

* * *

“What is it?” Lan asked.

“Are thou certain he be the one?” Telrac whispered.

“‘The boy named D’Ahid will come to the followers of Kestor. And on that day, he will be your leader. He shall be Kestor,'” Lan quoted. “Has anyone else named D’Ahid ever come to us? And remember, only we knew of the prophecy.”

“I know what the prophecy says, but can we trust this boy, indoctrinated in the Imperial schools? Where lie his sympathies?”

“With us.”

“How can thou be certain?”

“Aside from the fact that he sought us out and risked his life in the rescue? Because Kestor saw D’Ahid as one of us. Have not all of Kestor’s prophecies come to pass?”

Telrac glanced back at the tall, young stranger. “Thou speaks true, but we need more than faith.”

“Not I.”

* * *

After an eternity, Lan and Telrac returned.

D’Ahid licked his lips. “What were you discussing?”

“Kestor’s instructions,” Lan said. “He told his first follower, Monsi of Trepe, that one day you’d come to us, and that you would become the new Kestor.

D’Ahid jumped back. “That’s insane. I’m just a woodsmith. Or will be. One day.”

Adrow regarded him with a jaundiced eye. “No one can replace Kestor.”

D’Ahid held up his hands. “I don’t want to replace him.”

Lan turned to Adrow. “Kestor chose the boy. Just as he called on each of us to follow him. You know that as well as I.”

“You must have misunderstood,” D’Ahid said. “Why would Kestor choose someone as unimportant as me?”

“Thou makes a good point,” Marifo said. “Wouldst thou have a child lead us, Lan?”

D’Ahid bristled at that. He was no one who mattered, but he was no child, either.

“Don’t take offense,” Jeni told him. She turned to Marifo. “Kestor saw the leader he’ll become.”

“You hope,” Adrow muttered.

D’Ahid turned on the man, surprising himself. “I helped save you. I don’t want to lead anyone, but show some thanks for the risks I took.”

“These last two years I’ve risked my life more times than you can count to protect Noule from the Imperials; so don’t you ever–”

Lan stepped between them, and D’Ahid sighed with relief. He didn’t want to fight Kestor’s people.

“Enough.” Lan’s tone was stern, and his eyes flashed as he fixed his gaze on Adrow. “Kestor’s prophecies have always come to pass. He saw that D’Ahid would pick up his banner when he fell.”

Adrow snorted. “I’ll take the horses to the dell.”

“But why him?” asked the other woman they’d rescued. Her tone seemed to balance disappointment and disbelief. D’Ahid seethed, but kept his tongue as she went on. “How long do we wait for him to become a leader?”

“We don’t wait, Amthra. D’Ahid leads us now, and I’ll follow him so long as I draw breath.”

He’s mad, D’Ahid thought. He’s never seen me before today.

“I want to join your fight, but I can’t replace Kestor. And no one knows the future. Whatever Kestor told your friend, you misheard.”

Jeni lowered her eyes. “Monsi of Trepe. He and Jada of Serdow gave their lives to deliver Kestorand myself two years ago.”

“I’m sorry.” D’Ahid looked over at the shrouded body of the man who’d once saved him. The man he’d failed to save. “I’m sorry we didn’t rescue Kestor, too. I tried my best, but–”

“You helped save the others,” Jeni said.

“No. They escaped on their own.”

Amthra stepped forward. “No. Thy attack gave us the diversion we needed. If not for thee, we’d have been slain.”

“Thanks. But Kestor is dead, and no good can come of that.” He started towards the body, but Marifo blocked his way.

“No. Thou may have helped us, but thou be not one of us.”

“I only wanted to pay my respects.”

“Let him pass,” Lan said. “He’ll do no harm.”

“Of course I won’t.”

Marifo seemed to consider, then stepped aside. D’Ahid knelt before the body of his hero. He’d always wanted to meet Kestor, talk with him, learn from him.

“How can I replace him? I failed him.”

Lan’s voice was gentle. “You weren’t meant to save him. Kestor knew his destiny, and he didn’t shirk from it. I wish I had half as much courage.”

“Did Kestor prophesy about all of you?”

“No,” Jeni said. “Yours is one of the few names he mentioned.”

“We still know naught about the last prophecy,” Amthra said.

D’Ahid stood. “Last prophecy?”

Lan joined him. “Kestor wrote and sealed the only prophecy that has not yet come to pass— so far as we know. We are not to open it until a date five years hence. He didn’t say why. Nor do we know why a message for Marifo is not to be opened until then.”

“Did Kestor write many prophecies?”

“Only the one to be opened in five years,” Jeni said. “Kestor made few prophecies, but he spoke them.”

“Then how can you be sure what he told Monsi? Kestor couldn’t have intended for me to lead you. I could never replace him. Besides, the Imperials know he’s dead.”

“A handful saw Katral kill him,” Lan said. “Many more saw you in the courtyard. They’ll believe Kestor is invincible. You knows the legends?”

“Kestor was a great warrior and just king who ruled long before the Imperials came. They say he couldn’t die.” D’Ahid looked at the body again. “I wish that were true.”

“But it is. For you are now Kestor.”

“No, I’m not! That is Kestor, and Kestor is dead!”

“The man is dead, but Kestor is a symbol of freedom. He passed that symbol to you.”

“Was he the original Kestor?” D’Ahid asked, as Adrow returned. The question seemed almost blasphemous, but he had to know. “Or was he another impostor?”

“He came to us in a time of need, as the ancient legends foretold,” Adrow said. “He is the only Kestor.”

“I said I don’t want to replace him.”

D’Ahid turned back to Lan. “But if he’s the original Kestor, he should be immortal.”

Lan smiled. “Immortality takes many forms. Consider the poet Eniarr. Even the Imperials acknowledge her work as great literature. Has she not gained immortality through that work, written centuries ago?”

“Do you jest? That’s not the same.”

“It is in the ways that matter. Just as Eniarr’s words keep her alive in our minds and hearts, that armor keeps Kestor and his dreams alive.”

Lan turned to the others. “The legends said Kestor would return, but they didn’t say he’d not be reborn. I believe the man we followed all these years came to us to prepare the way for the one who would come after him— D’Ahid.”

D’Ahid said nothing. Why bother? He couldn’t reason against Lan’s fanaticism.

“Whether the man who led us was the original Kestor doesn’t matter,” Jeni said. “He led the fight for independence. If D’Ahid will help continue that fight, he can call himself the Goddess Ruala for all I care.”

“Abra wants me to be a woodsmith,” D’Ahid said. “Kestor wanted me to succeed him. What about what I want?”

“What do you want?” Jeni asked.

“I… I want to make a difference. Somehow.”

“You will,” Lan said.

“I pray so. What was Kestor like? Did he have family?”

“He never spoke of them,” Amthra said. “We became his family.”

“I think he had children,” Jeni said. “He seemed protective of me, as though I reminded him of a daughter; but he never said why. I never asked. Perhaps I should have.”

* * *

Lord Tragh holstered his weapon, and regarded Katral’s body. He’d come a long way to see Kestor’s corpse, only to find that an uncomfortable journey had wasted his time. Then that coward had unleashed a litany of blubbering excuses for his failures. Worse, Katral had let the outlaws escape with Kestor’s body. The fool should have executed him in public.

Lord Tragh called for his lieutenant. He’d have Katral’s head displayed in the capitol as a warning. As to the body, burial in the inner courtyard gardens. Katral failed as a governor; perhaps he’ll succeed as fertilizer.

Vainglorious fool. No wonder it had taken a decade to capture Kestor; and then only by blind luck. But Katral had to foul that up, too.

“Send a dispatch to the capitol for a replacement.”

* * *

Governor Garn leaned back in the plush velvet seat of the gold-plated, horse-drawn carriage and frowned. How could civilized people travel in this manner?

She sat in comfort, but that comfort was offset by the carriage’s constant jarring as it navigated the cobblestone street. Then there was the steady clip clop of the horses hooves; the driver’s shouted commands to the animals; and worst of all, there was that stench.

Damn Katral. Because of him, she’d endured an interminable journey from civilization with neither rest nor her belongings. Those would follow sometime “later.”

Very well, if she must live in this sty, she’d not only rid it of the ersatz Kestor, she’d also introduce civilized transportation. Every major Imperial city utilized a network of pneumatic transport conduits for both passengers and cargo. It was efficient. It was… civilized. Under her guidance, this region would renounce its primitive ways.

The carriage offered one advantage. She could see her subjects lining the streets; and they her. Let them believe she was, at heart, one of them. Easier to guide them.

A quarter hour later, she stood in the square, flanked by an honor guard of troopers, and spoke in dulcet tones.

“I am Governor Garn. In recognition of his efforts in helping this fine community become a productive part of the Empire, Governor Katral has returned to our beloved mother country of Lakorci and received a promotion.”

She made an inward smile as she pictured Katral’s head adorning a pike. “I now command here, but I ask your help in moving forward into a glorious tomorrow.

“It saddens me that some selfish individuals want to prevent you from improving your quality of life. They’ve mocked you good people and our just laws by assisting in the escape, two days ago, of the outlaw who insults your ancient traditions by calling himself ‘Kestor.’ We’ll find them, and will ensure your continued safety.

“I know you want the best for the community, and will help us bring ‘Kestor’ to justice.

“Furthermore, in the spirit of mutual cooperation, I declare a full pardon for any crimes which do not involve ‘Kestor.’ These include all penalties on unpaid taxes.”

The crowd cheered.

“Anyone with information regarding those who helped him escape will not pay taxes for six months. ‘Kestor’ threatens the peace and safety of Ijnag. Together, we’ll make it safer.”

The crowd cheered again. If only she could have told them their precious local hero lay moldering in some unknown grave. Instead, because of Katral’s blundering, she had to play the outlaws’ game and pretend Kestor still lived.

But Kestor was dead, and the impostor would prove a minor obstacle.

Chapter Two

As Josald left Governor Garn’s office, he cast a surreptitious look at the petite, regal woman who’d taken command. What sort of monster had the Empire sent, and why such fanaticism about wiping out the outlaws?

Thoughts of her plan for tonight churned his stomach, but he took some solace in the knowledge that she didn’t want to be here. If he could orchestrate matters, she’d be gone— disgraced— and he’d take charge. Although Lord Tragh had appointed Garn, he wouldn’t condone such barbarity.

And Garn’s contention that the outlaws would follow the impostor who’d led the failed rescue attempt was ludicrous. They all but worshipped Kestor. They’d never obey another.

Josald reached his desk, and drummed his fingers on the smooth maple surface. To try to dissuade Garn from her plan would be suicide. She’d come within a whisker of executing him for the mere suggestion that there might be a better way. Still, there had to be a saner alternative than having an impostor hired by Garn claim to have killed Kestor, and announce he’s taking a more extreme stance against the Empire.

Well, that part of her plan had strategic value, given that Josald would “capture” and unmask Garn’s impostor before his “escape.” If the outlaws’ impostor continued his impersonation, he’d have to reveal himself to prove he wasn’t the same man. But the way Garn intended her impostor to prove his point— that was insanity. They could undermine the people’s faith in Kestor by less barbaric means.

That faith made no sense. “Eight hundred years ago, the warrior king Kestor united several once-combative tribes into the beginnings of a nation-state,” Garn had told him. “That nation-state fell apart after his death, leaving the scattered city-states of today, but he remains their greatest leader. One legend claims he never did die.”

A conflicting legend held that Kestor had declined the throne, and went into the wilderness, promising to return when needed. That same legend claimed he can conquer death.

Did the people believe Kestor immortal? Josald would like to think they weren’t that gullible.

Garn believed they believed it. Maybe that’s why she knew so much about Kestor. The history of some backwater colony didn’t concern him, but information about Kestor’s influence could prove useful.

“Josald, report at once.” Garn’s words echoed along the marble corridor, slicing through his thoughts.

He hurried to her office. “My lady?”

“One last thing. Kill our impostor at the rendezvous point.”

As she spoke, Garn continued to mark selected points on a wall map depicting the mountains. She’d ordered him to seal all the cavern entrances. An impossible task. More than one hundred known caves dotted the eastern slope alone. What’s more, Kestor’s people have ridden into Ijnag from both east and west, suggesting connecting passages beneath the village. Perhaps through the mines. But Josald wouldn’t make the mistake of trying to explain that a second time.

“Yes, my Lady.” Josald hadn’t expected anything less of her. By all rights, she should die, too.

* * *

Adrow threw a rock across the cave. It hit the far wall, and clattered to the ground.

“How much longer do we wait? The people need to know we haven’t abandoned them; and we must avenge Kestor.”

Amthra clenched her first. “Thy words ring true. To the people, these past two days must seem two years. We must strike hard.”

“We will,” Lan assured her.

Marifo turned to him. “I still say thou was foolish to send D’Ahid into Ijnag. He is meant to be in Serlo.”

“Worry not. Only his brother knows that, and D’Ahid said Abra remains in his shop afternoons. Unlike any of us, D’Ahid won’t attract undue attention as he helps restock provisions.”

“Others must know of his apprenticeship. And he has been in Ijnag since before dawn. He may encounter such people before night.”

“Perhaps, but they’d not give it much thought. The greater risk would be if he were seen either coming from or going into the mountains.”

“Risk to whom?” Adrow demanded. “We know D’Ahid comes from Ijnag, because I’ve seen his face before. But not all in Ijnag support us.”

“D’Ahid does,” Lan replied.

* * *

The archaeologist stood in respectful silence before Garn’s desk as she studied his report. After a moment, she looked up.

“Three thousand years?”

“Give or take a century, my Lady. We’ve only begun our dig, but we already know the people who lived there had a more advanced culture than our own in some ways. Governor Katral supported our work. I hope you will also.”

Garn turned her attention to the wall map. The dig was ninety miles to the south— well beyond Cinat— amid farmland. What had befallen the great city that once stood there?

She turned back to him as she tried to recall his name, then dismissed the thought. The man was only a minion. “You have my interest. More advanced? Explain.”

“It appears they achieved powered flight.”

“Incredible. You’ll discover how, of course. Such technology would prove useful. What else?”

“We found no indication of a conduit network, although flying machines might make one superfluous.”

“One would think. Continue your work. I expect regular progress reports.”

The archaeologist bowed. “Yes, my lady. I must point out that it could take several years before we can make a full report.”

“Of course. Some things cannot be rushed. Still, I believe you stand on the cusp of a significant discovery. I envy you.”

As the archaeologist bowed again and left, Garn let out a wistful sigh. Beyond doubt, she’d chosen the wrong profession.

* * *

The thunder of galloping horses drowned out the carefree tones of families gathered in the school yard to sing the Songs of Remembrance. From out of the shadows four masked riders bore down on parents, children and teachers.

The leader wore a reasonable duplicate of Kestor’s armor and battle mask, with the darkness obscuring the more obvious flaws. He threw an oil lamp into the wooden school. A conflagration erupted.

“You sing praises for the heroes of Imperial wars. Where are your songs of praise for Jarno, for Xervan, for Kestor?”

His voice rose in intensity. “Those who attend Imperial schools or sing Imperial songs are our enemies!”

Hidden in a merchant’s stall further up the street, Josald watched the attack. Was the impostor’s histrionic speech Garn’s words, or his own?

Josald gestured, and one of the three troopers with him opened fire. The horse beneath the ersatz Kestor collapsed. The impostor leaped from the animal and fired wild, into the crowd, even as his “companions”— disguised troopers— fled.

Another shot struck the impostor’s shoulder, and his weapon clattered onto the cobblestones.

As two troopers seized the impostor, Josald aimed his weapon at the man’s head. “It’s over, Kestor. Remove his mask. Let’s meet a living legend face to face.”

The man beneath the mask— a mercenary named Miklar— was dirty and unshaven. He stank of an overabundance of ale, but his apparent intoxication was part of the deception.

“Kestor, you’re not the man you were,” Josald said.

“He’s not Kestor,” someone shouted.

“So it would seem,” Josald agreed.

“Kestor is dead!” As rehearsed, Miklar wrenched free and produced a blood-stained knife from within his jerkin. “I killed him. He was weak. I am not.”

He feigned a lunge at Josald, who dodged the thrust, grabbed Miklar’s wrist, and twisted it until the mercenary cried in genuine pain and dropped the knife.

“Aren’t you? You kill helpless children, and then your friends desert you. You define weakness.” He gestured to the troopers. “Remove this animal.”

“My blade will yet taste of you, Imperialist,” Miklar shouted, as the troopers dragged him away.

As a woman wailed over the bloodied body of a little girl, Josald vowed that Garn would soon suffer her own lamentations. And the outlaws would help see to that. For now, Garn presented the greater threat to the Empire.

Sudden shouts of ‘alarm’ sounded from behind him, as Miklar made good his rehearsed escape.

Now you belong to me, Josald thought.

* * *

D’Ahid stood with clenched fists in the L’Eroii Road. A thick plume of smoke rose into the early evening sky. Why had the rebels done nothing to stop that maniac?

No one noticed as he slung the carryall of provisions across his back, and strode towards the mountains. Kestor had never allowed such an atrocity to happen. Why did he die, and abandon the people who counted on him?

D’Ahid gritted his teeth as he climbed up to the honeycomb of caverns. He’d hunt down that maniac, with or without help from the others. Damn their prophecies. Let them believe whatever they wished, so long as they protected the people.

A sharp, low voice from somewhere in the darkness cut off his thoughts, making him jump. “Identify yourself!” Adrow.

“I’m D’Ahid.”

“Take slow steps. Stay to your left.”

After D’Ahid had gone about twenty yards, Adrow pulled him into a fissure.

“Did you get everything?”

“Forget that. Look.” D’Ahid indicated the smoke far below, as he thrust the carryall at the rebel. “Someone impersonated Kestor and did that. He also murdered several children.”

“Ruala! Did he say anything?”

“He killed them because they sang the Imperial Songs of Remembrance. He also said he killed Kestor, and promised to kill anyone who opposed him. I don’t like those songs either, but he has to be punished. And if you won’t do it—”

Adrow’s jaw tightened. “We’ll deal with him. Come.”

Moments later, D’Ahid told the others what he’d witnessed.

Jeni rushed forward. “In Phaned’s name! He killed children?”

“Didst thou see this impostor?” Marifo demanded. “What manner of countenance had he?”

“I caught a glimpse when the Imperials unmasked him. He looked begrimed.”

“How did he escape?”

“I think he shot someone. His friends slithered away when the Imperials captured him.”

“Didst thou not notice their direction?”

“No, I didn’t. Not in all that chaos. You wouldn’t’ve fared much better if you’d been there. But you weren’t there. None of you were. You sat up here, doing nothing.”

“How dare thou speak thus—” Amthra began, but Telrac cut her off.

“No. He be right. As Adrow said, we should not have sat about.”

“We would not have if we’d not been ‘training’ him.”

“Don’t fault me,” D’Ahid shouted. “I don’t take to this prophecy nonsense.”

“Enough.” Lan’s tone was quiet, yet commanded attention. “This impostor must work for the Imperials.”

He turned to D’Ahid. “They know someone has replaced Kestor, so they engineered this atrocity— complete with unmasked impostor— to complicate matters for you.”

D’Ahid’s stomach somersaulted. “How do I prove I’m not that murderer unless I show my face? But if I do, everyone will know I’m just another impostor.”

He forced his stomach to quiet itself. “We must find him.”

He turned to Jeni. “What do I want? That monster caught; those Imperials who helped him exposed. I’m not the one Kestor prophesied about, but I will help hunt down that animal.”

“And so you shall,” Lan said. “Tomorrow, you will wear the blood-stained armor and ride with us into Ijnag. You’ll refute reports of your death; and you’ll vow to capture the impostor.”

“No. Who’d believe I’m Kestor unless I removed the battle mask? We don’t wait. We hunt this fiend tonight, and we bring him before the people tomorrow.” His assertiveness might have surprised himself if he hadn’t been too angry to care.

Marifo seemed to study him. “Perhaps Kestor chose well, after all. Thou speaks with wisdom beyond thy years. We must respond to this outrage without delay.”

“If the impostor be still alive,” Amthra said. “If they have not yet done so, the Imperials will kill him.”

“Why would they kill him?” D’Ahid asked.

Amthra gave him a sharp look. “So we can’t prove they planned the attack.”

D’Ahid glanced away. Any fool should have realized that.

“If he suspected a double cross, he might have hidden in the caverns,” Jeni said. “He’d try to reach Noret.”

“Then we’ll start the search here.” D’Ahid tried to sound sure of himself.

“Agreed,” Lan said. “If our quarry hides in the caverns, we’ll bring him into Ijnag come morning. If not, we ride down anyway; and D’Ahid will denounce him.”

Telrac grasped D’Ahid’s forearms. “I welcome thee. I saw how thou fought at the castle. Thou thirsts for revenge for thy father, and for tonight. We will have that revenge.”

“Justice,” Jeni insisted. “Kestor believed in justice, not mere vengeance. If we let the latter blind us, we’re no better than that monster.”

“Revenge be the only justice that matters. How could thou— of all people— not embrace it?”

D’Ahid couldn’t help but admire Jeni. When Lan had escorted him from the caverns that morning, he’d said that three years earlier her family had been victimized by the Imperials. Yet she didn’t seek vengeance.

But sometimes revenge was justice. Like now. “Telrac is right. We find that worm, and then we hunt down Katral. He murdered my father and burned our home. We should tie both those scum to a horse team and drag them through the streets, until their screams drown out the horses’ hoofbeats.”

“And would that barbarity restore either your father or those children to life?”

“Don’t patronize me, Jeni. Of course not. But it’d keep others from dying. And it would tell the Imperials to leave our lands forever.”

“Nothing’s so easy. And while I ken your rage, we must first clear Kestor’s name. If we fail, everything he fought for, everything we’ve endured, will have been for nothing.”

“I said don’t patronize me. I know what’s at stake.”

Marifo clasped D’Ahid’s forearms like Telrac. “Kestor was my world. No one can replace him, but it be clear he saw something in thee. I welcome thee in whatever role destiny has for thee.”

* * *

Josald’s gaze bore into Sergeant Reda. “No one must know why you’re searching for Miklar. Only a few know the truth about him. If I should suspect this knowledge grows more widespread, it will mean your life. Clear?”

Reda’s voice quavered. “Yes, sir.”

“Excellent. Take a regiment into the caverns. Miklar murdered three troopers. I want him in the ground by this time tomorrow. Find him before the outlaws do.”

“Yes, sir.”

As Reda hurried off, Josald smiled. After killing the troopers he’d accompanied to the rendezvous with Miklar- and then wounding the mercenary- he’d forced Miklar to flee into the caverns. As Josald had anticipated, Reda believed Miklar had killed the troopers.

Would Reda find Miklar before the outlaws did? More likely the presence of his regiment would signal that the man who’d massacred children hid in the caverns. The outlaws would root him out, revealing Garn’s deception. The Royal Court would recall her and demand explanations. And Josald would have command.

And if Reda should reach Miklar first? Josald took a ceremonial knife from his wall and slid it into his tunic. Perhaps he should handle things himself, rather than rely on either the Royal Court or Lord Tragh. If a pitched battle broke out in the caverns, the confusion and the shortage of troopers in the castle would allow him to give Garn his person attention.

She’d used Miklar like a licar in a game of Altars, forgetting that a careless player’s licar can be turned against her.

Chapter Three

D’Ahid, again attired as Kestor, hastened along a torch-lit passage with Lan, Marifo and Jeni. He prayed that the impostor lurked within the tunnels his team would search.

Warned by some instinct, Jeni motioned for silence. She exchanged glances with Lan and Marifo, then slipped down the passage and into a transverse tunnel. D’Ahid bit his lip.

After several moments that might well have been hours, she returned, and he unclenched his breath.

“I saw three troopers. But more are about.”

“How do you know?” D’Ahid asked.

“The Imperials never send in just three troopers.”

D’Ahid felt himself blush. “Could they find us?”

“Depends how many troopers be here,” Marifo said. “Didst they say anything, Jeni?”

“No. I just heard their footfalls.”

A wry smile crossed Marifo’s lips. “How could you not?”

“You’re certain they didn’t see you?” Lan asked.

“Positive. I spied them from behind.”

“How do we warn the others?” D’Ahid asked.

Jeni smiled. “If I could hear them, Telrac also will.”

“But how do we capture the impostor before the Imperials do? These mounted torches also help them.”

“They have more need of them,” Lan said. He doused the nearest torch, plunging the cavern into blackness. “Light your lantern.”

D’Ahid did so, and opened all four hinged metal doors.

“Now close those.”

The cavern became dark again. D’Ahid grinned as he opened the doors again.

“Clever. We can close off our light, but the Imperials won’t douse their torches. But suppose they have lanterns?”

“They won’t put them out,” Jeni said. “They don’t know these caverns as we do.”

* * *

D’Ahid leaned against a cavern wall, ignoring the cold, and punched his open palm. “An hour of this and nothing. I say we get to Noret before that swine does.”

“And if he slips past us in the thick greenwood above Noret?” Marifo asked.

“In case it evaded your notice, he’s slipped past us in here so far. We’d have a better chance of catching him near Noret. We’ll deal with the forest… somehow.”

“I agree,” Jeni said. “The others can continue to hunt him in the caverns.”

“I agree as well,” Lan said.

D’Ahid gave Marifo a questioning glance.

“Thou be our leader,” she said in a matter-of-fact tone. “Let us go.”

“This way,” Jeni said. As she and D’Ahid started ahead, he wondered how often she’d returned to Noret, if at all.

“What happens after we’ve exposed the impostor?” He glanced back at Lan and Marifo, a few yards behind them. “We both know Lan misinterpreted the prophecy.”

“I know nothing of the sort. But I’ve never concerned myself with prophecies. Both the passage of time and your actions will reveal whether you prove worthy of leadership.”

“How did you come to join Kestor? Lan didn’t give me any details.”

Her sea-green eyes began to moisten, but she didn’t shed any tears.

“No. He respects my privacy.”

D’Ahid gave her a hurt look. “I’m sorry, but you people seem to know everything about me, and I know little about any of you. How fair is that?”

“Not very.” Her voice quavered- just a bit. “Three years ago, my younger sister was raped and murdered by a drunken trooper. We appealed to the Prefect of Noret for justice, but the trial was a sham. They acquitted him and sullied her name.

“Grief overcame my father and he attacked the trooper in the courtroom. The Imperials beat him, then hung him in the square as an ‘example.’ I wanted to tear out their callous hearts with my bare hands.”

“What happened?”

“When I got home from school, full of plans of revenge, I found Kestor waiting for me. He knew my plans, even my thoughts. He said he’d known others who’d felt the same; and then he asked whether I wanted revenge or justice.”

“What did you say?”

“That I wanted both. He told me revenge accomplishes nothing, while justice benefits us all.”

“He was wrong.” D’Ahid felt as if he were committing some great sin at questioning Kestor’s wisdom. “For us, revenge is justice. My father failed to report a runaway mine worker. Katral decided to set an example by executing not only him, but my brother and me as well.”

“But you were children.”

“Katral said age is no excuse for disobedience; that we should have reported our father. His words are seared into my brain: ‘Your first loyalty is to the Emperor.'”

“What loyalty has the Emperor ever shown us?”

“None. We’re less than cattle to him. But right about then Kestor appeared. He saved Abra and me, but couldn’t reach Father in time. Katral made his example, but that didn’t satisfy him. He also burned our home.”

D’Ahid met Jeni’s gaze. “Revenge is justice. Garn must answer for tonight; and one day I’ll hunt down Katral, and again there will be justice. That’s my prophecy.”

* * *

D’Ahid emerged from the caverns a few steps ahead of the others. In the starlight, he could make out the edge of a forest.

“Spread out,” Jeni said.

D’Ahid and the others melted into the greenwood. He watched the middle cave of the five caves near their position. A hunch told him the impostor would come out of that one.

He hefted a heavy branch, testing its weight.

Another hour passed before he thought he saw a furtive movement in the shadow of the cave he watched. He tensed. No sound reached his ears save the hoots of a few owls, but his eyes remained fixed on the cavern. Had he imagined it?

After an eternity, and as the sun began to rise, D’Ahid saw movement again. A man emerged, crouched low, and holding a direction finder. He wore an imitation of Kestor’s battle mask. A grim smile played across D’Ahid’s lips, and he offered Ruala silent thanks for granting his wish.

D’Ahid gestured toward the man and started forward, hoping the others saw his signal. He moved in stealth from tree to tree, and soon stood a few yards from his quarry. He tensed, ready to render that monster into a pulp.

“Murdering bastard, I’ll kill you!”

The man spun at the sudden shout. So did D’Ahid. Lan stood a few yards away. The man reached into his jerkin, and D’Ahid saw his chance. He charged with a yell, swinging the branch. The startled impostor froze. D’Ahid struck him in the ribs and he went down.

Before the impostor could recover his breath, D’Ahid tossed the branch aside and ripped off the man’s battle mask. He pummeled him with one hand as the other gripped the man’s throat.

Through a red haze, D’Ahid heard Jeni implore him not to kill the man.

“We need him alive. Remember?”

D’Ahid gave the impostor one final blow. “Bind him.” He kept his voice low and raspy, to sound like Kestor. “We’ll take him back come morning.”

“It’s a trap.” The man sounded terrified. “Imperial troopers are all over those caverns.”

“We know,” Lan said.

The impostor whimpered. “They forced me to dress like this and enter your caverns. Lieutenant Josald threatened to kill my children.”

D’Ahid hit him again. “Liar! You murdered those people tonight.”

“Oh, Gods, sir. No. Another man did those terrible things, but Josald killed him to keep him quiet. Then he realized he could have used him as bait. He made me-”

D’Ahid dragged the man to his feet. “I saw you myself.”

“Impossible. You weren’t there. None of you were.”

D’Ahid threw him to the ground again. “Kestor is everywhere.”

* * *

“Excuse me, sir?”

Josald looked up from his work. An imposing figure stood framed in his office doorway. Despite his size, the man seemed almost timid as he showed due deference to an Imperial officer.

“I don’t know if you remember me, sir. I…”

Josald beamed as he came forward and clasped his visitor’s hands. “Good morning, Abra. Of course I do. Wonderful cabinet you made for my wife and me last year. But I’m sure you’ve come on more important matters, at such an early hour. How may I assist you?”

* * *

After the woodsmith had left, Josald considered Abra’s fears that Kestor had harmed his brother. D’Ahid could have had a rendezvous with a girlfriend as Josald suspected, or had otherwise decided to delay his journey to Serlo. Or perhaps he’d joined the outlaws. Abra had let slip that D’Ahid didn’t share his feelings about Kestor.

Garn would find this information useful. Reason enough to withhold it. D’Ahid had been one of four villagers who’d received travel visas in recent days— all approved weeks ago. Josald had confirmed the journeys of the other three. As far as Garn was concerned, he’d confirmed D’Ahid’s as well. Oh, he’d investigate, as he’d promised Abra; but if his suspicions proved true, Garn would never know.

Once she learned that the four journeys had been confirmed, Garn would order him to check the records for any unaccountable recent visitors. It would be ironic if a recent visitor now impersonated Kestor, but Josald doubted it. Even so, why would the rebels have accepted D’Ahid, let alone allowed him to masquerade as their leader? From Josald’s vague recollection of the boy, D’Ahid lacked a commanding presence.

Sergeant Reda had reported his regiment’s failure to secure Miklar, along with his belief that the outlaws had captured him. If so, they’d produce Miklar this morning, perhaps while Garn visited the school. Josald couldn’t move against her until then, as he’d realized last night. Even if she didn’t have guards with her, killing her now would only brand him an assassin. But once her role in the massacre had been exposed, her death would be an execution.

* * *

Abra shook as he beheld the charred remains of the school. The odor of burnt wood still hung in the air. Only criminals and cowards fought the Imperials by attacking children.

As Abra and a carpenter from Trepe named Tusnic worked together under the sharp eye of a squad of troopers, other troopers hiked into the mountains.

“That murdering outlaw deserves summary execution. No, the Imperials should seal every cave. Let those wild dogs starve.”

Tusnic shook his head. “Wouldn’t work. They say some passages lead to Noret. Those outlaws are clever.”

“Doesn’t take cleverness to kill children. And sealing the caverns would keep those animals away from us. Let the Norets deal with them.”

The new governor’s carriage came down the road and stopped before the school. Abra listened with care as she stepped from it and spoke.

“My friends, I share your sorrow at your loss. Rest assured we will find and punish the monster who calls himself Kestor. And you can help. In fact, anyone providing information leading to his capture and execution will pay no taxes for one year.”

“I like that idea,” Tusnic whispered, as cheers rang up among the other workers.

“So do I. But I’d rather be the executioner.”

The thunder of hoofbeats cut off Tusnic’s reply. Kestor and his band rode with brazen arrogance into the village, and reined in their horses several yards from the crowd.

A trooper reached for his weapon, but two of the outlaws had already raised their longbows and drawn back the bowstrings.

“Unwise,” Kestor rasped. “We are outside your range, but you are not outside ours.”

Abra thrust his hands out and mimed wringing someone’s neck. “Come closer, outlaw,” he muttered.

Kestor shoved the man on the horse next to him to the ground. The man, who was ill-kempt, wore identical armor, but no battle mask. He seemed to be fettered.

“This man attacked the school, using my name. He is Miklar, a thug hired by Governor Garn.”

The bound man said nothing.

Abra turned to Tusnic. “He isn’t Kestor. Kestor is dead. He must be.”

“I see the bloodstains, but that is not Kestor’s shade before us. Maybe he can defeat death.”

“No!” The gods would not be so cruel as to let a monster like Kestor escape death, while condemning D’Ahid to an unknown fate.

“Governor Garn is not your friend,” Kestor rasped. “She hired this man to attack you and to discredit those who fight for your rights. Don’t let her soft words and empty promises deceive you.”

Abra glared at the outlaw leader, as he heard people muttering. They must have noticed the bloodstains. Then Garn’s voice rang out.

“Arrest them all. Now.”

A trooper started forward only to collapse in agony, as he clutched the arrow that pierced his arm.

“Arrest yourself, Governor,” Kestor said. “You hired this mercenary.”

“So you say. I never saw this man before now. Nor do I lurk in the mountains like an insect scurrying from the light. My office is open to anyone; and I go out among the people.”

She stretched out her hands, as if to prove her point. “Remove your battle mask, ‘Kestor.’ I’m told Kestor went without the battle mask more often than he wore it. These good people all know your countenance. Prove you’re the man you claim to be, and I’ll have this man punished for the attack on the school. And before all these witnesses, I promise you and your followers may go free.”

Abra started forward. “No! He’s a murderer. Kill him.”

Two troopers restrained him. “Don’t harm him,” Garn said. She turned back to the outlaws. “Well, ‘Kestor,’ can you convince this man that you didn’t commit these atrocities; that the man you accuse isn’t some hapless innocent onto whom you intend to shift the blame? Do you accept my terms?”

“No. I won’t dance to your song. Lieutenant Josald?”

Josald appeared puzzled that Kestor had singled him out. “Yes?”

“A few years ago, Governor Katral fell ill with fever, leaving you in command. Do you recall?”

“I do.”

“A renegade legion from Trepe saw his illness as an opportunity to attack and plunder Ijnag. We forged a temporary truce to fight and defeat them.”

“Kestor and I did, yes. That fact is well known.”

“We met alone. You said mutual trust would be impossible, but I said I would and did trust you. True?”

“Yes, Kestor,” Josald replied, his eyes on Garn. “He is Kestor, Governor. Only Kestor knows what we said that day.” He turned to the crowd. “Kestor also speaks the truth about Governor Garn.”

Garn glared at him, and reached for a weapon, but saw, as Abra had, that Josald had already drawn his. “You’ll die for this, Josald,” she said.

“We’ll see.” Josald turned to the troopers. “Arrest that mercenary. And arrest Governor Garn, pending a full investigation under Article Thirty-Seven. The outlaws may leave.”

Abra struggled against the troopers holding him. “No, you can’t! They’re killers.”

“Muzzle him,” Josald ordered. “But don’t harm him.”

Josald rode up to the outlaws and spoke to Kestor for a moment. Then the outlaws started to leave. Kestor glanced back. Abra was certain he was laughing behind the battle mask.

* * *

“What did Josald say?” Lan asked, as the rebels raced away.

“That he and Kestor must not have been alone that day; and that whoever coached me must have misheard.” D’Ahid paused. “Then he said I owe him a favor.”

“We’ll deal with that when the time comes. You did well. You’re a natural actor. The people believe Kestor still lives.”

“Maybe.”

“What of Abra?”

“I’ll go to him this evening.”

“Will you tell him you’ve joined us?”

“If necessary.”

* * *

Garn regarded Josald’s bloodied form with disdain. Incompetent fool.

“You overestimated your influence, Josald. You have fewer friends than you believed. You’ll die a traitor.”

He shot her a defiant look. “I’m loyal to the Empire, but you’re a butcher. By all rights, you should be under arrest. If not-”

“If not for my personal guard, I would be? Perhaps; but we don’t live in a world of perhaps, Josald. We live in the real world, a chaotic world. I will bring order to it, and I won’t tolerate disobedience.”

She fired a single shot at his chest.

He coughed blood. “The people have seen your true colors, and you’ll no longer charm them. You went too far with Miklar.”

“People are malleable. They won’t believe I had anything to do with that. And Miklar won’t tell anyone otherwise.”

“You’re a fool. The new Kestor now has a personal grudge against you.” He smiled. “I… know… his… name…”

Garn was nonplussed at that, and Josald’s lifeless eyes seemed to mock her.

* * *

Abra opened his door to D’Ahid’s knock and D’Ahid saw a torrent of emotions play across his face. After a moment, Abra broke the silence.

“Where have you been? Drenu wrote, saying you’d never arrived. I thought you’d been killed.”

He took a step forward. “Did the outlaws take you prisoner? How did you escape?”

D’Ahid stepped inside. “No.”

“Then what happened?”

“I never went to Serlo. I had a more important task.”

“More important?”

D’Ahid took a deep breath, and prepared for the explosion.

“I had to help rescue Kestor.”

“Are you insane? Kestor’s a criminal, and he’s responsible for Father’s death.”

“Governor Katral killed Father. Kestor saved us. I owed him something.”

Abra tensed, and took slow, steady breaths through clenched teeth.

“Even if that were true,” he said at last, “you have repaid your ‘debt.’ You can put aside this childish infatuation and begin your studies. It’s not too late.”

D’Ahid shook his head. “I can’t. The others need me.”

“What others? What do you- The outlaws. They’ve done something to you, confused you. You’re not a criminal. You don’t belong with them.”

He held out his hands. “No one knows you’ve been with the outlaws. You can still come back to your life.”

“I’m sorry, Abra. I’ll visit when I can, but I have a purpose now. I’m still trying to figure out what it is; but I know I’m not meant to be a woodsmith. The rebels are right to fight for our freedom. You could help us. I am the new Ke-”

“I will never help Kestor. He may not have attacked the school, but he’s still a criminal. If you stand with him, you’re no longer my brother.”

“Abra, listen. Kestor is no longer—”

“Speak no more of Kestor! You’ve made your choice. Go, before I call for a trooper.”

D’Ahid’s jaw dropped. “Abra…”

Abra turned his back. D’Ahid stared at him for a moment. Then he sighed. “We’ll talk again later. There’s something you need to know. Something important, but I’ll wait until you’re calm enough to hear it.”

Abra said nothing. After another moment, D’Ahid stepped into the night.

One day he’d make Abra understand. Somehow.

Chapter Four

Five years later…

Garn steepled her fingers as she listened to the archaeologist’s report.

“This machine you uncovered served as a means of capital punishment? What method?”

“Disintegration, my lady.”

“Indeed? Does the device still function?”

“Yes. We’ve tested it on some cats. All were disintegrated.”

“I had no idea the ancestors of our charges were so ruthless. What else can you report?”

“With regrets, very little. The few surviving records of that era don’t reveal anything related to the device’s history or under what circumstances they used it. However, it seems to have been the center of controversy. One fragment of an editorial condemns the ‘terrible device that tears us apart.’ But perhaps this editor stood alone in his or her condemnation.”

“Perhaps. How did you unlock this mechanism’s secrets?”

“By happenstance. We observed an alcove just large enough for a full-grown adult, and a large lever near it. So we decided to test it on a stray cat. We weren’t sure what to expect, but I daresay none of us anticipated what resulted.”

“Nor, I imagine, did the cat. Does it have other controls?”

“Yes. Several switches and levers of uncertain purpose. We determined it best to leave them be.”

“Wise decision. Can you bring this machine here?”

“At once, my lady.”

After the archaeologist left, Marifo stalked forward from her hiding place, her weapon aimed at Garn’s head. She’d have pulled the trigger long ago; but she had her orders.

She made no sound until she stood just behind Garn, and thrust the muzzle of her weapon into the governor’s neck.

“Say nothing and remain still. We must talk.”

“Must we?” Garn looked up into Marifo’s eyes, an expression of amusement in her own. “Come to kill me?”

“Not today. I bring thee information. Stand.”

Garn stood. Marifo gestured her away from the desk.

“You haven’t come to kill me? You surprise me, Marifo.”

“Were it my choice, I’d have killed thee long ago. But I have my duty.”

“What duty might that be?”

“Thou wishes to capture Kestor? I will tell thee how.”

Garn laughed. “Am I to believe that one of Kestor’s most dedicated followers would betray him? You’re a rabble, but you’re a loyal rabble.”

Marifo fought back the urge to shoot, to silence that smug tone. “There be a woodsmith named Abra. Threaten to kill him unless Kestor surrenders. Kestor will come.”

“Abra hates Kestor. Why should Kestor surrender for him?”

“If thou wishes to capture Kestor, that be how. I have followed my orders. Whether thee listens means nothing to me.”

“Orders from whom?”

“Whom indeed?” Marifo bound and gagged Garn, then slipped out of the castle. She knew that despite her suspicions, Garn would do as instructed. Before long, D’Ahid would be in their enemy’s hands.

“It be the right thing,” she whispered. “I am doing the right thing.”

* * *

“I had an interesting conversation with one of the outlaws earlier,” Governor Garn said as she strode into Abra’s shop like it were her own. Abra looked up from his work at Garn and the two troopers with her, masking his annoyance at the interruption.

“She said you could help us capture Kestor.” She spoke as if she and Abra passed the time of day.

Abra was nonplussed. “Me?”

“Curious, yes? You’ve been quite vocal about your hatred of Kestor.”

“Yes, I hate him. I hate the suffering he caused my family.”

“Then you’d want to help capture him.”

“I’d like nothing better.”

“It gladdens me to hear that. Yet I’m curious why that outlaw named you.”

“I don’t know.”

“Have you ever fished, Abra?”

His brow furrowed. How did that relate? “Once or twice.”

“We’ll do that now. You’re the bait.” The troopers grabbed him and forced him to the door.

“Why are you doing this? I said I wanted to help capture Kestor.”

Garn turned to face him. “You will help. I’m told Kestor will surrender to prevent your death. Unlikely, but I’d be a fool to pass up any opportunity, wouldn’t I?”

She seemed to study him. Abra shivered. He’d never trusted Garn, despite her affectations of neighborliness.

“Why would Kestor surrender for you? What connection could you two share?”

Abra’s stomach lurched. Had she learned that D’Ahid had joined the outlaws? He’d never forgive that betrayal, but he also didn’t want Garn to know. So he’d kept his peace all these years.

“Only that Kestor caused my father’s death. That outlaw lied, Governor. Kestor cares only about himself.”

“Believe me Abra, I don’t take anything that woman said on faith; but why would she lie about you? After all, excepting the unfortunate incident involving your father, you haven’t had direct contact with the outlaws, have you?”

“Of course not.”

A thought struck him. If Kestor could be captured it might break his hold over D’Ahid. Abra would give his life without hesitation to save his brother. But would Garn distinguish between true outlaws and an innocent in Kestor’s thrall? Doubtful. Lieutenant Josald might have, but Josald was dead.

“When you capture Kestor, you’ll kill him? You won’t give him a chance to escape, like Katral—?” He broke off, expecting a rebuff, but Garn said nothing. Nor could he be sure what to read in her steady gaze. “I’d give my life with gladness if it guaranteed Kestor’s death.”

A smile played across her thin lips. “Indeed? I’d hate to lose such a fine woodsmith. Perhaps we’ll catch our fish, yet also keep the bait alive.”

* * *

D’Ahid grinned as he waved to the young family making its way towards the greenwood above Noret.

Adrow seemed to sense his mood. “It makes you feel good.”

“It does. They’re free of Garn’s pitiless tax levies. But we need to do more.”

“We’re making a difference.”

“A sliver of a difference. Like how I keep Kestor’s name alive. But I’m just playing a role. Even this new battle mask I made doesn’t compare to Kestor’s own.”

“You sell yourself short. If people have souls, Kestor’s lives in you. Despite my initial doubts, you have proven yourself.”

D’Ahid wished he could share Adrow’s confidence, but he knew he’d never measure up to Kestor. “We’d best head back.”

When they rejoined the others, D’Ahid’s good spirits plummeted. A pall seemed to have descended over the others. No one had said anything, but the look in Jeni’s eyes spoke volumes.

“What’s happened?”

“Abra’s been arrested,” she said.

A sharp pain sliced through D’Ahid’s gut. “Why?”

She took his hand. “No one knows; but Garn will release him only if Kestor comes alone and surrenders.”

“Thou must not,” Telrac insisted. “It be a trap.”

“Could she know you’re now Kestor?” Adrow asked.

D’Ahid shook his head. “If she knew I wasn’t the real Kestor she’d proclaim it to the Empyrean.”

“Then why arrest Abra?” Jeni asked.

“Doesn’t matter. I won’t let harm befall him.”

“You can’t surrender.”

“I can’t let Abra die.” He gave her hand a gentle squeeze. “When must I— I mean Kestor— surrender?”

“You have two hours.”

“Can we free Abra?”

Jeni bowed her head. “No. They have him in the square, guarded and tied to the machine that archaeologist— Rehar— claims our ancestors used for executions.”

“The Imperials allow no one near,” Telrac said.

“Then I’ll have to surrender.”

“No,” Telrac shouted. “Thee be not expendable.”

“I won’t let Abra die. I couldn’t save Kestor, but I will save my brother.”

“How can thou be certain he be in true peril?”

“Abra would never put me in danger.”

“Abra doesn’t know you’re now Kestor,” Adrow said. “And he hates Kestor. You must not go.”

“I must. I won’t risk his life.” D’Ahid again cursed his cowardice at never having told Abra the truth. He’d always pledged to do it “next time”, and the days and years had raced on. But would knowing the truth have spared Abra this fate? If Garn knew the truth, why hadn’t she denounced D’Ahid? If not, how had Abra attracted her attention?

He turned to Lan. “What do you say?”

“You must go. True, Abra wouldn’t endanger you, but somehow Garn knows of a connection between him and Kestor. How?”

“Because I told her.”

D’Ahid turned. Marifo emerged from the shadows at the far end of the cavern. She took slow steps, as if in a daze, and stopped several feet from the others. A parchment dangled between the fingers of her left hand.

Jeni grabbed Marifo’s shoulders and shook her. “You told Garn? In Phaned’s name, why?”

“I did as instructed.” Marifo held out the parchment. Jeni snatched it and read it. Her eyes widened, and her voice was tinged with disbelief.

“Kestor wrote this.” She turned to Marifo. “The sealed message for you. This is it.”

“The day he died, Kestor told me I was to unseal the message on this day.”

“That’s right. I remember,” Adrow said.

“Kestor wrote that Marifo must go to the governor— today— and tell her to threaten Abra,” Jeni said. She sounded as shocked as D’Ahid felt.

He made a vehement shake of his head. “Impossible. Why would Kestor order the betrayal of his chosen successor?”

Jeni handed Lan the parchment. “Lan knows Kestor’s script better than any of us. He’ll confirm this is genuine.”

Lan studied the parchment and nodded. “This is written in Kestor’s hand, but that isn’t all he says. He assures Marifo that this action is necessary to ensure the freedom and safety of all Noule, and that neither Abra nor D’Ahid will come to harm.”

He turned to Marifo. “Why did you not come to us before you acted?”

She wrung her hands. “Would thou have had me disobey Kestor? How could I do that? I have never disobeyed Kestor. Nor hast thee. Even so, I could not let any of you share my burden.”

She turned to D’Ahid, her tone both confident and imploring. “I have faith in Kestor. He would not allow thee to come to harm. I would not have done what I did if I had believed otherwise.”

D’Ahid regarded her with narrowed eyes for a long moment. If not for his faith in Kestor, he might throttle her. He still might. “Your reasons don’t matter. I won’t take any chances with Abra’s life.”

He turned to the others. “Whatever happens to me, see to it that the prophecy about no harm to Abra comes true.”

* * *

Two hours later, D’Ahid reined in his mount several yards from the north end of the square. There Garn had secured Abra to her strange device.

“I must admit I wasn’t sure you’d come,” Garn said.

D’Ahid affected Kestor’s raspy voice. “Release that man.”

Garn offered him a friendly smile as she cut Abra’s bonds. “Of course. But why surrender to save a man who hates you?”

“All the people are under my protection.”

Abra spat. “We do not want your ‘protection’, outlaw. No one asked you to come here.”

D’Ahid fought to keep his tone emotionless, lest Garn reconsider that there might be a connection between himself and Abra. “Kestor goes where he’s needed, woodsmith. I’m needed here.”

“A comforting delusion, I’m sure,” Garn said. “But you’ll not be among us much longer.”

“Perhaps. Others have said the same, and yet Kestor remains.” Even as he spoke, D’Ahid was surprised at his calmness. It helped that the real Kestor had foreseen that both he and Abra would emerge from this unharmed.

Idly, he wondered if he’d ever see himself as more than a substitute. Perhaps one day he’d come close to getting halfway there. If Kestor’s prediction proved wrong, he prayed the others would carry on. Lan would be best suited to assume the mantle.

He offered a silent prayer to Ruala, dismounted, and allowed himself to be secured to the device.

* * *

Abra hurried back to his shop. Bait for Kestor or not, he still had to finish an important order by sundown. Even so, he’d pause in his labors to witness the execution in an hour’s time.

Without warning, a hand reached out from a narrow alley and pulled him into the shadows.

“Say nothing,” a low voice hissed. “Thou be in more danger than thy know.”

Abra faced two of the outlaws, a farmer about his build, and a leaner Cinat.

“Release me,” he cried, as the outlaws forced him further into the shadows.

The farmer gave him a hard look. “You wish to live?”

Abra nodded.

“Then listen well, and we might save both yourself and your brother.”

Abra was nonplussed. “D’Ahid? What of him?”

“He be in Garn’s trap,” the Cinat said.

“Speak sense.”

As the Cinat spun a web of lies, Abra snorted with disdain. What kind of fool did they take him for? If D’Ahid was in the trap, that coward Kestor had forced him.

“You lie.”

The farmer’s eyes narrowed. “Do we? Come with us.” The outlaws led Abra behind homes and through back alleys until he could see the device from a hiding place. He shivered. D’Ahid was bound to it, unmasked, but wearing Kestor’s battle armor.

Two competing thoughts tore at him— that he’d led his brother into a trap; and that D’Ahid had betrayed the memory of their father by impersonating the man who’d caused his death.

“I must tell Garn D’Ahid is not Kestor. She’ll release him.”

The farmer held him fast. “You know she won’t. Even if she believes D’Ahid is a decoy, she’ll not release him. And if she got hold of you again, she’d make you act as executioner— to prove your loyalty to the Empire. Would you like that? To be your brother’s executioner?”

“To the Imperials, an outlaw be an outlaw,” the Cinat said. “She won’t free him.”

“She will when Kestor surrenders.” Abra put steel in his voice, even as he shuddered at the memory of words spoken long ago.

“Thou still does not understand. D’Ahid be Kestor. There be no other.”

“There will be. I don’t know how you forced D’Ahid to join you, but I won’t let him die because of it. One of you will masquerade as Kestor and surrender in his place. I know you have spare armor and battle masks. How else could one of you have impersonated Kestor to distract the troopers when you rescued your fellow criminals from Katral?”

“No harm will befall D’Ahid,” the farmer said.

“No harm? You and your ilk have corrupted him, and put him in harm’s way.”

The farmer remained calm. “Kestor not only prophesied that D’Ahid would succeed him, but also that D’Ahid would surrender himself to save you— and that no harm would befall either of you.”

“I should believe such fancies?”

“Kestor’s prophecies have always come to pass.”

Abra grit his teeth. “You’ll do nothing? You’ll leave everything to fate?”

The outlaw smiled. “I did not say that.”

Abra grabbed the outlaw’s tunic near the throat. “If you had any decency, you’d let D’Ahid return to a normal life.”

The outlaw remained calm. “This is his life, and he has helped people. He captured and exposed Miklar.”

Abra’s grip loosened. “That was D’Ahid?”

“Yes. He tried to tell you when you last spoke, but you would not listen.”

Abra released the other man and glared at him, but said nothing. None of the outlaws would impersonate Kestor and offer himself in D’Ahid’s place. They didn’t care about D’Ahid. If they had, they’d never have used him.

He had no choice. As much as it galled him, he’d have to pretend to be the man he hated and offer himself in his brother’s place. He’ll say D’Ahid was a foolish boy who’d tried to protect him, but that he can’t allow others to sacrifice themselves in his place.

He’d die, of course. But D’Ahid would be away from that foul machine by then. Perhaps Abra’s sacrifice would also snap him out of his spell, and he’d understand the truth of things.

If he’d accompanied D’Ahid to Serlo, or if he hadn’t chased him away when he’d revealed he’d joined the outlaws, all of this might have been prevented. He had one last chance to set things right.

“If none of you will impersonate Kestor, then I will.”

The Cinat gave him a dubious look. “Thou?”

“Yes. To save D’Ahid, I would even pretend to be Kestor.”

* * *

Tied fast in a small alcove of the metal apparatus, and under heavy guard, D’Ahid was displayed, unmasked, for all to see. The others would protect Abra, but he had failed them all. Even now, he didn’t understand why Kestor had chosen him.

The expressions of anger, disappointment and betrayal on the faces of the villagers who’d gawked at him for the past hour felt like daggers. He prayed they’d forgive him for letting them down.

“This is your legendary hero?” Garn asked, her tone mocking and derisive. “The one who knows the future and can defeat death— a would-be woodsmith?”

“That’s not Kestor,” someone shouted. “He is D’Ahid. I attended school with him.”

Garn nodded. “Nor does he have Kestor’s famous silver hair. Or his beard. And he has both his eyes. Could it be that Kestor— the true Kestor— is dead, and this boy has used— and mocked— you all these years?”

She offered D’Ahid the faintest hint of a smile, as the crowd jeered him. He glared back at her, and recalled something Lan once said.

“Kestor is the symbol, the spirit of freedom,” he shouted. “That spirit can move from one person to another. I may die, but the spirit of Kestor will live on in another. Kestor is eternal.”

A few people nodded, and D’Ahid prayed his idea would work. If they could think of Kestor as a symbol passed from one person to another, perhaps they’d accept someone who might come after him. The others would know that while no one could replace the real Kestor, they’d still have a way for the people to accept someone else using his name. Someone like Lan.

“The spirit of Kestor died with the man,” Garn said. “This boy, for all his poetic words, is just a pretender. And since I view D’Ahid’s crass impersonation as akin to sacrilege, it is fitting and proper that he be executed in the manner proscribed by your ancestors.”

She slipped the battle mask back onto him. “Let Kestor’s famous battle mask serve as the impostor’s hood of execution.”

Garn nodded to a technician, who pulled a large lever. The machine began to hum with a gradual increase in tempo. D’Ahid struggled, wishing for one last moment with Jeni.

Then came a blinding flash.

* * *

“Justice is do—” An arrow slammed into Garn’s chest. She stared at it as she felt her legs turn to rubber, then looked up. Her dying eyes widened as she saw a figure in the familiar battle armor urge his mount down the hillside.

“Justice!”

* * *

Lan saw a torrent of emotions play across Abra’s countenance as the woodsmith removed the battle mask. “It’s my fault. If I hadn’t let grief and anger blind me, I’d— Now I’ve lost my only family. This,” he gestured at the armor he wore, “was all I could do to atone. I’d hoped to rescue him, but–”

“We’ve destroyed that machine,” Jeni said. “No one else will die in it; and your actions reinforced Kestor’s legend.”

Abra slammed down the battle mask, and began tearing off the armor. “Do not speak that criminal’s name in my presence.”

“How dare thee…?” Amthra began. Lan held up a hand. Now was not the time to fight; not with D’Ahid’s brother.

“Let him be. We understand your feelings, but we still appreciate what you’ve done for us.”

“I ‘appreciate’ that I failed to be a proper guardian to D’Ahid, and that led him to such as you. So much for your hero’s prophecy that no harm would befall him.”

Lan’s soul felt as if it had been seared. “I don’t understand. Kestor’s prophecies have never been wrong.”

“I just realized something,” Jeni said. “This is the day we’re to read the last prophecy. Maybe it will explain what happened.”

Amthra spat out a bitter, mirthless laugh. “Perhaps he names another to lead us, now that D’Ahid be dead. Or perhaps he tells us the prophecies all be for nothing.”

Jeni crossed to the small alcove where they’d stored the sealed prophecy. “I don’t believe that. Nor did Kestor. He never gave up.”

She returned with the parchment, broke the seal and unraveled it. “In Phaned’s name!”

He hand trembled as she handed Lan the parchment.

“What does it say?” Telrac asked.

Lan handed the parchment to Abra. “You should read this.”

Abra scanned the document. “It’s not possible,” he whispered.

Lan said nothing as he knelt and picked up the battle mask. He considered it for a long moment.

Epilogue

D’Ahid stumbled, then frowned as he regained his balance. He stood alone. How had he gotten free? The others must have come for him, and he’d become dazed in the fight.

Just then he noticed a large crowd at the far end of the square. Had his friends been captured?

He started forward, then stopped. He wasn’t alone. A man stood in the doorway of a small shop to his right, and stared at him with an expression of awe. D’Ahid found it disconcerting. By now the man must know he wasn’t the true Kestor.

“Kestor! By all the Gods, can it be true?” The man’s reverent tone carried the same degree of awe.

It seemed he didn’t know. D’Ahid made an inward shrug. “I am Kestor, my friend.” As he drew near the man, he saw that he was a stranger, doubtless a newcomer to Ijnag. “Do you need assistance?”

“Not me, but the governor means to execute a good and decent man.” He pointed toward the crowd. “You must stop it.”

“I intend to.” As a boy, D’Ahid been helpless to prevent Katral from killing his father. But now he’d keep Garn from murdering some other family.

He and the stranger wend their way behind the shops, unobserved. As he drew nearer the crowd, D’Ahid wished he had time to find the others, and that he could remember how he’d gotten free; but that would have to wait.

He could now see the people in the center of the crowd, and his jaw dropped as he tried to accept the reality of what he beheld. One thing was clear, he no longer doubted his destiny.

He turned to his companion.

“You are Monsi of Trepe.”

The man looked startled. “How did you–? You are Kestor.”

“Will you follow me, Monsi?”

“Until my dying day.”

“Do you see that family there? The younger boy is called D’Ahid. One day, the boy named D’Ahid will come to the followers of Kestor. And on that day, he will be your leader. He shall be Kestor.”

The End

• Continue Reading

Published by Karl Rademacher on June 29, 2014. This item is listed in Novellas, Serial Novellas

Embers

by Salena Casha

Chapter One

“Melody.”

My heartbeat quickened and I froze. How did they know my name? The half-crescent light of the moon glowed off stone. An alleyway, shrouded in darkness, slithered between the buildings. I reached for the familiar hilt of my knife, but my fingers grasped at air.

A cackle pierced through the night. The hair on my arm bristled. “You can’t hide from us, dearest,” the voice sang. “We only want to talk with you”.

Yeah right. Their medallion burned against my chest. I tried not to wrinkle my nose. Who knew how many of those foul creatures had caressed the ruby with their hands. Its heat soothed me, and my muscles relaxed. The swish of satin brought me out of the trance.

“You’ll be my undoing,” I whispered to it and tucked it under my tunic.

Interminable darkness stretched in front of me as I slowly backed down the alley. My current position was far from advantageous. They’d find me eventually. I shivered at the thought of the Specters: those who trailed me. They were monsters that no one knew existed, except us, the Order. And our duty was to protect everyone else from them.

I quickened my pace, my feet soundless against the stone pavement. Not that it made a difference. If I had worn a silence spell, they still would be able to hear me. They had senses beyond those of humans. They were probably enjoying the fast beat of my heart. My feet tripped into a run as I slipped through the side-streets of Brita. The roads of the village were barren, the silence emphasized by my blood pounding away in my ears.

“Melody, I see you,” the voice called out again. Its high tone vibrated against the walls. I took another step forward when something grabbed my feet and slammed them into the ground. Panic built up in my chest as my throat threatened to close. I struggled against their magic as it paralyzed my legs, rooting me in my spot. Iciness spread through my veins; a cold breath slid down my back. I winced as the chill made its way deeper into my body.  Focus, I urged myself. I closed my eyes and took a deep breath. Control. Do not let them take your body from you.

A pale white form materialized in front of my eyes in a cyclone of wind. Her sharp teeth glistened in the moonlight, their sharpness punctuated by beady black eyes that stood out against white skin and hair. She traced my face with a long finger, her skin hard as marble. I tried not to wince as her nails scratched against my cheek, hot blood blooming from the scrapes.

“I believe you have something of ours,” she purred from her perch a few feet above the cracked ground.

The ruby’s heat radiated through my body as it undid the cold of the Specter’s magic. “Is that a question? Because if you’re asking, you’re supposed to say please,” I replied. Acid rose in my throat and I tried to swallow.

She swooped down, inches from my face, enraged. The rotting smell of her breath overwhelmed my senses. “Give it to me. Now.”

“No,” I said. My body thrummed with energy. The nerves in my hands felt as though they pulsed outside of my skin, shocked through with adrenaline. If I lost the gem to her, there was no telling what the Captain would do to me.

“I would tell you I won’t hurt you, dear, but I don’t like to lie.” Her eyes hardened as she barred her teeth.

The Specter’s magic slipped slowly off my body like melting ice. My muscles tensed as she reached out to touch my arm, her hand twisted into a claw. I delved deep into my mind and tugged at the core of my powers. Gritting my teeth, I pushed the blue string of magic out of my fingertips toward the creature. The sparks tunneled together, entwined in a long blast of light. She screamed out in pain and withdrew her outstretched hand. Magic rolled off my skin, escaping from my pores. It molded itself over my body in a bubble.

A loud crash bounced off the walls of the alley. I whirled around, my hand poised to send another stream of magic toward the disturbance. A dark silhouette tripped over a pile of rubbish.

“Melody, we have to get out of here,” someone cried. I wiped away the sweat that bled down my forehead. It was Aaron, my partner, the most notorious wimp in the entire kingdom. Always came out at the last possible moment.

“Easy for you to say,” I grimaced as I sent another string of magic from my fingers toward the Specter’s image. Something sharp cut against my hand and burnt my skin.

“My shield’s faltering. She’d breaking through,” I muttered.

I fell back onto hard rock. This wasn’t supposed to happen. The Specters only weapon was fear; they had little true magic of their own. Aaron grabbed my hand and pulled me to my feet as the Specter began her approach. Patches of red decorated her white skin where my shield had scorched her.

“Let’s get out of here,” Aaron whispered.

“The Captain wanted a prisoner this time,” I snapped.

Aaron’s eyes widened, but he knew better than to protest, so he stepped behind me. I delved deeper into my power to search the hidden crevices of my reserves. I pressed my palms together and opened them. A whirlwind of blue heat erupted from my skin. The Specter clawed and shrieked against it as I twisted the blue wire around her figure. With one final twirl, I formed the magic into a cage. She clawed against the barriers. Part two of mission completed.

“We ready now?” Aaron asked. A loud howl ripped through the air, the sound of Specters screeching through the night. I didn’t think it wise to wait for them. I slung the cage over my shoulder, and he grabbed onto my arm. His touch seared my skin as he mumbled words beneath his breath. Pressure built inside my chest. Air pushed down on me. The alley tunneled and I closed my eyes. Wind sucked at my skin. And then there was only silence.

***

Chapter Two

Order members filled the headquarters, the cabin lit by a roaring fire. Red stains colored the floorboards. The elder members told us, with a wink and a nod, that at the time Headquarters was built, even the trees bled red. I knew better. It had been painted the scarlet to honor Order members who had died fighting the Greater Evil, a constant reminder of our own fate. I brushed a strand of frizzy auburn hair away from my eyes as I hefted the cage higher on my shoulder. Aaron trembled beside me. He never was particularly fond of crowds.

The rumble of voices hushed as the members watched us enter. I swallowed, ignoring their curious stares and looked confidently ahead of me. A desk emblazoned with two swords, the sign of the Order, sat at the center of the room. The Captain looked up from his map. Even in the limited light, the scar that ran from his temple to his lip glinted, sinister.

“Melody,” the Captain said. He removed his eyeglasses and let them hang from his meaty fingers. Grey speckled his black hair. The floor creaked under his weight. My stomach clenched as I removed the cage from my back.

“I’ve brought the stone and a prisoner,” I said. The Captain raised his eyebrows. Just stay strong. If he hears fear in your voice, you’re done for, I reminded myself. I was tough, raised on the streets. I knew how to deal with a military man.

“Are you sure?” he asked and gestured toward the cage. I looked down, my heart sinking inside my chest. The Specter had torn a hole in the side of my magic cube. Vanished. Must have disentangled herself during Aaron’s teleport. My hands shook as I forced myself to meet his eyes.

“She was here a minute ago, I swear,” I said. Digging into my tunic pocket, I produced the ruby. “But I do have the stone.” A sharp edge of the rock dug into my hand and blood oozed from the cut. A silvery spark of my magic stitched up the wound.

He shook his head, frustration oozing from his eyes. “Without a prisoner, the stone is useless.” He waved the congregation away with his hands. “Back to work.”

“Rogue, Henderson,” he pointed at two younger men at the back of the room, “Go out and try to catch that Specter. She can’t have gone far.” With a nod, they disappeared into the night.

“You, come with me,” he said and beckoned me toward the desk.

His reading glasses skittered across the table. I crossed my arms in front of my chest. Anger boiled in my veins. How did the Specter escape without my knowledge?

“Do you know how much everyone here has sacrificed for you? You have failed us.” His voice was heavy. “Again.”

Heat rose in my cheeks. Okay, I might not have been the most accurate shot in the entire Order, but it didn’t mean I wasn’t trying. “I would just like to point out, sir, that last time was not completely my fault. I was outnumbered.” He shook his head.

“This isn’t about blame. I put my trust in you and it’s gotten us nowhere. There is a war going on out there. We can’t afford any mistakes.” He sighed and replaced his glasses on the bridge of his nose.

“I’ll give you one more chance. Find out what the stone does. If you can’t, you don’t belong here.” My throat closed and I tried not to choke as my eyes burned. The Order had been the only home I’d ever known. He couldn’t just take it away from me. I stormed out of the room toward the Novice barracks.

“Since the Specter escaped, does that mean we won’t be getting promoted?” someone asked. I turned around to see Aaron looking up at me from under his thick spectacles.

I shoved him in the shoulder. “We have a lot more than that to worry about,” I replied. My head pounded as though my skull was about to split open. He fell silent and ran his hand nervously through his hair. I ducked under the wooden archway to my room. The dirt floor crunched beneath my shoes. I tumbled toward the shaky structure of my bunk bed. The other Novices were sound asleep. They were able to doze through a hailstorm.

Pulling off my boots, I ignored his worried expression as he stood in front of me.

“What?” I looked up at him angrily.

Aaron’s shoulders bowed forward. “Nothing. You look tired. Get some rest. I feel like we both could use some.”

“Yeah, you must be tired from standing and watching me save your sorry little butt,” I said to his retreating back. He just shook his head and disappeared through the archway toward the male barracks.

I pulled off my tunic and slipped into my night shirt. The soft material caressed my skin as it beckoned me to sleep. Just relax, I told myself. You’ll be able to figure something out. I placed my knife back into the waistband of my shorts. Sliding under the covers, I listened as the sounds of the Order, those who worked around the clock, receded into the distance. Those sounds, which had been so familiar to me, sent a jagged pain through my heart. I couldn’t afford to lose my home.

***

Chapter Three

“This is useless.”

I slammed the jewel down against the boulder. My knuckles throbbed but the stone was still intact. Too bad it hadn’t cracked open and spilt its secrets onto the grey rock. Aaron looked over at me from where he sat. He clenched a handful of grass clippings, torn out by the root, in his fist. The Jove River trickled by us. Miles downstream, along the Brita Boundaries, it expanded large enough for barge traffic.  But here, it was just a thin brook; barely a creek.  And quiet enough for me to think. Below us, the village center prepared itself for nightfall. Below us, the Captain sat at his desk and awaited our return. I dug my nails into the rich soil.

“Melody, really, we’ll figure something out,” he said. I waved my red knuckles in his direction and he frowned.

“There’s nothing to figure out,” I said. The Captain’s threat whispered through my mind and my heart clenched as I tried not to look down at headquarters. Tendrils of sun flickered over the grass. The last rays flashed across Aaron’s glasses. “It won’t work for me. I don’t know how to make it show us anything.”

This wasn’t a fair test at all. How was I supposed to be able to figure out this secret? What if it was just a regular rock? All I wanted was to bury my face in my hands and sob like a child. But I couldn’t let Aaron see me cry. He had always been the weaker one, the one I comforted. And now in crisis, I couldn’t let the roles change. Squinting into the distance, I ground my teeth.

“Melody…”

“What? Is there some other stupid advice you want to give me?” I snapped.

“No. It’s just…”

“We don’t have time for this. For anything. We’re just going to get kicked back onto the street. Is that what you want? For us to become performers? You know what happens to Order members who are dismissed. They don’t last very long out there.”

Resignation folded his shoulders. His eyes gazed at a point above my head, his mouth hard. “Just look.” He raised an arm and pointed behind me. I followed his gaze.

Crimson light lit the valley below us. At first, I thought it was just the glowing remains of day. But the beams moved and flicked. I shaded my eyes. Flames stretched up toward the sky, a threat to set the clouds on fire. I could see Headquarters, see the wooden beams through which smoke spiraled. The structure creaked, on the verge of collapse. Dark shapes moved around the perimeter. From beneath their cloaks, matches flew onto the enflamed pyre. Magic sizzled under my skin and pulsed readily at my fingertips.

“No!” I rose and scrambled forward.

“Melody!”

I ignored him. It was a half-mile descent to the village through the thinly grassed meadow. I could get there in minutes. An explosion shook the structure. Tremors traveled through the ground. My knees slammed into the hard dirt as I lost my balance. I had to get there. Had to save them. I pushed myself to standing when Aaron grabbed my wrists. His brows curved down into a frown.

I felt for the knife at my waistband. “We have to help. Teleport us.”

“Are you crazy? We could land in the center of a burning room and die. We can’t risk it,” Aaron said. I wanted to remind him of all that the Order had risked for us long ago. That we owed them our lives.

“But it’s our duty,” I cried. The acrid tang of smoke stung my nose. I blinked away haze as I glanced toward the flames.

“No,” he said. “Our duty is to protect the stone.” He pulled me onto the ground. Grass tickled my bare legs and I wanted to wrench myself away but he gripped me hard. His voice lowered to a whisper. “Whoever set the fire is probably looking for it.”

I needed to tell him that he was wrong, but as I looked back at the shadows around the flames, my blood cooled. My arms went limp but he did not release his hold.

“We have to get away from here,” he said. I nodded and he pulled me to stand.

“You can let go,” I said. He hesitated, still holding my wrists. I rolled my eyes. “I promise I won’t run.”

“Fine,” he said. We made our way back to the river and I slipped the stone into my pocket. Silky plumes of smoke funneled into the darkening heavens.

The lazy current of the water made it easy for us to cross the river. The cool liquid seeped into my leggings and glued the fabric to my skin. I grimaced as I followed Aaron out of the stream, my clothes heavy. Grass crunched beneath our feet as we hurried away from Brita. It would’ve been nice not to have to walk, but Aaron never went outside the Britan boundaries. Teleportation required familiarity of some form or other.

Not that we knew where we were going anyway. I’d never been outside the boundaries either, never been outside the outline of the country. When the night sky had completely blacked out the light of the sun, other than the eerie glow of the coals that were once our home, I curled my magic into two glowing orbs that balanced on my palms. The landscape before us rolled toward the horizons in hills of never-ending grass. Aaron barreled on ahead of me.

“Wow.”

“What?” He called back over his shoulder.

“Nothing. I just didn’t know you knew how to walk,” I replied. I could picture his eyes rolling back in his head, annoyed that he had me for a partner.

“Wait up.” I panted up the hill to where he stood. His black curls rustled in the wind, the muscles in his back tensed. I placed a hand on his shoulder and he shrugged it off. “Aaron, we should stop. Rest. I can hide us. At least for the night.”

He did not turn and I walked around to face him. In the orb’s blue glow, his eyes glistened.  His body shook as he wiped a hand across his nose.

“It’ll be okay,” I whispered. He shook his head, arms crossed.

“It wasn’t just your home,” he said.

“I know.” I moved toward him but he stepped back.

“It wasn’t,” he repeated. And I could see him for what he was beneath the magic: just a homeless, orphaned thirteen-year-old boy.

“I’m so sorry,” I said and I grabbed his shoulders. On the verge of tears, he folded into me, his body thin beneath my hands. I helped him sit down on the cold grass. In the night air, I wove a cube of protection around us. His eyes traced the pattern as my magic glowed and then disappeared, an ebb and flow of familiarity. I lost myself to the buzz, to the patterns. Stay strong, I reminded myself, biting my lip. Aaron’s sobs echoed in the space as he cried into my shirt just like he had when I first met him.

When the Order had found me, I had been seven years-old. I was playing in the street, dressed in rags. Sitting on my haunches, I watched as blue sparks trickled from my fingers and fell onto the concrete. Flowers bloomed where my magic touched the ground. People in Brita had acted less than kindly toward me when they had seen such displays of power. One day, after a nasty incident with a shopkeeper, the Captain approached me and told me to come with him. I’d been horrified, thought that he would take me back to the orphanage I’d escaped. But I was too small to fight him. He brought me to Headquarters, gave me a bed to sleep in, food to eat, a place to train. He taught me how to use my magic.

They found Aaron when he was five. I had been at the Order for a year when they brought him in. All the Order children younger than nine slept in the same room and he was assigned to be my bunkmate. He cried all through that first night. When I asked him what was wrong (right after I threatened him that I’d strangle him in his sleep if he didn’t shut up), he clung onto me and cried until the sun came up.

As we had learned, the Order was a group of Mages. They were born with magic to protect their fellow ignorant brothers and sisters from dark forces that hid in all corners of civilization. War was caused by darkness as was famine and disease. The Order fought those that sought to bring evil into the world. We had all sworn to protect and serve the human race until we were no longer needed. Like that was going to happen any time soon.

I held Aaron against me even though my stomach ached. The Order was gone. The people who had loved us, who had accepted us, who had taught us how to use the magic that had alienated us from other humans, were gone. Rocking him like a baby, I whispered words I didn’t believe into his ear until he fell asleep in my arms. Slowly, I shifted him onto the ground. He lay there, snoring.

“I’ll take first watch,” I whispered and stepped outside of the protective circle. The acrid smell of smoke drifted toward me as the wind blew through my thin clothes. My nose wrinkled at the stench. It would have been a beautiful night if the flames from headquarters did not still blaze and bathe Brita with a golden glow. I swallowed and swiped the tears from my cheeks with a quick hand.

Be strong, I whispered to myself. So I watched the fire settle down to embers and, as the sun rose, cool to ash. My nails pressed red crescents into my arm, but still, I watched. My home was truly gone.

***

Chapter Four

“Melody, we have a problem,” Aaron’s voice drifted toward me. I looked up from the fire-pit where I sat cooking our breakfast. Another problem? As if we didn’t have enough already.

“What is it?” I raised my eyebrows. I had sent him down to catch some more fish from the river. Unless the entire population of salmon had died, I didn’t want to hear his news. He reached into the back pocket of his trousers and pulled out a scroll. Our faces stood out in black ink, imprinted on the front page.

I snatched the paper from his hand. “What does it say?”

Aaron was one of very few people in Brita who could read. Only a handful of people were born with that type of power. The Order had used his gift to its advantage and communicated with other organized protective groups through Aaron’s cryptic scribbles. Not that we had ever seen any fairies or other Mages. The Order members were the only magic folk we had ever known.

“The authorities are looking for us. They think we had something to do with the fire.” His voice dropped to a whisper. “We have to leave before they find us.” I didn’t respond. I could feel his stare boring a hole in my back. I breathed in the sweet scent of flowers. Spring would arrive soon.

“Where would we even go?” I asked, my voice soft. Brita was the only place I had ever lived. Born into the disgusting streets, full of filth and death and danger, I had thrived here. My blood ran in the gutters and my magic coursed through marbled veins in the city walls. If I left, I would lose a piece of myself. He shrugged and sat down next to me. He patted my hand, his blue-veined skin pale against my bronzed complexion.

“It’s okay,” he said.

“It’s not okay,” I shot back. My magic sizzled on the ridges of my fingertips. My skin glowed gold. Anger raged through my body and I breathed out as I tried to stabilize my core.

“It will be,” he continued. Fear flickered across his eyes, but he held his ground. “The ruby will tell us what to do.”

“Why do you bother believing that fairytale?” I asked and rolled my eyes. I shoved my hand into my pocket. The rough edges of the ruby blistered across my fingertips. I held the crystal up to the light, watched the sun glance off the surface. “It’s just a stupid rock. There’s nothing important about it.” I glanced at the stone and my heart skipped.

“What?” Aaron demanded. He moved toward me.

“It’s just, I think I saw something.” I brought the gem close to my face, challenged the cracked edges to speak to me, to show me something. Nothing. I sighed. Now I was seeing things. Great.

Aaron’s hand closed over my fist and I met his gaze. “Your magic. Maybe it brought out a message.”

“I doubt it,” I said.

“It’s worth a try. That is unless you’re afraid of being wrong,” he said and crossed his arms in front of his hollow chest.

My power still sat, unused, on my skin’s surface. Blue sparks speckled the glass before seeping inside the gem through a fissure at the edge. Must have happened when I’d tried to break it open. My magic burrowed into the gem. It trickled like grains of sand into openings and pockets. I watched as it formed itself and settled. A mountain peak appeared in the ruby, sparkled in the afternoon sunlight. Four words engraved beneath the image blinked and shuddered. There were no mountains in Brita, just rolling hills and grassy plains. And ash, I added. I could still taste the acrid powder that had been blown by the wind and settled on our bodies the night before.

“Look,” I said and held it out to Aaron.

He stared, his eyes wide. It took him a few moments to study the symbols, to read their meaning. As I watched him, heat crept up my neck. We couldn’t survive without each other and it made my head ache.

“It’s the Cora Ley Mountain Range,” he said.

“Do you think you can take us there?” I asked. I choked on the words, my breath coming out in a cough.

He nodded. “You sure you want to?” he asked. I wished I could bottle up Brita’s wind and take it with me. Not that I was sentimental or anything.

“We should go,” I said finally. Aaron nodded and looked back down the valley, back at where we’d last seen Headquarters and the river and the streets of Brita. I felt dizzy as he slid his small hand onto my wrist. His skin felt cool, like ice, and I shivered.

“It’ll be okay,” he said. The corner of his mouth twitched into a watery smile.

I nodded tightly as I ignored the knot that twisted my intestines, as I tried not to dig my feet too hard into the ground. My magic slipped through my shoes like roots. It touched the stones and the dirt and the waterways, traveling toward Earth’s core. I let my tendrils embrace all that was Brita. All that was me.

“Good-bye,” he whispered to the wind. Pressure crushed down upon us and my vision tunneled. As my patchwork home disappeared into darkness, I remembered to let go.

***

Chapter Five

Green needles covered the ground. They crunched under my feet as I landed. Pine needles, I reminded myself. The cool air spilt into my clothing. A breeze sent a shiver down my spine. It didn’t help that we stood in the shade of a tree. Absentmindedly, I ran my hand across the trunk.  It was rough and pointy as it shed pieces of bark into my hand. The amulet had returned to crystal clarity. I shoved magic into the gem again, but the sparks slid off the surface.

“Damn it,” I swore. “You took us all the way into the middle of nowhere and now you’re abandoning us.”

Aaron raised his eyebrows, “When you start talking to inanimate objects, I know we’re in trouble.”

“Shut up.” I slipped the jewel back under my clothes. “I know exactly where we’re going.”

“Uh huh,” he said, raising his eyebrows.

“Just follow me,” I said and set off into the woods. Aaron sighed and followed, his city shoes snapping twigs beneath his gait. The sun peeked at us from above the canopy of leaves. At least the golden rays were the same here as in Brita. Speckled light danced across the floor and, for lack of a better option, I decided to follow it.

Flowers thrived beside their bramble archangels, bushes populated by the strange pairing. Ironic, I thought as we skirted thorns and sidestepped petals. Aaron tramped behind me, his steps punctuated every so often by yelps of pain as his skin caught on dangerous points. I shook my head, glad he couldn’t see my smile. Even if he was the most inept partner ever, there was no one else in the world I could imagine on a trek with me through the mountains. Not that I would ever admit that to him.

As we progressed farther into the forest, the overgrowth choked out the colored blossoms. Tree roots twisted up in snarled bunches from the ground, intent on tripping our feet. The air grew thicker; the sun disappeared for stretches of time. It was as though something compressed the woods. As if something had sensed that we didn’t know where we were going. I was about to turn around and retrace my steps when I realized that I could no longer hear Aaron’s footfalls behind me. My windpipe tightened and I whirled around, hand on my knife. He stood yards away from me, rooted in place, his eyes staring skyward.

“What are you looking at?” I asked.

He didn’t reply.

“Aaron,” I called again. He said nothing, his eyes focused on the canopy. I shook my head. Of all times for him to want attention, now he chose to make me confess that I didn’t know where I was going.

“Seriously, Aaron. I’m talking to you,” I repeated. Again, only silence. Annoyed, I walked over to him. If he wasn’t moving, I’d drag him back with me. I grabbed his arm. His skin was hard and cold to the touch. His irises did not register me, their surface glassy.

“Aaron?” I whispered. His skin marbled, his expression empty. A few of the leaves above me rustled and my heart pounded in my chest. This wasn’t right, didn’t feel right. A shadow flickered in my periphery and I tried to pull him behind a tree. But his body remained rooted to the ground. Leaves rustled again. I tugged at his arm, but I could not break his trance.

The air went still and I ducked behind a tree trunk. From the splintered bark, I watched Aaron’s frozen frame. I licked my lips, my palm sweaty against the cool metal hilt of my blade. The silence of the forest made my ears ring. I flattened my left hand, ready to spin a shield, when a loud pop boomed through the trees. Wind whipped my hair from my face and I gasped for breath. Black dust began to materialize next to Aaron. It sparkled as it formed a cloaked figure, its face hidden by its hood. I swallowed hard. The figures from the Headquarters fire. My body tensed as the misty being approached.

Suddenly, a hand clamped around my mouth and pulled me down to the forest floor. I tried to scream, but it came out as a gasp.

“Don’t yell. If you do, we’re both dead,” a man’s voice whispered urgently into my ear. I struggled against his hold. Something sharp pressed into my back and I went limp.

“I’m not going to hurt you. Just stop moving or it’ll hear us,” he ordered. I kicked him in the shin. The man swore under his breath, but his hold did not loosen. “I should just let it have you,” he said. “But I’m too much of a gentleman.” I rolled my eyes.

The black mist glided toward Aaron above the floor. My stomach clenched. So it wasn’t human. Great. Now this situation had reached the umpteenth level of bad timing. The dust sparkled. I let my mind delve into my magic reserves, but they were empty. I had used it all up on that stupid rock. The glittering specks settled on Aaron and enveloped him in black mist. Moments later, they disappeared just as the ashes from headquarters had blown away in the wind.

A voice, different from my captor’s, whispered in my ear, “Melody, Melody, sweet song, we know you.” I shivered as the cold wind blew down my back like an icy breath. Specters. It wasn’t the first time they had called to me, had told me they knew my name.

Anger roiled inside me with a heat that boiled my blood. I bit my captor’s hand hard, my teeth sinking into his flesh. Howling in pain, he pulled back and I dropped to the ground. I spun on him, knife drawn. Blond hair, pulled back from his face by a leather thong, framed silver eyes. He seemed to glow, his pale body fluorescent against his dark tunic. A long-sword balanced from his hilt.

“Where did they take him?” I asked slowly. I wanted to dive to the ground where Aaron had been, search for any sign of him, cry out his name. But I had the man to deal with now. I watched him warily. I should’ve let the Specter take me with him. At least then I’d know where it had gone.

“There’s nothing we can do now right now. They’ll be back,” he said. A thin line of blood oozed from the bite mark on his hand. At least he knew better than to grab me this time. “We have to get off the trail.”

Trail? I glanced around the forest, but I didn’t see any path. I gritted my teeth together and nodded tightly. If he left, I’d be alone, wouldn’t know where to go. Still, I did not put down my knife.

“Fine. I’ll follow you,” I said.

He nodded and set off into the trees at a run. The cold air stung my lungs as we raced away from the spot. My mind buzzed as I replayed Aaron’s stony form disappearing into the darkness. The man stopped in his tracks and I barreled into him.

He shot me an aggravated look. “Watch where you’re going,” he whispered. I shrugged. He grunted and knelt down onto the ground. Leaves rustled as he searched the forest floor for something. A click popped through the silence and the man pulled up a trapdoor.

“Get in,” he ordered. I hesitated, my hand resting nervously on my knife. “We don’t have much time.”

“Why should I trust you?” I asked.

“I saved your life,” he said. Again, I didn’t move. “Do what you like. But I wouldn’t stick around out here if I were you.” With that, he disappeared down the hole.

A screech, like fingernails against porcelain, echoed through the forest. The hairs on my arms prickled and I took a step toward the opening. The cry ripped again through the air and I didn’t need any more convincing. I dove into the entrance and the door clicked shut behind me.

***

Chapter Six

My fingers drummed against my leg as I sat by the fire. The man stood beside a chest of clothes, biting his thumbnail. He was a head taller than me and probably twenty years older. Thin, short scars decorated his face.

My voice sounded slow and hoarse as I broke the silence, “So you’re telling me that the Specters can come out in daylight?”

He cocked his head. “That’s what I just said, wasn’t it?” My face grew hot. When I didn’t say anything, he continued. “The cloak that you just saw is their new protection. They’re able to come out now anytime and anywhere.”

“Why?” I asked. My heart raced inside my chest, my feet ready to spring into action at any moment and take me back out into the forest.

His charcoal eyes pierced me before he looked back down at his hands. “You know very well the war that is being waged between the living and the dead. The Specters have become desperate. They have new,” he paused, “strategies. They’ve become bolder since branches of the Order are going up in smoke.”

“Branches?”

“There’s more than just one,” he said.

“How do you even know about the Order?” I asked. He was no regular huntsman. Mage? Warlock? He smiled ruefully. “Who are you?”

“My name’s Erik. I made a peace agreement of sorts with the Order. They asked me to join them, but I’ve found better things to do with my time,” he looked lazily into the fire. “What is so special about you that the Order was trying to protect?” His eyes shone with mischief. The ruby burned in my pocked, so hot I almost yelped out in pain.

“Nothing.” I refused to meet his gaze.

He looked at me again and sighed. “Show me the ruby. It’s in your pocket. I won’t take it. I just want to see it.” I gaped at him, my heart dropping into my stomach. He smiled, “You and your friend Aaron are not the only ones with special powers. As rare as magic people are, you still run into one every once in a while.”

“You’re a mind reader,” I whispered. Great. Now he could see exactly what I was thinking. So much for trying to escape.

He nodded, “Now show it to me.” I hesitated and he rolled his eyes.

“Fine,” I said. I slipped my hand in and pulled out the red ruby. He looked at it, eyes wide.

“What’s the matter with it?” I challenged. It looked the same as it always did, crimson light pulsing from its depths in a quick one-two beat.

He raised his eyebrows. “Do you know what you’re holding?”

“No, not really,” I said. “I’m trying to figure out what it does.”

He smiled. “I’m lucky I ran into you then. Or vice versa,” he said. He walked across the dirt floor, his body feet away from me. “That blood-red gem you’re holding is my heart.”

My jaw dropped.

“Your heart? You’ve got to be kidding,” I said.

He nodded. “Hard to believe, right?”

“But I took it from the Specters. They’ve been guarding it for centuries. How is it your heart?” I closed my fist. This was a just a trick. It had to be. To make me give the ruby to him.

“Not centuries. Just as long as I was alive. It didn’t really have a form until I came about.” He noted my raised eyebrows and waved a hand at me.

“It’s too complicated for me to explain. Too complicated for you to understand,” he said. “I’m not asking for it back.”

“How are you alive then?”

“It’s still beating, isn’t it?” he asked.

I looked down, watching the ruby pulse again. “Yes,” I said slowly.

“As long as it beats, I stay in this world.”

“Why did they have it?” I asked. If I was going to believe this whole “heart” thing, he needed to at least try to make me understand it.

“It’s how they live. A trade of sorts. They need it to survive. You’re a mage, you should know that.”

“But they usually kill people, not keep pieces of them,” I reminded him.

His face grew serious as he nodded, “Yes, that’s true.”

Silence filled the room and I slipped it back into my pocket. His eyes followed my hand but he made to move to walk across the room and take it from me. It was just what I needed: a bargaining tool.

“I have to get Aaron back,” I said. “Tell me how and then we can talk about giving you your heart.”

“I told you already I don’t want it,” he said.

My heart sunk. “At least tell me where I can find him.”

He paused, his fingers tracing over his sword. “We can’t be rash about it. Marching into a den full of Specters isn’t going to solve any of these problems,” he said calmly. “You still don’t understand everything.”

“What is it that I don’t understand?” I spat at him. Rage boiled under my skin and I tried to take a deep breath. I was still a Novice learner when it came to magic. I didn’t want to kill anyone on accident. Not just yet anyway.

“Aaron is only the first of many who will disappear.” He paused as he gazed into the fire. “I need to take you back to the Order, understand?”

“The Order? I thought it was destroyed.”

He laughed. “This is what happens when you come from such a small village. Your home was only a branch. The main one is nearby.”

Heat flooded my cheeks and I looked down at the ground. Foolish. “And they’ll know what to do with the – with your heart?” I asked.

He shrugged. “It’s really worthless to us. But it’ll be safer with them than it will be here.”

My eyes burned. Aaron was gone and it was all my fault. Erik walked toward me. His steel eyes softened.

“It really isn’t your fault. Everything that’s happening. Losing the stone made the Specters understand that they really haven’t been living. It was only a matter of time before they attacked us, declared war officially,” he said.

I fingered the knife at my waist. “We will find Aaron first though, right?” I asked.

“It’d be best to get you to safety first. To get you away from me,” he said.

Why? I wanted to demand. If he was such a danger to my safety, why was he helping me? I swallowed. “We need Aaron. He can teleport.”

“It’ll be too dangerous.”

“I will not go to the Order without him,” I said slowly.

Flames crackled across his silver eyes. He stared at me hard but I refused to flinch, refused to look away. He sighed.

“Fine. We’ll get your friend. But then I’m taking you back to the Order. Ending whatever quest it is that you’re on.”

“Our mission was to discover what the ruby was. We lost our home, we were following the path it gave us…” I stuttered.

“Right back to me.”

“You’ll need to go to the Order and explain to them about your heart. They’ll hear you out, maybe let you have it back. They didn’t know what it was,” I said.

“They’ve known for a while now,” he whispered beneath his breath.

I blinked at him, put on my best pleading face.

Erik bit his lip. “Fine, but the ruby stays here. If we lose it to them, the battle’s over.” I nodded.

He pulled me over to an ancient trunk that sat in the middle of the room and opened the lid. Inside was another container, smaller and lined with purple velvet. He opened the latch and I placed the ruby inside. Taking a red pen, he drew symbols around the lock. The box sizzled for a moment before it settled down into the depths of the trunk. He did the same with the outer box. Standing up, he turned to me and said, “You sure you’re ready?”

“I’ve never felt more prepared,” I said. Butterflies buzzed in my stomach.

He nodded. “Then you’ll need all the sleep you can get. Rest up. You can rest there,” he gestured to a worn leather chair in front of the fire. I watched the smoke curl toward the ceiling. Sparks sizzled as it touched the enchanted rocks. At least he was smart enough not to let us suffocate.

“I’ll be in the back room. If anything happens, come and get me.” With one last look, he ducked his head under a carved dirt archway. A flap of fur swung shut over the entrance.

I sat down on the chair, felt it creak under my weight. Shadows from the fire flickered across the red clay walls. The light blinked off the symbols of protection; I only knew them because Aaron had taught a couple to me. Invisibility, Silence, Dark. Only readers could understand their significance. A makeshift kitchen, with a boiling pot and an herb holder, sat toward the back of the room.

Snores issued from Erik’s room. Already out. I crept over to the trunk and traced the edges of the rough wood with my fingers. Maybe this would give me a clue about him. Tendrils of my magic enveloped the lock. The metal sizzled, burned my power. Mind-readers, I thought bitterly. I stared annoyed at his door. I guess the Order wasn’t the only society who kept secrets. I’d trust him for now. But if he did anything out of the ordinary, I’d be out of here faster than Aaron could teleport.

***

Chapter Seven

“How do you know where they’ve taken him?” I whispered as we slunk through the bushes. I had woken up that morning to a breakfast of sausages and eggs, food I hadn’t smelled, let alone tasted, in years. After arming up, we headed to where Erik claimed the Specter fortress lay.

“Can you stop the questions until after we find your friend? If you carry on like this, we’ll get caught even before we get close.” Erik turned and held up his hand to halt me. “Be quiet and just follow my lead.” I ground my teeth together, but said nothing. I would get my answers eventually. I slipped after Erik’s shadow as we wove in between the trees, deeper and deeper into the forest.

The canopy of leaves blocked out sun and sound. Eerie. It felt as though death had stolen over the entire area. Brambles, however, remained in abundance. The thorns tore at my clothes, drew thin red lines on my skin. Blue sparks constantly licked my skin as my magic sewed up my wounds.

A branch flew into my face and I ducked, rolling to the ground. Erik yanked me to my feet, his lips set in a thin line. I was so close to him I could see a thin sheen of sweat on his forehead. Then again, the layers of protective garments probably didn’t help his ventilation.

“It’s through there,” he said, his voice calm. He nodded behind him through a dense overhang of branches.

“So what’s the plan?” I asked, licking my lips. A cool breeze ruffled my hair. The smell of pine stung my nose.

“Just trust me,” he said. I folded my arms in front of my chest, my fingers vibrating with magic.

“You’re going to have to do better than that,” I said with narrow eyes.

He shook his head, his gaze hard. “I can’t risk it. If you want your friend back, you’ll have to follow my lead. You won’t be able to get in there without me.”

“We’ll see about that,” I responded. If people thought that by telling me what to do, I’d just shut up and let them boss me around, they were wrong. I brushed past him and swept the branches aside. My heart stuttered in my chest. An immense black building rose up from the ground in a wide open clearing. Pointed minarets twirled up toward the sky and skewered the clouds.  The sunlight reflected off the building’s metallic surface. Flashes of silver blinked on the grass.

“Ladies first.” He tilted his head.

“Whatever,” I replied. The area was too open; there would be no place to hide if we got caught. Sparks sizzled on the edges of my skin. My heart pumped in my ears as I approached the wall. Placing my hands on the smooth stone, I yanked my power up from my core. Tendrils exploded from my hands and ran across the surface. I tried to concentrate it in one spot but the sparks scattered, deflected by the strange metal.

“Finished?” Erik asked. He leaned against the wall and inspected his nails. “Don’t waste your magic. We’ll need it when we’re in there,” he said. He extended his arm in my direction. “Give me your hand.”

“Thanks, but I don’t think this is one of those types of moments,” I shot back.

He shook his head, hand still outstretched. My ears burned. Calling my magic back to me, I watched as the sparks slithered under my skin. The electric buzz of the current felt familiar. He grunted and grabbed my wrist. My feet, which had been below me only moments ago, disappeared. I went numb. Gasping, I tried to cry out, but my voice was gone. Erik stood beside me, his eyes white. We glided a foot above the grass toward the wall. I squeezed my eyes shut as we slammed into the granite. Warmth slid down my back. Pressure squeezed my body from all sides. The feeling passed and I opened my eyes.

We stood in a hallway, the walls glazed with the same metallic surface from the outside. Purple torches decorated the infinite walkway. A gaping hole stood before us from which darkness oozed. Erik was already moving forward.

“Your friend is down these stairs in one of the cells. Most of the Specters are at the other side of the castle, so we’ve got some time,” he turned to continue down the stairs but I stopped.

“How did you do that?” I whispered. I looked back at the wall, my hand shaking as I touched the hard surface. What other magic was he keeping from me?

“I already told you. No questions,” he said. “Let’s move before they register the breach.” With that, he charged down the cold stone steps. After a beat, I followed him. As my eyes adjusted to the dark, I became aware of blue doors that decorated the walls every few feet. The floor slipped beneath my feet as I ran. Erik halted in front of a large door covered in spikes. He drew a circle over the portal with his finger, muttering something under his breath. A click. The door swung forward. More darkness. Erik motioned me through.

“He’s here. Paralyzed. Not dead,” Erik mused as he brushed past me. The smell of mold and rotting fruit stung my nose. Imagine living here, I thought. Even for Specters, these were pretty poor accommodations. The floor was rough beneath my sandals. I took a tentative step forward, my foot sinking into a puddle.

“Gross.” I shook the muck off my foot. It would take an hour for me to get the stench of this room off my body. Snapping my fingers, I pushed magic out of my palm into a small orb. Manacles hung from the stone walls, rusted with abandonment. Who needed chains when you had a paralyzing spell? I thought. Ambiance maybe?

Aaron stood, statue-like, in the right corner of the putrid room. I rushed forward, and wrapped my arms around him, burying my face in his stony shoulder.

“Aaron, I’m here, it’s okay now,” I said. His skin was cold; the blue veins that customarily ran through his hands marbled. It didn’t even matter that he couldn’t hear me.

“I need you to push your magic where his heart is. It’ll spread out and thaw the rest of his body,” Erik glanced back toward the door. His hand rested on a saber at his side.

I nodded, placing my fingertips against Aaron’s stony chest. Heat seared through my nerves as sparks jumped from my body to his. Slowly, his clothes near my hand began to soften.

“He’ll warm up on the way out. We only have so much time,” Erik said. He swung Aaron over his shoulder and nudged me toward the door.

My lungs stung from the dead air as I ran. The hallway stretched on before me in interminable darkness. The skin on the back of my neck prickled. My breath came out in fogged puffs. They were coming. I sprinted up the stairs two at a time. My body collided into Specter mist. Agony contorted my muscles. Without thinking, I pulled my knife from its sheath and slammed the blade into the fog. My magic soared across the metal and tunneled outward. The woman let out a piercing scream as her body disintegrated into white dust.

“Melody, behind you!” Erik yelled and I whirled around. A claw slammed into my chest. My back hit the hard ground, my lungs winded. My knife skittered away from my fingers.  I scrambled to regain my balance, but I could feel my body freezing, my feet rooted to the floor. Don’t panic, I said to myself. A male Specter floated inches away from me. I watched warily as his twisted lips curved into a grotesque smile.

“Hello, dear. We knew you’d arrive. Where is it?” he snapped. An icy wave of fear crystallized in my blood. I gritted my teeth, pulled my powers up from my core. Heat seeped in my veins. The Specter made to swoop in closer when metal sang through the air. A blade sliced through the Specter. Remnants of the apparition blew away as the cold slipped off my skin.

“I could’ve handled that,” I said as relief flooded my muscles. I slid my blade back into its sheath.

Erik rolled his eyes. “I never said you couldn’t.”

“Let’s just get out of here,” I said, holding out my hand in Erik’s direction.

“Mhmm,” someone groaned and I looked around in surprise. Aaron raised his head from Erik’s shoulder.

I smiled, “About time you woke up.”

“Melody,” Erik said slowly, his eyes wide.

“What?” I asked, but the word barely escaped my mouth before something hard slammed into my right temple. Pain bounced inside my skull as I collided with the floor. Moments later, Erik collapsed next to me with an audible oof.

I tried to focus, but my vision spun. A sharp pain shot through my back. Slowly, the world lost its fuzziness and I scrambled onto my elbows, ready to push myself to stand. Fear trickled into my stomach. Around us, in a circle, were about twenty Specters. And they all looked hungry.

***

Chapter Eight

An old Specter, with wrinkles that curved down his ghostly face, stepped out of the circle toward us. His matted white hair fell around his shoulders, his soulless eyes the same pale color of his skin.

“The girl is mine,” he said to the group. The pack grumbled, but no one moved to challenge him. “Nice to see you again, Erik. It’s been far too long.” Erik’s muscles tensed. I raised my eyebrows, but he ignored me.

“What’s happening?” Aaron’s weak voice reached my ears. I crawled over to his limp body. The hard floor scraped at my knees.

“I’m so glad you’re okay,” I whispered. All I wanted was to grab him into a hug, feel his bones crunch under my arms. But I smiled weakly instead.

Erik cleared his throat. I looked back to see the Specters circle closer. Their white hair looked like flames in the dark.

“Can you get us out of here?” I asked and encircled Aaron’s wrist with my hand.

“He’s far too weak. There’s no telling what could happen,” Erik said.

“I can do it,” Aaron said, his voice soft. He pulled himself off the floor, wavering against my body.

I looked back up at Erik. “I’m no coward, but I’d rather not be eaten by a bunch of blood thirsty, revenge-seeking, unhappy-they’re-stuck-in-an-in-between-state ghosts.”

Erik hesitated.

“Fine,” he said.

“Where to?” the boy asked. I’ll send him a mind picture of the hut,Erik’s voice resounded in my head and I nodded in agreement. If only I’d been born as a mind reader, I thought wistfully.

Pressure crushed the air out of my lungs. I forced my lips into a smile. A good picture to leave them with while we escaped. The Specters dove at us, choked with rage.  One reached toward us just as the lair tunneled away into calm darkness. With a loud bang, we landed on the dirt floor of Erik’s hut. Aaron struggled into a sitting position, his face pale. Before he could say anything, I wrapped my arms around his thin frame and squeezed him hard.

“Don’t ever, ever, do that to me again,” I whispered.

He nodded weakly and then fainted in my arms. Picking him up, I laid him on the couch. His snores filled the room.

Erik stood against the wall, his eyes vacant. I focused on the blade at my hip with stinging eyes.

“Thank you,” I finally said.

He shrugged away my words. “It was part of our deal, wasn’t it? Save Aaron so I can take you both back to the Order where you belong. So everything can go back to normal?”

“Normal? I don’t think anything is ever going back to normal. You said so yourself. The Specters will never stop.”

Erik took a deep breath and sighed. While I didn’t know how old he was, I could feel the experience behind his steel eyes. “I mean the part about you going back to society. Me staying here. Just bring the stone to the Mages so we can be done with all this.”

“But the Order could use you, with all your powers” I pressed.

“I am not wanted by the Order for that purpose,” he replied bitterly.

I wasn’t going to let up that easily. “The Specters seem to recognize you. If you know something that could help stop the war,” I stopped.  I rubbed my temples. It wasn’t as though I was ungrateful or anything. But he acted as though we were some sort of burden. A newly formed bruise hammered away at my ribs.

“At least help me understand,” I said.

His eyes were as hard as flint. He gestured toward the back room and held the flap aside. I stepped through the arch. An earthy smell filled my nose, like herbs and soil kept in heat for too long. Walking in after me, he sat down on a wicker chair at the center of the room and pointed at a stool that leaned against the far wall.

I sat down. My mind buzzed as I remembered the way his eyes turned white, how we had passed through the walls of the fortress like ghosts. Like Specters. I scratched at my leg. Myths were all I knew, stories the Order had told me, about beings that were far more powerful than your average magic holder.

“Are you from the other world? The dead one?” I whispered. My breath caught in my throat.

He didn’t blink, just continued to stare at me. “Something like that.”

I could feel magic sizzle under my skin. “How can you expect me to trust you if I don’t know what’s going on?”

“Not everything about me is relevant. My job is to deliver you and the stone safely to the First Circle and that’s all I must be concerned with,” he said, his voice firm. The firelight flickered across his face and cast shadows over the scars on his cheek. I sighed.

“The Order needs you. To help them save everyone.”

“I owe no debt to humanity.”

“Neither do Aaron or I. Our parents abandoned us. They hurt us because we were different. Erik, we are more alike than you think.”

“Melody, do not speak of what you do not know,” he said quietly. He glanced at the chest and then looked down at the large brass ring on his forefinger. I closed my eyes, the heat from the fire warming my cold body.

“Please. I will understand,” I said.

He continued to toy with the ring. “You would not speak this way to me if you knew what I was. What the Order did and what they will not undo even to save us all.”

The fire crackled and he rose from his seat. “We will leave tomorrow. I suggest you get some rest.”

“But – ”

“Melody, please,” he begged. “Just leave me alone.”

I wanted to reach out and tell him he didn’t need to feel so alone. That we could all be alone together. But the look in his eyes was one I had known far too well, one I had experienced too often.

“Thank you again,” I whispered and walked out into the common room.

***

Chapter Nine

Erik led the way through the underground tunnel that was hidden at the back of his cavern. As if the lair wasn’t far enough in the ground to begin with. The air was cool and smelled like wet earth. Water dripped down the sides of the passage, the drops thick and fat like clear beads. The dirt walls were decorated with roots from the trees above. I trudged after him, followed by a still-weak Aaron. The tension of the day, of the knowledge that the Specters were most likely on our trail, reverberated through the earthen walls. I shivered and pulled Aaron along beside me.

“The First Circle is only a mile from here,” Erik said.

Why he lived in such close proximity to a place that he was ardently trying to avoid was beyond me, but I held my tongue. No need to create more conflict at a point where we needed him. Not that I was particularly thrilled about our return to society. I kind of liked the solitude of the wilderness. The lack of people who judged me or used me.

“Why can’t we teleport again?” I asked as I ducked my head to avoid the low ceiling. My body was still sore from our last expedition.

Erik sighed. “You can’t teleport into a Mage zone. It’s spelled against any unwanted visitors. You can try if you want your body to be turned inside out.”

“What about that other thing you do? The whole passing through wall deal. There are so many easier ways to get to the Circle without having to walk,” I said.

“Melody,” Erik warned. Aaron raised his eyebrows and I shook my head.

“I’ll take you to the end of the tunnel. From there, it should be less than one-hundred yards to the first base. I’ll protect you,” he said.

“But you’re not coming to the base with us?”

His jaw hardened. “No. It’s not safe for me. It would be a poor move on my part.”

“Why?” I asked. He said nothing, but I couldn’t let this go.  “If the ruby is useless, why are we even going to the Mages? Why can’t we just stay here?”

“That’s out of the question. You’d be in too much danger.”

“Stop saying that. From what you’ve told me, nothing is safe anymore,” I pressed.

“Melody, stop,” Aaron whispered next to me. I shook him off and stared straight into Erik’s silver eyes.

“Erik. You have to tell us what’s going on. If there’s no hope to save anything, why are we going back?”

“There is a way to save everyone from the Specters, from the darkness, but it’s too difficult.”

“For the world or for you?” I said.

Silence. Water dripped from the cavern walls onto the floor in a measured beat. The air felt thick again and I tried to breath. Aaron wheezed beside me. He was never one to handle tension very well.

“What are you?” I whispered.

Erik breathed in and pressed his back against the wall. His face looked weary, older. I tended to have that affect on people. Wearing them down until they finally caved.

“A Specter Child,” he said.

I swayed under his words. But it didn’t surprise me. His eyes had told me something had been different about him back in the lair. The way the specters had spoken to him. Still, chills slid across my skin. “What side are you on?” I asked.

“I consider myself a free agent,” he said. He brushed an impatient hand through his hair. “I broke from the Specter’s magic long ago, sixteen years to be exact. They ceased bothering me after I became neutral. They kept my heart and I kept my life. I care nothing for my own species,” he said. He leaned against the wall.

“You can’t be a part of their world and then renounce it without aligning yourself to something else,” I said.

“I can do whatever I want with my life,” he said.

“How did you break from their magic?”

“A Mage helped me transition back into a human.”

“I don’t understand,” I said. Frustration bubbled in my core. Nothing made sense. Why were we bringing his heart now to the Mages? To the Order?

“It’s better this way. It’s better for the Order to feel as if they have some control. We have to go.” His voice was icy. Traces of red flickered through his pupils.

Aaron let out his breath. I looked down at my pocket where the ruby burned against my leg. Disgust bubbled in my throat. Hopefully, the heads of the Order would know what to do with it.

“Are you sure you don’t want your heart back?”

“It is useless to me, Melody. Just keep moving,” Erik said, his back tense.

Our pace quickened. The only sound in the tunnel was the water against rock as it ticked off precious time. Erik stopped, signaling us to halt. He turned around and removed his pack from his back.

“Okay, through this door is the entrance to the First Circle. It has a shield, an invisible one, which surrounds the camp, so you won’t really be able to tell when you are in the safe zone. The second you get out the door, I need you to take Aaron and run. I can only protect you so much.”

I nodded. “Take this,” he said and handed me a short blade. It had symbols of protection written all over it.

“I have my own knife, thank you very much,” I responded.

“You’ll need more than one,” he said and wrapped my fingers around the hilt. Great. He thinks we’re going to die, I thought bitterly as I stowed the knife inside my boot. He tossed another weapon to Aaron. The boy’s eyes widened as he stared at the blade. I rolled my eyes. The kid should have spent more time studying combat instead of pouring over nonsensical runes.

“Stick close or the Specters won’t be the ones who’ll kill you. Understand?” I tried to sound stern, but Aaron’s pale, frightened face nearly broke my heart. I nodded to Erik who stepped aside and motioned to a large wooden door. He grabbed the handle, my feet poised to run.

“Come with us, Erik,” I said. “Into the circle. You can help them. Help everyone. This will all be over and then we’ll be free to live.”

“I’m already free to live as I like,” Erik said. He placed a hand on my shoulder and squeezed it lightly.

“Please,” I whispered.

He pushed the door open. Mist seeped through the hole and meandered into the tunnel. I peered through the fog, Aaron’s breath hot on the back of my neck.

“Stop it,” I whispered to him. “You’re making me nervous.” He inched away and I continued my surveillance. Tall blades of grass stretched up toward the sky, covered in frost. Underneath all the white haze lay a meadow. Erik stepped out first, his weapons drawn, his eyes glowing red.

“C’mon, Aaron. Run!” I said and took off into the stiff stalks. They whacked against my face as I pulled him forward. The ground was uneven, sharp divots and climbs disguised by the fog. My foot connected with a rock and I tripped, my hands bracing for the impact. We slammed into the hard soil. I tried to scramble to my feet when the ground began to shake.

“Melody!” Aaron screeched.

From the mist, a horse and rider galloped toward us. I pushed Aaron to the ground and unsheathed my knives. Ice filled the air. They had come.

I leaped and stabbed the rider in the side. Blood gushed from the opening onto my hands, soaking my skin in red liquid. In horror, I backed away. He was human. Humans had joined the Specters? My fingers slipped through blood as I grabbed Aaron and stumbled toward the campsite. The ground trembled with the threat of splitting open. More riders. Aaron fell again and I scrambled over to him.

“Go,” I yelled and shoved him in the direction of the camp. Aaron’s face twisted with fear, but he knew better than to wait. With that, he sprinted into the safety net. I turned to follow when a sharp pain split across the back of my head. My skull ached as the world spun. Deftly, I rolled onto my back in time to see a rider raise his saber. I flipped aside just as the tip of his steel spike slammed into the ground. Grabbing his weapon, I shoved it into his chest. He fell from his horse as the mare screamed. Its shrieks echoed in my mind as I ran toward the safety area. As I passed through the magic boundary, a pair of hands wrapped me in an embrace.

“Melody,” I heard Aaron cry out in relief.

A deeper voice accompanied Aaron’s and resounded through the space, “Fetch a healer.” Someone grabbed me roughly by my coat, pulling me from my friend. A thin, tall man with a shock of red hair looked down at me.

“Do you have the ruby?” he demanded, his voice gruff.

Goodness, how many times were people going to ask me that question? I nodded, reaching into my leather pouch that wrapped around my waist. My nerves spiked as I emptied the bag. Nothing. It wasn’t there. Frantically, I looked back at the battlefield. It must have fallen out. It had been my duty to bring it here. How had I failed such a simple task? I sprinted toward the opening. As I reached the edge, Erik burst through the magic line.

“What are you doing here?” I cried.

Pain distorted his brow, his mouth set in a grimace. Long gouges had been torn across his sides. Blood stained his white hair, plastered against his face and neck.

“I told you not to lose it. To bring it to them,” he panted. He opened a gritty palm. The ruby floated a few inches above his hand. “Take it,” he gasped. “I cannot be here. They cannot see me.” His skin was charred beneath the garnet. I snatched the gem from him and his eyes closed.

He staggered back toward the barrier, away from us, but shouts rang in my ears. I reached for him, called for him, told him not to leave. Arms wrapped around me and darkness clouded my vision. Oblivion pulled me under.

***

Chapter Ten

“Order. I said, order,” the red-haired man from the battlefield commanded. Sergion, the Head Mage, I recalled his introduction. The din in the room settled to a low growl as the members of the First Circle turned their attention toward him.

I shifted uncomfortably in my seat, wincing as the bruise on my thigh collided with the wooden table.  The healers had given me salves and other medications after I passed out. They had taken the ruby. Here I hoped he would tell me I could go, that Aaron and I had been released from our service. I couldn’t help but wonder where Erik had gone, if the Specters had seen him save us again and taken him captive. After all he had done for us, he may have perished. I could not live with that.

Representatives from the other forces of the living surrounded me. Sprites and nymphs mainly, their gorgeous bodies punctuated by blue skin and green scales. Aaron gaped back at them. He, somehow, had managed to reach the Circle unscathed.

“Stop staring or they’ll turn you into a toad,” I whispered. He jumped, looking over at me sheepishly.

“Sorry, I can’t help it. They’re just so cool looking,” he said. I smiled and squeezed his hand.

“Bring forward the prisoner,” Sergion stated.

Prisoner? A captured Specter? One who would tell them what to do with the ruby? I remembered my first failed mission and a blush rose in my cheeks.

The doors to the chamber opened and my breath caught in my chest. Erik stood in iron chains, his face still bloodied, his clothes torn. I made to rise from my seat but a hand pressed me back into the cushion. Two guards led him to the center of the room. His shoulders hunched forward, his eyes refused to meet mine. A hush fell over the Circle and Sergion stepped forward.

“It was our fault that the Specters exist,” he began. “It is our fault that these beings have continued to live. Have bred,” he pointed at Erik. “The specimen before you is a Specter Child. The ruby is his heart. He was created with the potential to help end his race. But he betrayed us.”

“He betrayed nothing,” I said.

All eyes focused on me and Erik raised his head. Sergion shook his red hair, his green eyes wide.  He ran his hands over the rough wood of his desk.

“By refusing to help us, he betrayed us. He was created to serve the Order, to help us stop the darkness,” Sergion said to me coldly.

“Why is he of importance? We are here to save humanity, not try some guilty war criminal,” a short, bearded man with pointed ears jumped to his feet.

Sergion looked down at his hands as the room buzzed. “I think you are all forgetting how this happened. How the Specters came to be. Why they are still here and have not passed on,” Sergion said.

I frowned. I thought the Specters were merely the undead, those who refused to pass on. Sergion made it sound as if they had no other choice. Erik’s chains clanged as he shifted his weight.

“Long, long ago, Mages created limbo in an attempt to understand death. To keep the dead with us longer. By returning this Specter Child to its original form, we found a way to get rid of the in-between phase that has been haunting us for centuries. His heart is the source of their energies. As long as it beats, so does theirs. We all share the blame for letting them stay in this world for so long,” Sergion finished. The hall rang with silence.

I wanted to reach out and touch Erik, to tell him that we had all been betrayed, that none of it was his fault. He seemed to have heard my thoughts because a weak smile lit across his lips.

“He is the answer to end the war. To ease the Specters’ pain, to ease our pain,” Sergion said.

“What are you saying?” I demanded. My chair grated against granite as I rose from my seat. “He has done nothing but desired life. Life that your committee gave to him.”

“Each must serve his purpose, Melody. Just as you must serve yours,” Sergion said. “The Specter Child and the Ruby must be returned to the Land of the Dead.”

“Sacrificed?”

Sergion nodded. Erik’s face paled. He had known all along. That coming to the Circle endangered his life. But he had done so to save me from their wrath of not completing my mission. Again, I was to blame.

“The Child and the heart must be reunited and destroyed. And you, Melody, are the one who must take them.”

“Why me?” I asked. “I cannot take his life. I refuse to.”

“Consider it penance, my dear,” Sergion said.

“Penance? For what? I have done nothing but serve the Order. I owe the Order my life. But I have done nothing wrong.”

“I know,” he said sadly. He glanced at Erik. “It is horrible how the sins of a mother must be visited on her later generations.”

Silence.

“All you want is a martyr to die for your sins,” I said with a steady voice.

“Not mine, my dear. Not completely mine. I may have helped but it was your mother who got us into this entire mess. Over her dead husband.”

“My mother?” My heart skipped inside my chest. I looked toward Erik but he did not meet my gaze. “What does my mother have to do with this?” I didn’t even know her, had never met her. She’d just left me in the streets of Brita to die, to fend for myself.

“He can explain everything to you,” Sergion said. “It is not my place.” I tried not to roll my eyes. No one explained anything here. That was why everything became so complicated, how everything got to be so screwed up. Specters ran amuck in limbo as the Mages tried to right their mistakes. It made no sense. I had had enough of humanity’s poorly played games.

“I will not do it,” I said and crossed my arms in front of my chest.

“I don’t think we are giving you a choice,” Sergion said, his tone hard. “Take the Specter Child and Ruby to the land of the dead, complete your penance, or Aaron will perish.”

I reached out to grab Aaron’s arm, but my hand fell through air. He was gone. “Is this what the good side does? Blackmail people into submission? This is not what we stand for,” I sputtered. I could feel my magic sizzle up into my pores and flash from the hairs on my arm.

“No, Melody. This is not what you stand for. We, on the other hand, have been doing this for centuries. You are doing good. You will save the world from the Specter wrath and allow the dead to finally rest in peace. Now go, you are wasting time.”

Anger threatened to bubble from my throat, but I pushed it back. I apparently had been destined for disaster since birth. But I could not let them take Aaron from me. He had done nothing.

“Fine. I will take the prisoner,” I said.

“Much better. Cooperation is good,” Sergion nodded. “You won’t have to travel far. The First Circle was built above the entrance to the Land of the Dead. It’s been empty ever since we created limbo and allowed them to roam the Earth. Pack your belongings. You will leave within the hour.”

The members of the room stood, shuffled out of the meeting place. All avoided my eyes, even Erik.

“Aren’t you going to look at me? Say something?” I asked as I approached him.

“What am I supposed to say?” He asked. My stomach flipped and I shook my head. I didn’t even know what I was supposed to do. Reach out? Comfort him? Tell him that it would all be okay even though it wasn’t?

“I don’t know,” I sighed. My eyes burned and I glared angrily up at the white columns that supported the dome. “I just don’t anymore.”

His chains clinked as he moved toward me. The guard by his side, a thin mage with green eyes and a sallow face, nodded at him and left his post. They put too much trust in me. So much it scared me.

“They don’t have a Mage with powers to see the future here, do they?” I asked, watching as the mage exited and left us alone in the dome.

He snorted and shook his head. “If they did, they could’ve foreseen this mess and stopped it from happening.”

“I highly doubt they would’ve done anything of the kind.”

A laugh crinkled the corners of his eyes. It faded gradually, but he didn’t appear altogether too sad. The runes on the walls sparkled in the midday sun. I traced the symbols edges with my eyes. Aaron would know exactly what they said. He always did.

“How did my mother fit into all of this?” I asked. Light danced across the dried blood on his forehead. He shrugged.

“She was a Mage of the High Order. Both her and your father. I didn’t meet them until they came to the Land of the Dead. The Order gave them instructions for taking our species out of limbo. But visitors are usually not welcome,” he said and shook his head sadly.

I wanted to ask him what she looked like, what she had said, if she had mentioned me, but I held my tongue. I had waited sixteen years. A few more moments would matter little.

“Your father was turned to Specter before they could complete the spell.” He paused. I felt his silvered eyes plead for understanding. “I did not know them, if at all. But I could tell they loved one another. We all know that weakness of love is in our hearts.”

“She could not destroy the Specters without losing my father forever,” I said slowly.

“She would have lost him anyway. He was dead. But it’s so hard when you see your loved ones that have died in breathing form. It is so hard to be rational.” He fell silent and picked at the threads of his torn tunic.

“What did she do then?”

“I stepped forward. I did not completely understand what was going on. I had never lived, you see. I was born inside the limbo walls. And I yearned for life. I saw her power, her magic. In her agony, I stepped forward and asked her to help me to become human. To live the life I had been deprived of because I was born from the undead. It is as much fault hers as it is mine.”

“So she bound the destruction magic to your heart.”

He nodded. “And then she let the Specters take her.”

My mother. I wanted to scream, to demand why she had forsaken me. How she had left me in the world without her or my father. I squared my shoulders and breathed out slowly.

“Why did the Specters have your heart then?”

“In order for me to leave, they asked for protection. By retaining the heart, they could remain in the world of the living. It mattered little to me. I just wanted to be free.”

His cavern rose in my mind, its empty walls, its desolate hiding space. He had not been living. Separate, alone, removed from the rest of humanity. But then again, neither had I.

“Man is selfish, Melody. We all are. We understand it. But we can’t let it outshine our other qualities,” he spoke quietly, but his voice reverberated in the hall, bounced off the age-old stone. I reached for his hand and squeezed, his skin cold. “You and Aaron still have much life to live.”

So do you, I wanted to say, but my throat closed. A low hum resounded through the archway.

“They are coming to tell us to leave. To bring us to the Land of the Dead. We have to go.”

I nodded and kept my hand on his fist. “Thank you,” I choked out. “For everything.” For telling me about my mother, my history, my fate. The Order. For saving us.

A stream of soldiers in Order colors of red and black filled the doorway. Erik set his eyes ahead, his hand clenched.

“It’s time to go home,” he whispered.

***

Chapter Eleven

“So how, exactly, am I supposed to get in there?” I looked down at the gaping black hole. “Jumping into abysses isn’t quite my thing.” Sergion stood above where Erik and I sat at the edge. I intended on making the Head Mage’s last few moments with me his least desirable.

“Fall,” he said simply.

“That doesn’t sound too promising,” I replied.

“The Land of the Dead isn’t supposed to hold promises,” Sergion said.

I’d had enough of his truisms, his turns of phrase. His silly, unhelpful advice.

“And how am I supposed to get out when I’m through with the binding?”

The crowd around us grew silent. The nymphs tittered, their wings swishing like Specter satin. I shivered.

“You’ll find a way,” Sergion replied.

“That’s just supposed to mean you have no idea,” I said. He nodded at the soldier at his side who stepped toward us, bayonet raised.

“Do your duty. The rest will follow,” he said shortly.

Erik’s hands were still chained and it didn’t look as though our captors had provided a key. I was beginning to feel less like an Order member and more like a convict. Then again, that wasn’t out of the ordinary for how I’d been feeling ever since the village burned down. I wanted to grab Erik’s hand, to hold it as we fell into the nothingness, to not have to be alone in our final moments on Earth, but I couldn’t look weak in front of the Order head. The breeze rustled a few wisps of my hair that had come untied from its bun. I breathed deeply, the scent of lilacs tinged by rotting flesh. Great memories.

“If I do find a way out,” I whispered, “I intend on changing a few things here.”

Sergion shrugged. “Just do what you are told. Like I said before, the rest will follow.”

I rolled my eyes and lowered myself into the hole. Pebbles on the ground bit into my palms but I refused to flinch. My feet dangled into the open air as I searched for a foothold. Nope. Nothing. With a deep breath, I closed my eyes and let go. The dank air rushed by me as I plummeted into the depths.  My breath froze in my lungs as goose bumps sprouted on my uncovered arms. The wind whistled to a stop and I put my arms in front of me, ready to brace for unforgiving gravity. But I felt nothing.

Slowly, I opened my eyes and looked around. I floated, suspended in mid-air, inches above the ground. Erik’s silver irises glowed white beside me through the darkness, but no familiar fear snaked up my arms.

Whatever kept us alight gently set us down on the floor. I arched my neck back to glimpse the abyss entrance. The cavern stretched up above us, the opening a mere pinprick of light. Sun slivers slid across the blue walls. A weaving, stone path led away from the light and I motioned for Erik to follow.

“Any of this look familiar?” I asked.

“Was that supposed to be a joke?”

I shrugged. “I guess I’m just trying to lighten the situation.” As if on cue, the sun disappeared above us.

“They closed the opening,” Erik said. I could feel panic poison his words and I threw my shoulders back. My magic coursed into my palms, forming itself into small orbs of light. They had no intention of letting me back into the world. Not with the danger I posed for them, the knowledge I had about their corruption. Their mistakes. The mistakes of my mother. I followed the path, Erik close behind. My shoes crunched across the pebbles and filled the cavern with lengthy echoes. Curiously enough, we didn’t see a corpse, which seemed kind of strange since this was supposed to be the Land of the Dead. A dusty speck floated into my light. It sparkled brightly in my line of vision.

“They’re coming,” Erik whispered. I clenched my jaw shut, more of my magic burning the tips of my fingers. More specks glittered from the shadows and filled the air with shining dots. Their light outshone my orbs as the dots gravitated together. I shaded my eyes. Air crackled, electric, and then the glitter subsided. A gray old man stood a few feet in front of us, his back bent, his body supported by a crutch. I tensed and reached for my knife.

“Melody. We’ve been waiting for you for so long,” the man said. He had wrinkles that made some of the three hundred year-old dwarves I’d seen look like youngsters. He glanced at Erik. “Welcome back, our child. We knew you would return eventually.”

“It was not originally my first choice,” Erik said. I wanted to tell him to be quiet. Who would want to live on the surface anyway? Death, as far as I could tell, was much closer to freedom.

Shrugging, the man twirled a lock of his grey hair around his finger. “Choice matters little now since your fates are clearly laid before you,” his eyes smiled up at me, mischievous.

My mind raced as it recalled the story of my mother. “You knew a female mage of the High Order, did you not?”

“Your mother?” He asked. It was more a statement than a question.

I nodded vigorously, my throat dry.

“Melody,” Erik warned. “Think of what you are doing.” But I shook him off.

“Is she still here? Among you?” I asked.

The old man nodded gravely. “Yes. She resides in limbo. With your father.”

My throat burned, my eyes ached. If I was sentenced to die here with Erik, I could be granted a last wish, correct? A last rite of sorts?

“Can I see her?” I choked out.

“Melody, don’t do this,” Erik said behind me, but he did not move forward to stop me, did not move to take the gem from my hand. He understood this was the end, for both of us.

The old man ignored Erik and hobbled toward me. His gums, rotted, stank of age and decay. “You have the ruby?”

I nodded. “You know what I have to do. That I have to free you from this place.”

He nodded. “I have been waiting for centuries to cross over my dear. To finally rest. My back has grown bent from holding my breath. Waiting for another to try to free us from the curse your people placed upon us all centuries ago.

“Show me my mother and then I will free you” I replied.

“Very well, very well. But even when you see her, understand she is dead. She will try to turn you over to us. You must resist. There are members of my kind who wish to remain in the world, who do not understand that we do not belong here,” he said slowly.

“This is a horrible idea,” Erik whispered behind me. I squeezed the ruby in my palm.

“Trust me. I’m stronger than you think,” I replied.

Wind whistled through my ears. Erik stood beside me now, his silver eyes glowing.

“She’s here,” he whispered.

I turned around and lit my orb once more. Light threw itself around the interminable cavern. I inhaled sharply. Floating inches above the ground, her auburn hair unkempt, stood my mother.

***

Chapter Twelve

It took me a few moments to realize I had seen her before. In the alley in Brita, she’d chased after me for the gem. I’d captured her and she’d escaped my magic. I knew now why. The same powers that coursed through my palms had once run in her veins.

“Melody, Melody, my sweet child,” she sang and stepped toward me. Erik moved to block me from her, to stand between us but I pushed him aside.

“You have finally come home,” she whispered.

Home? The word felt foreign to me. I had thought Brita had been my home, that the Order had been my home. But I had been wrong just as she was now.

“I do not live here, mother,” I said. I wanted to reach out and grab her hand but I remembered the way she’d scraped my skin with her nails. The way she had meant harm for me.

“You have come to join us then? Your father and I? So we can be a family again.” She still moved toward me. I could feel the chill of her breath on my skin. I feel no fear, I reminded myself.

“I cannot join you,” I said.

“You have the ruby though. You’ve come to return it to its rightful owner” she smiled, her teeth pointy.

I turned to Erik now. “My mother was the keeper of the ruby?”

“Yes,” he said. His eyes focused on the floor at his feet.

“She made you give it to her in exchange for your freedom,” I asked slowly.

“Yes. But she set me free,” he said as if he pleaded for his life.

My mind buzzed. It was too much. Too much knowledge for one day, for one lifetime. A lifetime I would soon end. Erik had been right. It was a mistake to bring her here. But questions clicked inside me and I opened my mouth to spill them into the stagnant air.

“Why did you leave me?”

“Leave you? Darling, I’ve never left you.”

“Yes you did,” I insisted. “You abandoned me to Brita before you even passed to the world of the dead. You did not want me.”

A frown creased her ageless face. She leaned away from me. “I did not want you to have my fate. To be controlled by the Order.”

“But that’s where I ended up anyway,” I said.

“You don’t understand – “”

“Will everyone stop telling me I don’t understand! I understand perfectly well, mother. You were not controlled by the Order. You let your body control your actions. I understand that and I forgive you. We all make mistakes. But we have to own up to them.”

I clutched the ruby to my heart. My magic burned on my fingers as I searched for the crack in the gem. Closing my eyes, I could see the plains around Brita. I could see Aaron’s black curls rustle in the wind. I could feel myself on the edge of it all. The ruby against my chest, its surface like a hot coal, I knew how to end it.

“It’s over, mother,” I whispered. “I forgive you. I will see you on the other side.”

“No!” Erik shouted behind me, but my power built up, encased the stone in blue light. Bind it to myself and it would end once and for all. It was never about binding it to the Erik. It would only perpetuate their existence. A sham. I had to bind it to the blood of the maker. Blood that ran in my veins.

Fire ripped through my soul, pulled at my hair. Behind closed eyes, I could see symbols erupt in golden curls. The cavern exploded with light. Air sucked at my clothes. Pressure built on my arms. I felt fingertips try to pry open my fist but I held steady. It would end soon.

“Melody!” a voice cried.

I opened my eyes and blinked through the whirlwind. Millions of Specters stood before me, their hollow eyes focused upward. Their ugly mouths were curved into something that resembled a smile, nearly peaceful. One by one, they faded to dust. Pain throbbed behind my temples as my light swallowed them. I could feel it engulf me now, bit by bit, my body imploding.  I could only hope that on the other side, I would find some peace. That we would find some freedom.

***

Epilogue

My surroundings no longer existed. I floated through darkness, a never ending pit of blackness. I had no knowledge of body, of space, of time, of substance. I just was. Everything slipped by me, around me, went through me. A sensation that was both liberating and eerie. Then, the voices started. Many, all familiar to me, whispered in my ears. Order members, Erik, my mother. I am dreaming, I thought. I liked the warmth of the darkness, the inability for me to see the others around me, the specks of dust. None addressed me directly. It was just a hum of familiarity. But it was always dark.

Through the darkness, my name echoed out to me. It grew louder until whoever uttered it was nearly on top of me.

“Melody!” it cried. Something hard collided with me and I could feel my body and muscles and joints again.

“Aaron?” I asked. My head spun (now that it seemed I possessed a head). “How did you get here? I’m supposed to be dead.”

“I really have no idea. I teleported I guess,” he answered and wrapped his arms around my waist like a little kid.

“Did you die?” I asked, alarmed. Tears stung my eyes as I buried my face into his shoulder.

“Die? Why would you say something like that? I’m too young to die,” he whimpered.

“Oh don’t be so dramatic,” I said. “It’s just, I’m not supposed to exist.” I told him how I bound the ruby to myself, sent the Specters to their resting place. I could tell he wanted to ask about Erik, but I avoided his gaze.

“I mean technically I nearly turned into one of them when they froze me to stone,” he reminded me. “I guess I’ve got some leftover afterlife in this body.”

I wanted to hold him to me, to kiss his cheek and tell him how happy I was to see him.

“Do you think we can teleport back?” I asked.

“Well, I got here, didn’t I?”

I wanted to ask him if he could see others around us. As if reading my mind, he looked into my eyes, his expression grave. “You’re alone here. I’m assuming you’re stuck in limbo of some sort now.”

If there was one thing I’d learned from the entire adventure, everything was hard to grasp, hard to understand. “Just try and get us out of here,” I sighed.

With a smile, he grabbed my hand. The age-old pressure pushed down against my chest. I welcomed the familiar weight. We spun upwards. The dark slowly faded to light as we landed with a thump at the closed entrance to the Land of the Dead.  The smell of flowers overwhelmed my senses. Sun breathed life into my limbs. Aaron sat beside me, glasses askew.

“How did you escape the Order? What had they done to you?” I asked.

“Put me in a division of their teleport training unit. Some new mission about recon on the sprites. Apparently they may have stores of black magic we don’t know about.”

“It’d be a bad idea to get involved,” I said.

“You don’t have to tell me,” he replied.

The grass tickled my bare legs and I lay down among the blades. Even though the sun’s heat pounded against my skin, my chest felt cold. A parting gift from the underworld.

“So,” he began. He pushed his glasses farther up on his nose.

“What?”

“What’s death like?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know,” I said.

“That’s why I’m asking.”

I fell silent, recalled my mother’s emaciated form. “Better than limbo,” I said finally.

The wind wrinkled his hair and he wiped his forehead.

“It’s nothing to be afraid of,” I continued. “We’ll get there eventually.”

“And Erik?” he asked.

“He’s where he belongs,” I whispered. Floating somewhere, free and at peace.

“What do we do now?” Aaron asked.

“Disappear,” I said. “That’s one thing we’re both spectacular at. Get away from the Order, from the villages. Try to be normal or something like that.” A smile tugged at the edges of his lips.

“Sounds like a plan to me.” He wrapped his fingers around my wrist. I closed my eyes, letting my skin absorb the sun’s rays. Freedom had never felt so beautiful. I looked into Aaron’s dark mysterious eyes. Together, we still were outcasts, but at least we had each other.

“Take us away,” I said.

“Where?” he asked.

“Anywhere. Anywhere in the whole world. It’s ours now.” I took a deep breath as the pressure returned. Maybe someday the others would understand. But for now, it was our turn to find our own way. The world we knew tunneled away, left the darkness behind. I smiled. This was how one was supposed to live.

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