Myth's Legend: Norrix

by Ysobella Black

  “What is this place?” her mother asked.

  “It's yours.” Norrix walked out from the back of the store, holding Auntie Ember's arm so he could walk in the sun. He hugged her mom with his free arm and frowned when he saw Fable on the floor.

  Auntie Viktoria waved her arm, and a shadow went across the windows at the front of the store. Fable's grey magic tried to leap out and do the same thing, but she kept it trapped in her tummy.

  Norrix let go of Ember and walked over to scoop Fable up. “It's not finished yet, but it's yours.”

  “This place is for Nantli and me?”

  Norrix nodded. “You know how I know that?”

  “How?”

  He crossed the room to a wide rectangle on the wall covered by a sheet and tugged the covering off to reveal a hand-carved wooden sign that looked like an open book. The page on the left read “Fable's” and the page on the right read “& Myth's.”

  “I read it somewhere. You and your mom can choose any kind of books you want to sell here. And I thought upstairs you could have a story club, so you can share your stories and learn new ones from other kids. Downstairs, you can turn into a coffee shop. A long time ago, humans and Other World beings used to share stories in taverns and inns on their travels. Some of them still prefer the old ways. Karov owns apartments and Ciaran has a hotel nearby, but this could be a place their guests and residents come to talk. I chose the name Fable's & Myth's, but Xenos can carve you a new sign if you want to change it. What do you think? Do you like it?”

  “Yes, I like it!” Norrix was giving her a way to learn more stories! She had everything now. A home. Her mom. Aunties and uncles. Clothes. Shadow animals. Soră and magic. She was just missing one thing, but Auntie Selene had told her how to get it. “In the stories...”

  “What about them?”

  “Sometimes in the stories a girl gets a new father, and he lets her call him tahtli. Is that a story that can come true?” Maybe she could use her colors, like in the world she made with Zax, but she didn’t want a magic tahtli. She wanted one who loved her for real.

  Norrix nodded and hugged her tighter. “I’ll try to make all your stories come true. But that one is easy. I would like it very much if you called me tahtli. And you can be my princess. Would that be all right with you?”

  Then the one wish she’d wanted her whole life finally came true.

  CHAPTER SIXTY THREE

  MYTH

  MYTH’S NEW LIFE WAS strange. Viktoria and Ember had gone crazy shopping, but no one else seemed to think so. The vampires happily carried everything where directed — even when Norrix, seeing Fable looking the slightest bit downcast at the white surroundings of their previous rooms, demanded everything, including the heavy furniture, be brought three levels up and what seemed like a mile across to the opposite wing, then one level down, until he could have his rooms redecorated so they were fit for his princess.

  He may be spoiling Fable.

  But Myth didn’t have the heart to stop him, and if anyone deserved some spoiling, it was her daughter.

  This new section of the huge complex the vampires lived in, done in shades of gold and red and smelling faintly of smoke, had recently been vacated. Fable loved the colors, even moreso when Norrix said this was where a dragon kept his treasures.

  The men had drawn the line at putting clothes and knickknacks away. Well, Alaric had volunteered to put away her underwear, but left in a fit of laughter after Norrix smacked the back of his head and chased him out.

  Two hours later, most of the room Myth would share with Norrix was put to rights, but she floundered in a sea of lace and silk. Who in the world needed so much underwear? No. Not underwear. Viktoria called these things lingerie.

  Bras, bralets, panties, thongs, g-strings, teddies, corsets, bustiers, chemises, bodysuits, stockings, things made of mesh that didn’t cover anything at all, body stockings, garters — she broke off with a laugh. Maybe she should be listing things alphabetically. Viktoria had probably made sure there was something for every letter. Myth needed an entire dresser just for her new lingerie. When she had protested she didn’t need a dresser or all these bits of lingerie, Viktoria laughed and told her this was just a starter kit and more was better.

  Myth held up a g-string. There was nothing more about it — already practically nothing, this one was crotchless on top of that. What was the point of such a garment?

  It was time to take a break. She swept all her lingerie into drawers and flopped into a seat by the fireplace.

  Fable’s new storybook lay on a small, round table. A copy of Storyteller’s original book that had been burned. Myth sat back, still stunned by that development. After feeling alone for most of her life, Myth had more relatives than she’d ever imagined. Gods and goddesses, no less. They would have to go back to Aztlan to see everyone after their abrupt departure, as long as it was understood Fable was not going to ever be a Sun.

  She picked up the book and flipped through the pages, full of neat script and illustrations. The stories didn't seem to be in any sort of order, and there was no table of contents. How was anyone supposed to know what was in the book?

  A name caught her attention. Iqiohr. She slammed the book closed, panicky breaths wheezing in and out. Would she never be free of him, even here?

  Why would his name be in a book that had been burned before he’d been born? Part of her wanted to rip those pages out and toss them in a fire, but instead, she opened the book all the way and read.

  CALL ME IQIOHR.

  Zax, the woman who met me when I came through the portal to Ashana, made me promise to start my story with those three words in return for blocking the other mages in the magic for me this one time.

  It seemed a small price to pay. That is my name, and this may well be the last time I ever exist alone in my mind.

  I came here to find an obsidian dagger. Tezcatlipoca has been listening for rumors of its location since it disappeared years ago, but everything shows up in Ashana, eventually.

  More and more he is pushing me out of my own mind. Trapping me within his smoke and mirrors while he does what he likes. It’s getting harder to escape. One day, I fear I won’t be able to.

  When I killed the Scorpion Mage and took the glyphs for myself. I did it for good reasons, but in all the symbols and magic I was forced to learn and wear in the eight years prior, the previous Scorpion Mages never mentioned the thousands of mages that would be inherited with the magic. House guests of a sort, who are not only unwelcome, but have no intention of leaving long before the moment they enter.

  It’s not likely a boy would volunteer for the greatness being a mage is supposed to be if that was known.

  My mother, Chalchiuhtlicue, the Fourth Sun, also called The Jade Skirt, was a goddess. My father, Tonatiuh, He Who Makes the Day, was a god and should have been the Fifth Sun had he not been usurped. I don’t know if they loved each other — they lived as prisoners of Tezcatlipoca. But my mother loved me. She did her best to teach me right from wrong and protect me.

  The day she disappeared, I stood with the other boys on the side of the ball court waiting for the ten-year-olds group to be called. I didn't want to be there and looked over my shoulder. Mother cried last night when she found out I had to play today, and didn't want to watch, but father made her come. He made me practice getting the ball through the ring for hours every day for the last few years.

  At the time, I thought he hated me, but although he was never demonstrative in his affections, perhaps that was his way to show he loved me. I found out later that the losers, even at ten years old, had their hearts cut out atop Serpent Mountain.

  The Scorpion Mage had promised a special prize to whoever played the best today. I thought my father wanted whatever it was. The mage sat on his scorpion throne, the tail arching high above, his feet resting on the scorpion's carved head, watching the game. His witches knelt on either side of him. He was all white, but his witches were pretty. They wore matching brig
ht-colored red and green dresses, the mother and daughter.

  One of the mage’s hands stroked the mother's head like she was a pet rather than a person and she cast her eyes down.

  My mother told me about that, but I hadn’t seen it happen until then. It made me feel sick.

  After I won, a scorpion scuttled down the stairs onto the ball court, walking up and down the lines of boys. It stopped in front of me, tail uncurling and pointed its stinger. Guards took my arms, pulled me from the line, and marched me to the palace.

  In the throne room, the Scorpion Mage sat on a larger scorpion throne, the witches at his feet on either side. He extended a hand. Reluctantly, I climbed the steps of the dais and lifted my arm. The mage closed his fingers tight around my wrist.

  I caught the scream of pain in my throat as white magic dazzled my eyes and agony tore up my arm from the stinger embedded in my skin.

  Tears slid down the mother’s face. The girl cried as the soldiers wrestled her away and pushed her down the steps to me.

  The Scorpion Mage closed his hand around the mother’s throat and she stopped crying. “That is your Esne now. Take care of it.”

  Then I knew he wanted me to treat the girl the same way. He leaned forward, watching me. But before I had to, she stopped crying on her own. The first time she showed me mercy.

  I didn't want that magic. I didn't want that crying girl. I didn't want to leave my family.

  I didn't want any of that.

  But I was given no choice.

  Our mothers disappeared the day my acohuetzqui and I met, and she became the only bright spot in the ever darker days ahead.

  Esnes were not permitted to have names, but in my mind I always called her acohuetzqui — light.

  I tried to make my acohuetzqui happy in the beginning. She never asked for much. The simplest things contented her. The one thing she always wanted was books. I didn’t see the harm, and asked to borrow them from the library when we moved into the palace. The librarian reported my request to the Scorpion Mage, and he figured out I wanted the books for her.

  That night was the first time he forced me to drain a witch. I didn’t want to. At ten years old, the idea of doing the things the mage said... but the scorpions... So many stings...

  After a while, I gave in and did everything the mage said. That started my dependence on him and magic. I hadn’t realized how empty I constantly felt until all the glyphs placed on my body were full.

  The Scorpion Mage gloated, like he knew what I was feeling. He probably did. “That is all witches are for. Your witch can’t even do that, but it is Esne. Do not pamper it when it has offered nothing its whole life.”

  I was not kind when I returned to our room and told my acohuetzqui she didn’t need to learn how to read.

  I cannot blame the Scorpion Mage or Tezcatlipoca for everything. I took my acohuetzqui’s beloved pet jaguar after I became the mage, when it was clear she preferred the company of her pet over mine. She couldn’t give me the magic I craved, but I needed her attention so I could remain... me. What was left of me, anyway.

  That cat always adored her and there was always competition between us. I made her think I murdered the jaguar to punish her for some slight I probably imagined. She was heartbroken when she saw the jaguar skull mounted atop the throne, since I let her believe it was his. I had it retrieved from Tlaloc’s residence where Tezcatlipoca kept it to spy on his enemies.

  In truth, I had the cat released on Serpent Mountain and arranged for a butcher to provide meat every day for the indolent beast. His lazy genetics carried on to his young, and they all come to the clearing where the butcher leaves their meals, terrifying the poor man until he figured out their game. Based on the jaguar’s appearance the last time I saw him, he couldn’t hunt for himself now if his life depended on it.

  I was still myself enough to be proud when my daughter was born. Mages talk of wanting sons, but I wouldn’t wish the fate of being a mage on any boy. My acohuetzqui was so happy. She had a genuine smile for me, which was all too rare an occurrence at that time.

  Tezcatlipoca wasn’t as disappointed as the other mages. Rather, he was interested, which made me nervous.

  My daughter showed great promise as a witch. As soon as she could talk, she made the inexplicable happen. Those around her did what she said. Things she wanted appeared. Her magic was the strongest any of the mages had ever seen. So strong, it worried them.

  First she’d dared to be born female, then had the audacity to be powerful enough to challenge a mage by the age of one. The mages saw her as a threat and wanted her heart cut out on the altar atop Serpent Mountain. A child who, if pushed, could kill with a word. Luckily for us all, she took after her mother and showed kindness to those around her, even if they did not return the gesture. I often wished I could teach her a single word. One that would undo all the unhappiness and death. But what one word could do that?

  I often wonder what might have been if she’d had a kind word for me, but her instincts were as developed as her magic, and she never liked me. I learned how to use Tezcatlipoca’s mirrors and watched. I saw her first step. Heard her laughter. Felt the love between mother and daughter. She was the last good thing I ever did.

  I tried to look out for her the best I could. I know the men and boys in the palace frightened her. I ordered her to be moved around at random times to random places, so she was never where anyone expected her to be, and I changed her guards often. When a male was cruel, I found some petty infraction, real or imagined, and made them suffer. My daughter couldn’t afford to have me show I cared for her at all.

  Her magic seemed to be powered by her voice. In a rare happenstance, Tezcatlipoca and I agreed not to kill her. That was when he finally showed me the secrets he kept under Serpent Mountain — all the people he stored in mirrors for a time he might need them, including my mother and father. The way the Esnes were matched — no, here where I am being honest, there is no need for pretty words. Esnes were bred as we all were, in hopes of producing a combination of witch power mixed with god magic — the perfect vessel for a future mage to inhabit.

  Instead of killing my daughter, I stung her with a scorpion to silence her. Even powerless, some of the mages were still wary of her, but Tezcatlipoca’s ‘waste not’ policy carried the day.

  My acohuetzqui never looked at me with a genuine smile again.

  I don’t know what my legacy will be when the time comes for this story to be told, if that ever comes to pass. Apparently, there is no erasing anything in this book, so my story will remain on these pages forever, long after I am gone and perhaps never read.

  Tezcatlipoca has one plan for the dagger. I have another. I won’t survive either — but one ends with my acohuetzqui having an army at her back. All her sacrifices to help me maintain the scrap of humanity left inside me have allowed me one chance to offer her this gift — a sacrifice of my own, which doesn’t begin to repay her. A way to her family and freedom.

  I hope at the end of my life I can do it. That I can show some of the strength and courage she has.

  I may not deserve it, but I hope someone will remember at one time I was just a boy who did his best to love a girl far better than he.

  When my name was Iqiohr.

  MYTH CLOSED THE BOOK and hugged it to her chest. It was so easy to only think of Iqiohr as the Scorpion Mage and all the cruel things he’d done. She’d long ago stopped thinking of him as the boy as lost as she was when they were children, but he’d only been Scorpion Mage for a fifth of his life. Five out of twenty-five years. And now his short life was over.

  But he was also the teenager who let her jaguar sleep on the bed. He’d tried to get her books and paid a terrible price when he was ten. His mother had disappeared when he was a boy, the same as hers. What he’d done to Fable, taking her voice away was horrific, but if it saved her life... maybe there had been another way, but there was no way to know now.

  He was wrong about one thing — he hadn’t giv
en her a single gift, he’d given her two. Her daughter and their freedom.

  And it had been Iqiohr fighting to free her in the end. When he’d guided her hand to cut open his chest and told her to move the bow fire. The black and yellow stripe Tezcatlipoca wore across his eyes flashed in and out during the rite to free Itzpapalotl and her star demons, but at the last moment, it had been Iqiohr making the ultimate sacrifice.

  She would never be able to repay him for Fable. But she would try.

  If no one else could do it for him, she would remember the boy named Iqiohr.

  CHAPTER SIXTY FOUR

  NORRIX

  NORRIX LEANED BACK in his chair. These red and shiny gold walls weren’t what he’d have chosen for himself, but the white marble in his rooms had looked all wrong around Fable. She needed colors. Bright ones. No neutral tones for her. So until the renovations to his suite were finished, this was where they’d live.

  For now, he just... remembered. Everything. Not in order, but in an orderly fashion. He marveled at his newly arranged memories. Now each Witness experience was a separate story stored in its own book. A beginning, middle and end each time rather than one long experience.

  And indexed. He thought of a year, and knew what had occurred in that time frame all over the worlds. Thinking of a civilization, he saw its start, key leaders and moments, its destruction.

  He remembered waking as a vampire on Mush’s back, Zax beside him on Hooligan. Her two-toned eyes ancient and sad as she said, I could, but I can't. Norrix laughed.

  The cushions dipped as Myth joined him. “What's so funny?”

  “Zax told me jumbling my memories was a band aid until the permanent solution to my problem fell in my lap.”

  “Why is that funny?”