The Other Side of Magic

by Ester Manzini

  How old was that man? Older than he was, in his late thirties or early forties at least. Enough to have fought in the Spring Slaughter.

  His hands are covered in the blood of my people. I’ll be quick and he won’t even suffer, and that’s more than he deserves…

  Barnabas's snoring was so loud it sounded almost fake, but he didn’t move when Evandro stood above him, nor when his sword silently left its sheath.

  For a moment, the metal point glimmered in the embers, red and steel against Barnabas's unshaven throat. Evandro tightened his grip on the leather hilt and took a deep breath.

  “What… are you doing?”

  Helena’s voice was groggy with sleep and shock, but sharp enough to wake Barnabas up.

  The man opened his eyes, and he stared at Evandro.

  Instinct kicked in.

  He stomped on Barnabas's face--once, twice, leaving the man in a gurgling pile of blood, motionless. The commander jumped to her feet, fully awaken, sword and knife in hand.

  “Who are you?” she growled. But she didn’t need an answer: she charged on, the dagger close to her side, her sword flashing in the shadows.

  Evandro forgot fear and doubt. The hilt became one with his fist, memories written in bones and muscles and blood guiding his hands. He saw Helena come toward him and waited for her with an unnatural calm.

  She was fast, he had to admit it. Her first attack was cleaner than he’d expected, a quick lunge that he fenced off, retreating. The clash of steel on steel exploded under the stars, and Evandro jumped back slightly to avoid the lethal point of the dagger.

  His free arm moved without a second thought, and his elbow hit Helena’s forearm, quick and vicious. The woman grunted, and her grip loosened. Evandro tried to pull her forward, but she stomped on his foot and pushed him back.

  He stumbled, vaguely aware of the numbness in his toes, and she attacked again. Her blade rose high, descending toward his right shoulder. He blocked it again, but the impact was powerful enough to move him back an inch or two.

  He resisted, pushing and staring into Helena’s eyes. She wasn’t angry, just shocked.

  She trusted me.

  It tasted so good in his mouth.

  She was the enemy, and the only thing standing between him and his revenge. He let out a growl and shoved her back.

  Helena twirled on her heel, and Evandro seized the opportunity. He crouched low and described a horizontal arch with his sword. Her blood looked almost black on the mirroring steel of his blade; Helena howled in pain and collapsed on her side, her left leg limp and useless. The fabric over the tendons behind her knee was cut open, already soaking with blood.

  Out of habit, Evandro bowed lightly, then he remembered.

  This was no jousting, and he was no knight anymore. He walked toward Helena and kicked her sword away, leaving her to pant and cry in agony.

  It was done, and he was not in a hurry anymore. He undid three horses from the tree they’d been secured to and carried them into the bushes, slapping their rears with the flat of his sword to make them neigh in shock and run away. He came back to ensure Barnabas was still out, and just for good measure he tied his hands and feet. The man was pale and breathing lightly, and didn’t look like he was going to wake up any time soon.

  Helena dragged herself on her elbows and tried to catch Evandro's ankle.

  “Who… who the fuck are you?”

  “I’m no one,” he said flatly, taking all the supplies he could from the camp and throwing whatever he couldn’t carry in the fire. He filled two saddlebags.

  “A traitor, that’s what you are! You… bastard!”

  The remains of the liquor fell into the fire, and a blaze rose high, blinding Evandro.

  In the bright light, he stared at Helena, and she opened her mouth. Fury and shock mixed on her hard features, and Evandro complimented himself for his strike: she was bleeding enough, suffering enough to be unable to summon her power. Still, better safe than sorry.

  “I’m no one,” he said again. He reached out for her tunic and lifted her to her feet, making her yell in pain again. “And this no one has a princess to find.”

  He straightened his hand and sliced it on the side of her throat, hard. Helena’s mouth, still open around her grimace, slacked at once; her eyes rolled back in her skull and she fell limp on the ground.

  Evandro looked at her for a second, dispassionately. Killing her would be so easy--her, and everyone else.

  He couldn’t do it. A tiny corner of his soul was shining again in the shadows of the past eight years, small and so frail even giving it too much thought would’ve dimmed it.

  He wasn’t the Dawn Star anymore, but Eliodoro would’ve despised him for killing three unconscious, defeated enemies.

  Evandro almost smiled in his beard.

  He saddled up the remaining horse, the nervous beast he’d come to know already, and loaded it with his supplies.

  When he slid his boot in the stirrup and pulled himself up, his eyes prickled with tears.

  Not a knight, maybe, but he was himself again.

  He spurred the horse and ran into the night.

  Chapter 10

  The following day Gaiane reconsidered her definition of discomfort.

  She’d never been grimier in her whole life, her scalp itched for how dirty her hair was, and more importantly, her wounded foot throbbed up to her ankle. She did her best to walk on the tip of her toes, but even with all her care, the touch of a jutting stone or the gentlest brush of a grass blade made her squirm in pain. During their occasional stops, she tried to check on the wound: she knew little of first aid, but she was fairly certain that her skin wasn’t supposed to be that red and warm.

  She wiggled her fingers to ease the dizziness from the rope, and she clenched her jaw, looking at the back of her captor.

  She’d rather be dead than beg. The girl in front of her clearly knew no manners, and she hadn’t even told her what her name was.

  Gaiane sniffed and shook her tangled hair.

  After all, what else have I got? she thought as the nameless girl unpacked their small camp and kicked some dirt on the embers of their fireplace. Pride. That’s all.

  Gaiane wrapped her arms around her knees and rocked gently back and forth. The burden of a truth she’d failed to realize in the thrill of her found freedom crushed her spine. After all, despite her strategies and all the books she had read, she was just a silly, clueless princess. How was she supposed to expect her powers could betray her right when she needed them the most? Nothing, in her academic studies, could’ve prepared for this failure. Years to plan her escape, and what for? She’d thrown it all away at the hands of a stranger who barely knew how to behave. There was no way out, not with her powers dampened.

  * * *

  A chill crawled under her skin. Once more, she tried to summon the faintest flicker of magic, but no matter how hard she focused, the world around her was empty and flat. For her whole life, even with the dreaded collar her mother had her wear, she had seen the world as any mage could. She only needed to focus, and the energies that permeated every element, every living thing, rock or drop of water, would shine through. Like an infinite lute, she could see the strings running just beneath the surface of reality, and thanks to her magic, she could pick those chords and create her own music. Oh, of course, everybody could, but her superior powers made could’ve made her the conductor of the cosmic orchestra—if they weren’t blocked, of course. Like mother did with the collar. Like it was happening now, even if the sensation was different. She wasn’t choking, she was free—she knew she was—and yet she could see no trace of magic anywhere. No power lines connecting everything that lived, no throbbing energy in every rock and ray of light.

  Frustration added in to concern. There was no plausible explanation to this, and the weirdest theories started to crowd in her mind. Tentatively, she touched the sign on her forehead. Was it still there, or it had disappeared in the night? Was that another o
f her mother’s tricks? Maybe her power was infinite only while she stayed in her tower…

  A sharp voice tore her from her elucubrations.

  “Get up. You had more than your share of sleep,” the stranger girl said, knocking on Gaiane’s shoulder.

  “It’s not true!” she replied instinctively, but as she rose from her curled position she realized that the girl was right. She didn’t like to admit it, but having company--albeit not of the most refined kind--had resulted in a long, dreamless night. Very different from the broken sleep she’d had on that rock, or the brief naps she’d dared to take on her first days out of the palace. She wouldn’t call herself well rested, but her head was clearer now, and it was a nice change.

  “What part of get up you didn’t understand? If you’re expecting your breakfast, you’ll have to wait. I need to find water, first, since you’re useless on that issue, too…”

  The faint glimmer of optimism dulled and died. Gaiane narrowed her eyes and suppressed a grunt. That scornful tone was unbearable. The girl didn’t look older than her, but she couldn’t look more different. Dark skinned, with broad shoulders and muscular arms peeking from under the ripped sleeves of her simple tunic; her curly mohawk flopped down on her forehead, half covering one of her long black eyes. She looked skilled when it came to living in the wilderness, and her ability to light up a fire even under the drizzling rain was almost magical--but nothing about her had the faintest glimmer of power.

  When the stranger tugged at the rope, Gaiane sighed and stood up. As they left the safety of their cave, she realized in horror that she almost didn’t notice how bad she smelled anymore. It was worse than being dirty.

  They stopped after less than an hour, by a small spring bubbling from a crack in a rock. Their break proved to be better than Gaiane could’ve expected: she got to wash her hands and face in the stream, and the chunk of dark bread the girl shared with her was hard but tasted vaguely of honey. No meat, luckily, and no more discussion on the point.

  To her surprise, Gaiane realized she’d devoured her portion in three bites, while her companion was still nibbling at it, staring into the distance with an impenetrable look.

  That silence started to annoy her, so she cleared her throat lightly until the girl blinked and tilted her head towards her.

  “So, you’re taking me to Zafiria,” she tacked in, brushing crumbles from her stained bodice.

  “Smart girl.” It didn’t sound like a compliment at all.

  “You know that it’s not easy to cross the border, right? For an Epidalian commoner, especially…” She dipped her hands in the water and drank some more. The vague taste of leaves and wood wasn’t unpleasant.

  The short pause served its purpose: the stranger was looking at her with open interest now.

  “Are you trying to scare me? It’s not working, you know?”

  “I was just trying to warn you, that’s all. I could very well accuse you of kidnapping me, and then…”

  Unexpectedly, the girl burst out laughing. A warm, deep sound. Unnerving.

  Gaiane watched her slap her hand on the ground and sniffed, crossing her arms and looking up to the trees.

  “What’s so funny?”

  “You!” The girl said, pointing at her and chuckling her hilarity away. “It’s a good plan, really! Maybe next time try not to blow it like that.”

  Gaiane’s cheeks burned, and she lifted her chin some more.

  “Well maybe it was my idea all along!” she insisted, but she would’ve slapped herself. The girl was right--she was a fool.

  “But really, thank you for telling me.” She stood up and balled the rope in her fist. “It’s better to take you to Tarini, or to the Pegea garrison, even if it’s a week of march from here. Then they’ll see you back to your blighted palace and we’ll be done with it. I get the money of the bounty, and no more innocent people will suffer because of you.”

  This stung. Gaiane skipped the outrage of the bounty part and stared at the girl with the familiar tingling of tears in her eyes.

  “I never wanted to… It’s… it’s not my fault if…”

  The girl pulled the rope and turned her back on her.

  “Nobody cares about your feelings. Hurry, I want to reach the main road before night.” The following sharp jerk made Gaiane jump forward to keep up, but she didn’t say a word.

  It wasn’t her fault. She never asked to be used as a weapon or to be held captive by her own family. After all she was born out of greed and ambition, not of love.

  Wasn’t freedom her right?

  Maybe not, she thought grimly staring at the girl’s back as they descended a gentle slope.

  Fault and responsibility weren’t the same thing, Alcmena would say. Gaiane might have had no say in what use had been made of her in the past, but it didn’t mean she couldn’t have done anything about it. She never tried to rebel against her mother’s will, or protested for the violence she’d been pulled into. She could’ve at least tried to raise her voice.

  She banished the intrusive thought as if it was one of the countless gnats waking up in the hot morning and buzzing around her ears.

  Her only shelter was her past. If she focused on the good of it, skipping the whole captivity, trauma and manipulation part, she could ignore the discomfort of the road. Her bed, so warm and soft; the gentle singing of her birds, now free somewhere in the woods. Alcmena, most of all, and her unique brand of kindness and pragmatism. She had been the only person to care for her after the Slaughter, coming back the day after the spell to hold her hand and help her drink sweet herbal tea to help her recover from the shock. Gaiane had laid in bed for almost a week; the weariness from the spell had faded quickly, but the burden of nightmares wouldn’t let her go. And Alcmena was there, gently patting her hand and speaking no empty words of comfort, but keeping Gaiane’s mind busy with witty historical anecdotes, curiosities about the natural world, and the occasional court gossip to lighten the mood.

  The sudden sting of a twig under her foot snatched her from her daydreaming. Gaiane blinked in the bright sun, and a knot of homesickness tightened in her chest.

  No soft beds and plump quilts. No golden bars at the window, but no books to entertain her. Her captor walked stubbornly in front of her, uninterested in her uneasiness and pulling her along without sparing her a look.

  Gaiane limped on and closed her eyes. The picture of Alcmena’s subtle smile, framed by thin wrinkles and glimmering with pride, faded when she had to slap the side of her neck to get rid of something buzzing, biting and annoying.

  For the next hours, she was too busy smacking bugs away and avoiding rough spots in the grass to think much, and the painful pulse in her foot and leg was an overwhelming company enough.

  It was like walking in a horrible, vivid dream.

  And when flies replaced gnats, it became even more so.

  Gaiane noticed the first fly sometime after midday: a plump, blue and green creature landed on her wrist, its abdomen throbbing lightly and its iridescent wings frail and lively under the sun. Gaiane lifted her hand and studied the bright compound eyes with grim interest. The fly buzzed away when she tried to touch it, but soon after more came to visit them. Two or three at first, flying away from where Gaiane and the stranger put their feet. They made their way up a sunny grassland, under a blinding blue sky, with the wind pushing them up.

  Swarms, then, annoying to the point the other girl had to stop and wave them away with her hand.

  Gaiane huffed one from her nose and buried her face in the crook of her elbow. She didn’t want those things to get into her mouth.

  “Why are there so many?” she asked in a whisper. “Is it normal?”

  “I’m not sure,” the girl answered, and for the first time Gaiane heard something in her voice. Tension, doubt--she sounded human, and not just contemptuous. She slowed down and stopped at the top of the hill; Gaiane joined her and looked down.

  Down the basin was a village, tiny and adorable. The o
ther girl’s nervous reaction at the sight suddenly felt entirely out of place.

  Gaiane smiled as her heart leapt in her chest. Maybe village was an overstatement, but the clutter of five houses was perfect: white walls, straw roofs with some mischievous poppy growing among the yellow covering. There was a round well at the center of the square the houses faced, and surely there had to be some chickens or goats somewhere. That was what villages were all about, her books said. This one in particular looked peculiarly quiet, but how could she know there wasn’t some lady churning butter behind one of the huts, or a curved cheerful man working in the patch of dark soil she could make out between the buildings?

  Somebody was obviously there, their presence clear in the line of black smoke rising from one of the chimneys.

  Gaiane smiled--people! Real food! Maybe a bath too! Her limbs melted in relief and she turned to the other girl to suggest a stop.

  The moment she looked at that dark face, though, her blood froze. The girl was pale, uninterested in the four, five flies on her shoulder.

  “What’s happening?” Gaiane said under her breath, touching the stranger’s arm. She was shaking.

  “Don’t move.”

  “What? No, I’m…”

  The girl turned sharply and dropped the rope. She looked Gaiane straight in the face, and her eyes were wide, her long lashes quivering.

  “Stay here and don’t move, promise me!”

  “But…”

  The girl didn’t wait. She didn’t even secure Gaiane to anything, or bound her feet to stop her from escaping. She ran down the slope and slid for the last few meters, rushing to the small village.

  Gaiane, confused, watched her go.

  I could leave, I think.

  She took a step back and grimaced in pain. No, bad idea: she was in no condition to run, and being alone scared her more than she wanted to admit.