The Other Side of Magic

by Ester Manzini

  Leo’s mouth dropped open and she turned to stare at the young man.

  “You know them!”

  “If you only listened, I said that from the beginning! Why are you acting so shocked now?”

  “But I thought…”

  “You were expected. The queen is anxious to meet you all,” the stranger said. His companions circled them, their weapons ready.

  “Liar!” Gaiane’s voice pierced the tension. She grabbed the saddle and kicked her legs forward, but apart from making the horse squirm under her, she didn’t move. Leo almost moved to help her, but Gaiane snarled. With a furious frown she pushed herself forward again, and this time she managed to fall from her horse. Her skirt got caught into the saddle and lifted above her knee; the tension on the fabric was the only thing that kept her from falling face first into the mud. After some more grunting, and a livid pulling of the skirt until she managed to set it free, she stumbled forward and grabbed Evandro’s arm. “There’s no queen, here! She would never...”

  “The queen… but I thought this was not their territory,” Evandro agreed, looking at Gaiane without his usual contempt. “Ampelio… you said there were rebels, and not…”

  Leo’s vision turned red. She could hear Gaiane pleading, her quick, terrified words. Evandro shock was all around her, his sword useless, low by his side.

  This all happened around her, but all she could see was Ampelio's grin.

  “You… you damned traitor!” she roared. The boy’s smug face crumbled when she lashed at him, her small knife in her hand. “You sold us all to the Asares!”

  Strong arms grabbed her, holding her back.

  “If you only let me explain,” Ampelio said, oddly serious. Leo couldn’t hear him--Gaiane was crying, and in actual fear now, no tantrum.

  “I don’t care about your lies! You’re an Asares spy, aren’t you? You…”

  “You be quiet, girl,” said one of her captors, a woman with a strange accent.

  “I’ll kill you!” she spat on. Her shoulders burned in the brutal grip, and she could do little but kick and squirm. “I swear it, I’ll kill you!”

  “Make her stop,” said the man with the donkey. A rough hand closed her mouth, and before she could bite, a jute sack descended around her head. Blind but not less furious, Leo tried to resist when they tied her hands, but no matter how much she floundered about, they were too many and too strong.

  Her voice roared muffled against the fabric, and her knife slipped from her fingers when someone picked her up. The donkey’s back was sweaty under her, and her anger flowed into tears, drenching the sack.

  “Please… please, don’t take me to the queen! I’ll be good, I’ll do whatever you ask me! I beg you! Don’t hurt Leo!”

  Gaiane’s voice, muffled as it was in Leo’s ears, was a desperate cry, equally begging and furious. She wasn’t crying, just screaming at the top of her lungs; struggling, too, because her words were often interrupted by grunts. Leo tried to extend her hand, searching for her.

  But then the chattering of too many people surrounded them, and she couldn’t hear her anymore.

  Chapter 14

  They’d taken his sword. His hunting knife, too.

  They’d stripped him of the illusion of being something more than a beast.

  Evandro walked among a crowd of faceless strangers. The skinny man had left his donkey at the gates, and now was leading the group. There was a shiny, bald spot on top of his sunburned head, and Evandro's stomach twitched whenever he looked at him. Was it familiar, or was he just confused?

  He was living his worst nightmare all over again. Only, this time there were no corpses pushing against his body, only living, ragged people staring at him from the ruins of a collapsed stronghold. No smoke or cries for help or mercy, only eyes peeking from every crumbled door frame, every crack in the walls of abandoned houses.

  Nikaia survived. The empty shell of its past glory, crawling with life. The market square still stood, but instead of stalls there was rubble and weeds growing from the cracks in the marble pavement.

  Evandro clenched his jaws against the sickness kicking at his guts. Ampelio was nowhere to be seen--the little traitor had leapt from the group and darted down the dirty streets, vanishing from their sight. The flame of hatred burned in Evandro's chest, for Ampelio but for himself, too. He’d been fooled.

  Gaiane was at his left, a frail, shivering thing, with her braids unfurled on her shoulders. She had stopped crying, but her eyes were red and wild, her mouth a tight line.

  I should have killed her when I had a chance. Not just for myself, but for her, too.

  The unexpected surge of pity for that silly girl didn’t sit well with his resentment. Was she really the powerful weapon used to destroy Epidalio? She hadn't cast a single spell, no matter how visible the ring on her hairline, and now they were giving her back to her country. He hated to know they were returning Zafiria its lost princess, and all because he’d let his guard down.

  Leo, on his other side, sputtered like an angry cat under her hood. The woman guarding her was short and stocky, with two long black braids and wide cheekbones on a dark face. Her eyes were impenetrable, but the hand she held on Leo’s shoulder wasn’t brutal. Large, yes, with faded signs of bruises and burns, but gentle. No matter how much Leo squirmed and cursed, the woman hushed her in a soft voice and kind pats on her back.

  Evandro tried to check around him some more. The ruins were empty, with no signs of furniture or trade. Just gaunt faces, too many to be ignored, with ragged, dark clothes and untrusting looks.

  No banners. No signs of affiliation.

  Have the Asares corrupted the so called rebels? This could explain the talks of a queen and Ampelio's double dealing. First, the guy had been tagging along with Ram and his men, then he’d escaped the ambush, only to give Gaiane to his true masters.

  The plan behind Ampelio’s actions made sense. Evandro clenched his fists and cracked his knuckles with fury.

  Not like this. To be brought in front of her worst enemy, see queen Cibele’ smug face, and have his true identity thrown at the mob like some sort of grim joke--no, it was too much. He closed his eyes and tried not to throw up.

  I wish I had died hanging from that tree.

  Again, Eliodoro's smile flashed in his memory. A trusting, affectionate smile. Of a friend, the most important person in his life.

  And I’ve let you down again…

  “You’re not supposed to be here, Rea.” muttered the balding man in front of Evandro, shaking him from his bitterness.

  He opened his eyes, and his pace faltered. He blinked, but the picture wouldn’t fade.

  Or was it reality?

  A kid. A small thing of seven or eight, with a round, brown face and black curls.

  With golden hazel eyes, curious and impertinent.

  “Why not?” the little girl asked. She was barefoot, her trousers torn on her knees and her shirt too big for her.

  “You know you’re supposed to…”

  And then the kid raised her chin and scrunched her nose, the defying gesture of a brat.

  Evandro let out a strangled gasp.

  He’d seen someone else do that exact same gesture, a long time ago.

  No, it can’t be…

  They were in the circle of the late royal palace’s walls, and the day was hot. His skin was cold, his arms covered in goosebumps.

  “Ampelio said you were here, and I wanted to see,” the little girl said, before stomping her foot on the cracked paved road and darting away.

  “Rea!” The blond man called, but the kid was gone already, jumping among the burned poles and piles of rubbish.

  Evandro couldn’t move, and even when a burly man somewhere behind him shoved him forward, he could barely see where they were going.

  Even Gaiane’s words, soft but steadier than one could’ve expected from a whimpering princess, were distant.

  “Who is that child?” she asked. The woman at Leo’s side chu
ckled.

  “A surprise, little one,” she said. “You’ll see soon enough.”

  Evandro heard the words, but they bounced against his consciousness without piercing it.

  Nikaia, with its empty squares, with the countless blackened windows staring at him from cracked facades, its haggard people watching the parade in silence--everything flowed around him without touching him. He was vaguely aware of the crumbled archway above them, and how it used to lead to the marble square in front of the palace. Now all that was left were broken tiles and faceless, armless statues, covered in weeds and pigeon droppings.

  Evandro watched his own boots as they walked the debris down the moat. The chains of the drawbridge hung rusty from the slab of blackened stone that once was one of the gates, and at the bottom of the trench the grass grew green, tall and untouched.

  Ghosts. In his head, around him, mocking him.

  He couldn’t look up. The towers were but stumps, and the debris was the tomb of too many people. Family, friends--all there, watching him, judging him.

  Even a child with Eliodoro's eyes, a vision of his own troubled, wounded mind…

  Your boots. Look at your boots, or else you’ll go insane…

  Leo grunted out loud when the black haired woman picked her up and carried her, still kicking, across the moat.

  Evandro was out of his body. Too much information, too conflicting, too unlikely. He almost missed the feeling of wanting to punch Ampelio's face through his skull.

  He followed without a word, stepping on the grass growing through the cracks of the pavement and the moss shadowing the cobblestones. What had once been a shiny causeway meandering through the capital, now was little more than a trail among the ruins.

  The bitter contrast between Nikaia’s past and present lasted the time to realize something was shifting under his steps. The road, while derelict, was viable—until it wasn’t anymore. Chunks of wood blocked the way, and the results of the cave in of a building, stones and tiles and piles of dust, stood in the way. Someone grabbed his elbow, but Evandro grunted and pulled back without a word. He carefully walked around the obstacles, and the more he advanced further down the ruined path, the more something felt wrong.

  No more hubbub of bystanders. Gone was the sun shining through the cracked roofs and collapsed holes among the buildings. No ivy and tufts of grass in the tiles. Just quiet, echoing shadows. The sudden quiet made the hair on the back of his neck stand up. He abandoned his plan of focusing on his feet and looked up.

  Ruins, once more, and this didn’t surprise him. Pale, cracked walls framed the bright blue sky above and painted the floor in irregular patches of shadows. A part of his escort was busy in the corner between two piles of debris, and Evandro seized the opportunity to turn around and look more closely to the place. No way out, and he’d expected that, but while this corner of Nikaia was inconspicuous enough, hidden as it was behind a dam of burned poles and beams and crumbled rocks, it was clean. Freshly swept, and the planks they were standing on were consumed, yes, but immaculate.

  Something creaked behind the screen of his captors’ backs, and he craned his neck to take a closer look. The operation was apparently not a secret, because the moment the corner cleared, Evandro saw it. A trapdoor, opening on a dark pit. Somewhere behind him, Leo cursed and stumbled, and Gaiane gasped.

  When one of the strangers hopped down the hole, the light of the torch he’d lit showed a short flight of wooden stairs, rough in shape but polished by long use.

  “Larsa, close the trapdoor,” and when the stranger man spoke in a softer tone, Evandro lifted his head. That voice, too, came from a place too far away in his past to be anything but a trick of his brain.

  “Down you go, girls,” whispered the woman, Larsa, and Evandro stumbled forward when Gaiane, first, and then Leo bumped against his back.

  A few steps later, Evandro shivered in the dampness. The tunnel was carved in the hard ground, with wooden poles as a support, scratched and darkened scrap material scavenged from the ruins.

  The tunnel buried deep down, and soon the air went from stale to chill. Gaiane was panting, so near him her shivering trembled against the fabric of his shirt. Leo stopped snorting and fighting, and when Larsa removed her hood the girl gasped and blinked.

  “What is this place?” Gaiane said, squishing herself against Leo.

  “Come on, she’s waiting,” Larsa said, one hand on each girl’s shoulder and a grin across her thin lips.

  Evandro turned around, but saw nobody except their two guards. Whoever had his weapons was gone, but how far? He could still take his chances with his fists: Larsa seemed a strong woman, but the other man not so much. Still, he was so oddly familiar, Evandro found himself more inclined to scan his memory for pictures of him than to breaking his bones.

  Yes, he was definitely going insane, he said to himself as they proceeded along the tunnel.

  His back was stiff, his fists so tightly clenched his fingers hurt. When they came to a halt and the nameless man pushed open a door Evandro hadn’t even seen, every muscle in his body burned with tension.

  The room was round, with low vaulted ceilings of dusting red bricks. Empty. No windows or chandeliers cast the warm reddish glow that outlined the three people at the far end, but torches. One was Ampelio, his eyes stubbornly searching for Evandro's gaze.

  He ignored the boy, even if the urge to beat him to a pulp him was still strong. It was the other two shapes he couldn’t look away from. Faceless strangers in dark clothes--robes and worn out tunics, mismatched parts of leather armor. Hoods, covering their heads and shadowing their eyes. In the light of the torches dripping wax from the sconces by the chair one of the two figures was sitting on, they both looked slender. Motionless and cold.

  He had a faint memory of that place. A storage room down in the cellars, now stripped of the large barrels of wine it once hosted.

  Evandro bared his teeth when the door slammed shut behind him, its bang echoing under the vaults.

  “My queen,” the man said without bowing. “I bring you the… prisoners, if you want to call them that?”

  Ampelio chuckled nervously, and the standing figure nodded. The one sitting on the chair--not a throne, but simple polished wood with a tall backrest--only lifted two fingers. Covered as they were by the hem of those long sleeves, it was impossible to tell if they were slender or thick, or even their color.

  Larsa pushed the two girls forward, and Evandro found himself between the two. Leo’s posture was unchanged, her shoulders hunched, her jaw set and her eyes squinting in fury. Gaiane, on the other hand, was different. Pale, yes, and still ruffled, but she kept her head up, frowning slightly as she stared at the dark clad people in the distance.

  Evandro looked at the young princess for a moment, baffled.

  That was not the look of a daughter facing her mother. But who could say who hid under the hoods?

  Ampelio bowed by the sitting figure, then nodded.

  “The… the queen asks you to come forward,” he said. His voice cracked, and Evandro glanced back at him with cold hatred. He wouldn’t have needed the gentle poke the blond man gave him to walk slowly toward the queen, and the distance that divided them filled with roaring confusion.

  Why the rebels? Why the secrecy? Why Nikaia? Why?

  “Kneel,” Larsa said.

  Gaiane and frowned, staring at the queen with open curiosity. Leo, her hands still tied, planted her feet steadily on the floor and didn’t even bend her head.

  Evandro stood upright, grinding his teeth and breathing in the smell of dampness and mold.

  “No, really, you should kneel,” Ampelio said quickly, stepping in front of the throne and casting a cautious look at the two other people. “It’s…”

  “It’s alright,” A female voice, low and young.

  Evandro's whole body twitched in a spasm, and his vision blurred.

  Any doubt he still had about his mental stability faded. He was hallucinating, that was
clear.

  The woman stood from the chair and took Ampelio's arm, her slender, black hand wrapping around his wrist, dismissing him. She nodded and grabbed the folds of her hood, pushing it back.

  “So, you are alive, Dawn Star,” Ligeia said, shaking her braids on her shoulders.

  Evandro collapsed on his knees, his forehead pressed on the stones, out of breath. The stones were hard against his bones, his eyes open wide, tears falling from his lashes.

  It was her. Her cheekbones sharper, her eyes deeper and her hands thinner.

  She was alive. And he couldn’t find the strength to lift his face and look at her.

  Sobs shook his chest, a long, mournful sound crawling up his throat.

  “Evandro… please, stand up, we’re not at court anymore!” Ligeia hissed. That, too, was unchanged--her matter-of-factly tone, lightly dusted with impatience.

  “I… can’t,” he panted, shaking his head.

  A brief silence. When Ligeia sighed, Evandro felt a shift in her demeanor. Impatience, yes, but affection too, buried under years of mourning and seclusion.

  “It’s going to be alright. You’re among friends, now, and… and I have no words to express how grateful I am to have you back. But please, would you look at me now?”

  Again, Evandro shook his head, speechless.

  “Mother, can you please help him?”

  The hands that grabbed Evandro's shoulders were small and pale, and when he straightened his back he saw another familiar face. Dizziness shrouded his mind and slurred his tone when he stared at a noble, lined face, with short blond hair going gray and a scar on her eyebrow.

  “Queen… Althea. You cut your hair,” he stuttered.

  “Not a queen anymore, I’m too old for that. Up, young man, and stop ogling me like that--Mirone, you’ll have to check him for head injuries.”

  Mirone. The name rang no bell, but fragments of his past were falling into place.

  “You!” He gasped, scrambling to his feet and turning to look at him. “The… the doctor! You were her doctor!”

  “Well indeed I was, and I still am,” Mirone said. Of course he was, but Evandro could see little of that weak healer in this man with wiry arms and a face of lined leather. “Careful, you’re a little unstable…”