by T P Sheehan
Sarah licked the saltiness from her lips. “This sorcerer killed Ganister.”
Marsala’s face softened. She came to Sarah and knelt beside her. They looked into one another’s eyes. Sarah could see the eyes they shared—eyes that belonged to the sisters that were their gypsy mothers. She leant forward and rested her head on Marsala’s shoulder. Marsala embraced Sarah again, only this time with true compassion. Sarah would like to have cried, but she was well spent of tears.
“What of your son, Sarah?” Marsala’s voice had softened.
Sarah sat back in the chair again. “I will find Lucas, one way or another. He is out there somewhere.”
Marsala remained on her knees. She seemed to sway a little and her eyes drifted.
“What is it?” Sarah asked.
“Lucas…” Marsala’s word came as whisper from a distant thought.
“That’s right—‘Lucas’.”
“Friend as a brother…fallen to darkness…” Marsala was mumbling.
Marsala knew something—Sarah was sure of it. “What do you know? What have you foreseen?”
“Cousin…” Marsala was shaking her head. “Who is Lucas’s closest friend?” Marsala winced as she asked.
“Magnus. They are like brothers. ‘Fallen to darkness,’ you said. What do you know, Marsala?” Sarah was almost too scared to ask.
“Magnus carries Lucas’s sword.”
“How do you know this?”
“He was here. With another.”
Sarah thought of when she last saw Magnus. It was the evening before escaping Ba’rrat. She looked at the empty seat next to her. “Catanya,” she said.
“Aye,” Marsala confirmed. “Not three days ago.”
Sarah was at once pleased they were both safe, for the last she knew of Catanya was seeing her leave her and the other escapees east of Ba’rrat, in the farmer’s cart, and heading back toward the Black Capitol’s gates. But how did Magnus come to possess Lucas’s sword? With a sigh of relief, Sarah realised Marsala’s confusion—“That was Magnus’s sword. They each have one, forged together by Ganister.”
Marsala shook her head. Pity was written across her face. “I am aware there are two, but no, Sarah, the sword he carries is not his. It is Lucas’s.”
Sarah was quick to calculate. Bonstaph fought with Magnus in Ba’rrat’s arena where Ganister was slain. That much she knew. If Magnus possesses Lucas’s sword, this is where he found it. Which meant Lucas either perished in the arena, or left without his sword. She doubted Bonstaph could keep Lucas’s death from her. Another thing troubled her. It had been troubling her since she asked Bonstaph about it—
‘What of this sorcerer?’ Sarah remembered asking him.
‘He fled with Delvion…’ Bonstaph had replied.
‘And what did you think, when you saw my husband’s killer take his leave?’
‘I cursed his name… swore I would kill him.’
It never seemed right that Bonstaph had failed to slay Ganister’s killer. But if he knew the killer… If he knew the sorcerer… If Magnus had retrieved his sword…
“What are you saying, Marsala?” Sarah pointed at the mystic. “Do not mince words.”
Marsala paused. Sarah hoped she was gathering her words into a neat arrangement of truth. She was. “I scried Lucas’s sword. It spoke of his fall into darkness. Poison has addled his mind and he bends to the will of a master. That master could only be Delvion, cousin. No other has so dark a disposition.”
Sarah stared hard at Marsala. “My son is the sorcerer?” She forced the words. “He killed my husband? His father?”
“Aye. Lucas is the sorcerer you speak of.”
Sarah slumped, gripping tightly to the soup bowl in her lap. The room spun about in silence. The hatred Sarah was using as her emotional shield vanished in the silence. Her shield was gone. In its place was numbness so absolute that Sarah was almost sure she had died and joined the ghosts of floating fog outside Marsala’s home. Only the aching beat of her broken heart told her she was still among the living.
“There will be no need for the Tenebris spells, then,” Marsala said. Her voice came to Sarah as a muffled moan.
“The spells are essential.” Sarah blinked away the fog. “As Lucas’s mother, I bear responsibility. You shall bind out fates—”
“I will not conjure a spell so you can kill your own son.”
“I still need a Tenebris spell to hide me from darkness and seek Lucas out. The second spell must bind our fates.”
“You will not be able to kill him, cousin. Your heart will not yield to such a thing.”
“I know this. There is something else you can do in its place. Something darker than the realm of spells.”
“You want me to place a curse.” Marsala was the one pointing now.
Sarah did not flinch. She knew a curse was as bad as murder, for it took away free will. “As long as I live, I will not allow Magnus, Catanya, nor anyone else to fall victim to this sorcerer of darkness—my son or not.”
“Such a curse will bind you to a nightmare from which you can never wake.” Marsala stared. Sarah would not yield and so waited for Marsala to do so. “Very well. I will prepare a Tenebris spell and conjure your curse, but you will need to place the curse yourself. This is not something that can be done from afar. You will need to seek Lucas out.”
“Your spell will help me with that.”
“Yes it will.” Marsala blinked. She looked frustrated. “Now, for the love of the gods, will you finish your soup?”
Sarah left Marsala’s home in the darkest hour of night—the hour before sunrise. It was the hour when restless sleepers rose and the ghosts of Thwax’s past sank away before the rising sun exposed their unsettled secrets. Marsala watched as Sarah took her leave and vanished into the fog like an apparition.
Marsala picked the tray of half eaten food and tea off the table and turned toward the curtains at the back of the room. She looked at Blüflis who shot a judging glance at her. “Don’t look at me like that,” Marsala snapped, certain the blue cat knew she had used her mystic skills for ill will this night. Blüflis turned away, lifting her tail high as if to express her disapproval. “Hmph…”
Marsala was exhausted. Preparing both the twofold Tenebris spell and the curse used all her strength and it would be several days before she recovered enough to scry even the thoughts of a white-lipped tree frog. She left the living room and descended the narrow staircase to the kitchen with Blüflis twirling between her legs to get down first. In the kitchen, Marsala placed the tray on the kitchen bench. Blüflis leapt up and sniffed at the soup bowls. “Help yourself, so long as you drop the attitude, little lady.” She turned about and jumped. A tall man was standing over her with a look of fury on his face.
“You’re awake!” Marsala was startled. Blüflis arched her back, hissing at the man. “You frightened ten lives out of us,” Marsala continued. “One from me and nine from Blüflis.”
Joffren’s face was clammy and his eyes an intense, pewter grey. He was unsteady, waving from side to side, knocking over bowls and cooking books.
“Careful, Semsü.” Marsala reached for his shoulders to steady him. “When Färgd arrived with you strapped to his back, I feared the worst. But you’ve surprised even me—”
Marsala was cut short as Joffren’s hands clasped around her throat, squeezing mercilessly. Blüflis leapt at Joffren, claws unsheathed, and imbedded herself into Joffren’s face and skull. Joffren grunted in anger, released one hand from Marsala’s throat, grabbed a handful of the cat’s dark fur and hurled her across the room. The cat screamed until it hit a wall and fell to the ground.
Her vision darkening and her throat in excruciating pain, Marsala grabbed a heavy saucepan and swung it hard at Joffren’s head, clocking him on the right temple. The Irucantî fell to the ground giving Marsala respite enough to cough her sight and breath back. Joffren recovered quickly, bringing a large kitchen knife sidelong to Marsala’s throat, pushing her bac
k against the kitchen bench where her head clanged against several hanging pots and bowls. Joffren pushed the pots out of his face with his spare hand. Marsala reached back to steady herself against the bench.
“What are you doing, you bald-headed priest?” Marsala shouted. “I’m trying to help you!”
Joffren’s face hardened. His jaw clenched. His eyes were glazed and unfocused. He pushed the large knife harder against Marsala’s throat. A haunting growl rolled from behind gritted teeth. Marsala felt the sting of the blade cut into her neck. She realised there was no reasoning with the priest and that his anger, mixed with his delirity, was going to spell the end for her. Her right hand held fast to Joffren’s wrist and with the other she searched the bench behind her for something to swing at him again. She caught a brief reflection in a hanging copper pot as it swung by Joffren’s bleeding head—there was a paring knife just a few inches from her hand.
In a flash, Marsala grabbed the knife and buried it into Joffren’s neck. Joffren stumbled, dropped the large knife, and swung a fist at Marsala’s face. She fell to the floor and Joffren fell on top of her.
When Marsala woke, she was lying prone on the floor. Blüflis was beside her, licking her bruised head. Marsala’s jaw ached from Joffren’s punch and she could not move. Turning her head, wincing at the pain, she could see Joffren’s body lying on top of her. She scratched the mottled, colourful hair on her head and tried to open and close her jaw. “Ow…”
After a minute spent grunting and groaning, Marsala managed to pull herself out from beneath the priest who was close to twice her size. She felt Joffren’s bloodied neck for a pulse. “Dead.” Getting to her feet, she sighed. “Apparently, I did not fear the worst.” Rubbing her jaw with one hand and carrying Blüflis with the other, Marsala left the kitchen and walked to the door at the rear of the house. Outside, the sky was a dull purple with an orange tinge beginning to push through the lifting fog. Sunrise… I’ve been unconscious for nearly an hour…
Marsala put Blüflis on the ground and went to a lean-to against the back wall of her home. Inside, she seated herself at a small table placed among dozens of potted plants and herbs. She took a piece of paper from a stack beneath a paperweight, a quill, and a bottle of purple ink. She wrote a letter that began—“Dear Eamon…”
When the letter was complete, Marsala cut a length of brown string from a long yarn with a knife. On the far side of the yard, Marsala opened a birdcage containing two Ahrona swallows and removed one of them. She carefully folded and rolled the note then tied it to the bird’s right leg. In an Airisth dialect, Marsala whispered to the bird—“Fana Eamon, ko quera… find Eamon, post haste.” She released the swallow and the small bird was quick to take flight, heading directly west toward Ba’rrat.
HANNAH - FOUR
Hannah was locked in a prison cage. She sat on the dirt ground cross-legged as far from the entrance as possible.
“How was the journey back?” It was an OhUidman posted to guard her. He was speaking with the one named Regan.
“Two altercations,” Regan said. “The first after Checkpoint Four. Half a dozen outlaws tried to rob us. Can you believe it?” Both men laughed.
“Were you running a scuttle?”
“Absolutely. Three stage and four a piece.”
“Ouch! I’m sure you made their day. What was the other altercation?”
Regan sighed. “More of those wretched worgriels.”
“Curse them. Where?”
“A mile before Checkpoint Eight.”
“Eight? That deep in the Valley? What in all of Froughton is going on?”
Regan shook his head, but had no words. He turned about and looked at Hannah. She’d been watching and listening, but was quick to drop her gaze. “As for this delightful little creature,” Regan leant against the bars of the cage. “There’ll be a peremptory commission, no doubt.”
“She seems harmless enough. Are you sure she tried to kill Creighton’s daughter?”
“I don’t know… I just don’t know. She’s Xavier’s daughter—I know that much.”
Hannah looked furtively at Ragan again.
“So there are political implications, then.” The other OhUidman glanced at Hannah then back to Regan, slapping his shoulder. “Better you than I giving testimony, Regan.” With that, he left.
Regan stared dryly at Hannah as though trying to garner further truth about her somehow. Hannah kept her lips firmly closed and breathed through her nose, reminding herself not to talk to these untrustworthy people.
“You should eat, girl.”
Hannah had eaten sparingly since entering her prison cage. She wanted to appear defiant and figured this was a good start. She did, however, drink water as it was given.
Regan turned about. Two other people approached but Hannah was careful not to look.
“Can we talk to her?” a girl’s voice asked.
“I don’t think you’ll have much success, Vevila, but go ahead,” Regan said.
“Can we talk alone?” a male voice asked.
Hannah sneaked a peek at the couple. ‘Vevila’… That was Nëven’s sister’s name.
“Very well,” Regan said. “But you two stay until I return. She’s not to be left alone.”
“Aye,” both the young man and girl said together.
“I’m holding you accountable, Artur.” Regan pointed at the young man. “If you’re to train as a ‘Lochrator’ in the new year, you need to practice assuming responsibility.” Artur bowed respectfully. Regan walked off and Artur turned to Hannah, who was quick to look away.
Artur… Nëven’s brother, Hannah deduced.
It was Vevila who spoke first. “Why did you try to kill our sister?” Her voice was angry and came as a hoarse cry. Hannah was terrified of being chastised any more and too scared to defend herself. She lifted her knees to her head and wrapped her arms around them.
“Vevila, silence yourself,” Artur insisted. “You disgrace Nëven with your accusations. She already told you the girl was not to blame.”
The hairs of Hannah’s neck stood on end. Nëven is talking? That must mean she is getting better! She can tell them, then, that this was all an accident.
“Nëven blamed her Jasper stone for her injuries. How ridiculous! She’s not fit to possess a Jasper stone and never will be.”
“Your resentments are a bore, sister. Take respite of them so we can talk to the girl, will you?”
“Fine,” Vevila spat the words. “You talk to her.” She turned about, stomping the gravel at her feet. Artur lowered himself into a squat so his head was level with Hannah’s. Hannah made a shifty glance at him, then to Vevila. There was no mistaking their relation to Nëven. They both had her red curls and freckly, pale skin. The brother had a gentle, rounder face like Nëven that reminded Hannah of a baked round loaf of bread. The sister was harder and more chiselled—as though carved from cold quarry stone.
“You’ve most likely gathered, we are Nëven’s brother and sister.” Artur said softly. “You are Hannah, yes?” Hannah said nothing. “Can you tell us exactly what happened to Nëven?” Still, Hannah kept her silence. She wanted to ask after Nëven, but did not want to open a line of conversation. Artur was persistent. “There’s going to be a peremptory commission and if you cannot prove your innocence—”
“You’ll end up worse than Nëven!” Vevila contributed.
Hannah closed her eyes while Nëven’s siblings argued about Vevila’s etiquette. A tear fell down Hannah’s cheek and she felt its warmth roll its way down her neck. She sniffed once, blew a shaky breath and thought of the one thing that gave her peace—Catanya. Hannah knew if Catanya were here, things would be different. Catanya always protected her. If she were with Catanya, there would be no more arguments. Not between Vevila and Artur, not between Hannah’s parents, and not with the OhUidmen. Catanya would set things straight and piggyback Hannah out of this horrible place. It was a lovely thought. Hannah squeezed her eyes shut and embellished it further
in her mind, blurring the voices outside of her prison cage. Squeezing her knees even closer to her body, she could feel the iris in her jacket pocket push against her chest.
The following morning, Artur paid Hannah another visit. She had slept on and off during the night, but without the softness of a bed or warmth of a blanket, she was not comfortable. Kneeling beside the prison cage again, Artur handed her a large pottery cup of water. Hannah took it and drank it down without a word of thanks and handed the cup back to him. Then Artur gave her the bad news.
“A few hours ago, Nëven passed away.”
“What?” Hannah stared wide-eyed at Artur. His face looked drawn and even paler than before. Hannah shook her head from side to side. It cannot be true. It just cannot be… “No, no, no…” Hannah repeated.
“The healer believes now it was not the knife wound that took her life,” Artur mumbled. “She was broken inside. They blamed the Jasper stone. But Vevila and my mother…” Artur sighed. “With my father also dead, they are not listening to reason. They feel they need to blame someone. That someone is you.”
Hannah was barely hearing Artur. Her thoughts were with her last moments with Nëven. With her special stone, Hannah’s new friend had saved them both and taken them away from the Quagmen who killed Nëven’s father and… my mother. Nëven had saved her life and Hannah had injured her in return. Now she’s dead! Hannah felt dizzy. She vomited up the water she had just drunk.
“What is it? What happened to you both?” Artur asked.
Hannah looked at him through watery eyes. She was sick of not talking and felt sorry for him, for as much as she had lost a friend, Artur had lost a sister. “We landed in each other’s jump!” Hannah sobbed.
“You jumped together?” It was Artur’s eyes that widened now.
“One, two, three, four times we jumped. Nëven saved us from the Quag who killed your father and my mother.” Hannah was crying. She was crying hard and now that she’d started, there was no stopping it. Catanya, Catanya, “Catanya!” Hannah finally cried aloud.
