by S. K. Sayari
The resulting crack rent the heavens. Around them the earth groaned and tore, toppling the stately columns, rending the walls, dashing paintings to the ground, and strewing furnishings throughout the rubble. Syrilda rushed down the creaking, swaying staircase with baby Berenice in her arms, two of her brothers and another sister behind her. They’d barely reached ground level when the stairs collapsed, adding spears of broken timber to the chaos. The other brother still living under his parent’s roof struggled through a splintered doorway, holding tight to his younger sister.
Mitera glanced around. “We have almost the entire family now, I see. Where are the others? The two eldest?”
Stumbling across to Syrilda, Khloe gathered her and the baby close, sobbing. The rest of the children huddled around Dimitri. All except Panthea, whom Mitera bound to her side with a striated brown hand.
The pale figure spoke. “They are married and have begun their own families, Mitera. We’ll have to search a little further afield. But first, let me deal with these miscreants.”
She extended a hand, scooping air through her fingers and drawing them close to her chest. As she did so Dimitri spasmed and an agonized scream tore from his throat. The ruins of his home crumbled to powder around him, and before the horrified eyes of his family he began to change form. Sandals and clothing shredded, decayed, and vanished as his feet sank into the earth and took root. His spread fingers and arms became branches, his body a trunk, his hair grey-green leaves. When the goddess was done, a forty-three-year-old olive tree stood before her, in its prime and ready to fruit.
One by one the rest of his family suffered a similar fate, even the two oldest siblings, whom Annanoe tracked down and hauled home. In place of Dimitri’s once-sumptuous villa now stood a burgeoning olive grove. Young trees, all of them, the smallest just saplings. But they had room to grow. Small shrubs of lavender, rosemary, and artemisia took root beneath and around them, while rockroses and thyme sprawled underfoot. The little grove vibrated with the music of bees and cicadas.
“Don’t cry,” said Mitera, as a horrified Panthea watched her own skin turn grey-brown and furrowed. “Olive trees live for a very long time. Your family can remain together now for millennia, and you can visit whenever you please. But now, we’d better get moving. We have a lot of work to do, you and I.”
After a while her tears did cease to fall, mainly because she no longer had tear ducts. From a distance Panthea now looked little different from the rest of her family, for a dryad took the form of the tree she was born from. Grey-brown limbs, grey-green hair, and fathomless dark eyes.
Her training under Mitera involved many journeys throughout her goddess’s island and even onto the mainland. Through wheatfields, orchards, herb farms, and even humble vegetable patches attached to the common folk’s cottages. That last brought a lump to her throat for a while. True, she’d always wanted to travel, but even more had she longed for a home and a vegetable patch of her own to tend.
A little after Panthea’s sixteenth birthday Mitera’s soul fled to the Elysian Fields, leaving behind a few lifeless sticks and a pile of withered leaves.
The goddess, wearing human form and draped in red-gold autumn leaves, paused beneath an olive tree and studied her new helper with interest. “You do not mourn her passing?”
Panthea lifted her shoulders slightly. They were no longer supple enough to achieve a proper shrug. “Why should I? After what she did to me and my family?”
“She merely followed my instructions,” said Annanoe, turning her back on Panthea and continuing her inspection of the grove. “As you are now bound to do. I allow my helpers a great deal of autonomy; expect them to make decisions without bothering me needlessly.” She twisted a strand of saffron-yellow hair around one finger, leaf-green eyes thoughtful. “I believe I’ll miss Mitera. She was very good at her job—although perhaps she neglected her duties a little toward the end. I didn’t notice. Possibly I should have.”
Her shadow suddenly swelled and ballooned outwards, as if cast by a creature many times larger than the lovely woman who sauntered down the sunlit path. “It might be wise to keep a closer eye on you.”
The words boomed through the grove, hollow and menacing. Then the shadows retracted, to once again resemble those cast by a human form. The goddess resumed speaking in a conversational tone. “Once you’ve mastered the intricacies of olive-growing, ensuring they have well-drained soil and adequate sunshine, we’ll move on to the wheat fields on the other side of the island. They get more rainfall there, you see…”
Annanoe droned on, about the best conditions for planting, how to ensure the best harvests, how to recover from the disasters visited upon the island by the gods of sea, storm, and fire. Panthea nodded occasionally, barely listening. She’d heard it all before from Mitera, in exhaustive, mind-numbing detail. Gradually that numbness, that detachment, seeped into every pore, slowly leaching away her humanity.
Sometimes the sound of the wind sighing through the trees reminded her of voices, of the people she had known and the stories they had told. There had been a boy once, dark-haired, dark-eyed, brown-skinned, and prone to laughter. A warm-hearted, generous soul with whom she’d imagined sharing a future. Marriage, a home, children. Love. The things all girls long for. At first the loss of this simple dream cut deeply, but as time passed that desire—all desire—faded and died.
After a few decades as the handmaid of the harvest goddess, she forgot the touch of both joy and sorrow. By the end of her first century she could no longer recall the names of her friends, and after a millennium had passed even those of her siblings and parents had dimmed.
But for reasons beyond her understanding she would always be drawn back to the small, haphazardly planted olive grove within sight of the high mountain passes.
The Price of Prophecy
Ine Gausel
Outside the carriage window, the world moved past slowly.
The air was filled with the smell of summer as they drove past an endless stretch of trees covered in lilac-coloured leaves. The rhythmic clang of newly-shod hooves hitting the hard pavement sounded like a lullaby, whilst the uneven cobblestone made the carriage rock like a huge cradle, lulling the people inside to sleep.
After traveling for three days, Remalt was ready to arrive at the villa. Thoughts of resting his aching body and drowning in soft pillows consumed him. Knowing how comfortable he’d be in just a little while, he smiled to himself.
“That’s the first you’ve smiled in several hours, my friend. Are you slowly going mad?” Faustus asked with a small laugh.
“Just thinking about going to bed and never getting back out,” Remalt admitted without turning to look at his companion.
He did not have to look at Faustus to know that his long-time friend was grinning at him with attentive eyes. They had not talked for several hours, and while Remalt reveled in the silence, he knew the other man did not. Faustus loved to talk and could do so for hours if given the chance. The only reason they had even become friends was because Faustus had casually started a conversation one day. He always assumed people would like him, and it made him confident in his approach.
“I could have a good lie down myself! Three days of travel is tiring, but it’s worth it to get away from the bustling activity of the city, don’t you think? Just leaving your responsibility as a senator in the darkest corner of your mind for a few days. I know I need a break, and I’m sure you’ll appreciate one too.” Faustus put a hand on Remalt’s shoulder.
Remalt turned his gaze towards his friend, and coworker, and was greeted by two piercing blue eyes and a smile which made his own lips turn upwards. Somehow, Faustus always managed to brighten his mood. “I’m glad you talked me into it.”
Faustus’s cerulean wings fluttered gently behind him at the answer. “I know, my friend. I know,” he chuckled, gently patting Remalt’s shoulder.
Remalt went back to gazing at the landscape outside until a gasp echoed in his ear seconds lat
er. “Remalt, look! I love those flowers—irises. I’ve only ever seen them grow around here.”
He had noticed them even before Faustus had pointed them out; it was hard to miss the blue petals amongst the green grass. “You’re such a fairy,” he teased.
Faustus’s jaw dropped in mock outrage. “A fairy?” He chuckled. “A fairy would destroy the flower to make a potion. I’m just admiring its beauty.”
“How wizardly of you, Faust.”
“I wish I could go out and pluck some. They would look gorgeous in the dining room.”
Remalt found no reason to indulge his friend. Flowers bloomed everywhere during the summer months, and he was certain Faustus would find plants just as beautiful right outside the country house.
“I hope you’re ready to lose at some board games. Thought we could play when we get to the villa,” Faustus went on.
“Yes. Sounds like fun,” Remalt said absentmindedly. A few moments later, he wrinkled his brows at the sound of yelling. “Do you hear that?” He looked to Faustus for confirmation.
The other man nodded, his eyes wide and focused as the two men stilled and listened.
A sudden loud thump on the carriage roof made them jump. Remalt’s wings instinctively perked up, preparing for flight, and Faustus let out a small shriek. The carriage grounded to a halt, and Remalt could feel his heart hammering beneath his ribs, though he was unsure whether it was out of fear or excitement.
“Bandits?” Faustus suggested with a whisper, grabbing hold of Remalt’s wrist. “I’ve never had to deal with bandits before. What do we do, Rem?”
“Stay here.” Remalt got up from his seat, folding his wings back under his clothing. Faustus’s ever-tightening grip on Remalt’s wrist stopped him. His friend shook his head, silently begging Remalt to stay inside the transport with him.
“We’re not safer in here, Faust,” Remalt said. “At least I’ll keep them distracted in case you need to run.”
“I don’t want you to get hurt, Rem.”
“If you got hurt, I couldn’t forgive myself. Let me take care of this.”
“The Eternal Chaos be with you,” Faustus said quietly at last. “Please, be careful.” He squeezed Remalt’s hand once more before loosening his grip.
Remalt took a deep breath, then headed outside. His first instinct was to look to the roof, but his attention was drawn to the scene in front of him: the carriage driver was leaning over someone. Remalt walked over. The ruby markings adorning the face of the man on the ground unmistakably identified him as a demon.
“What’s going on?”
“He says someone shot him down. He was trying to fly away,” the driver answered.
Remalt saw the arrow buried deep in the demon’s side—he was lucky they hadn’t hit him anywhere else. The injured man had no wings, but it was common knowledge that—unlike wizards—demons used magic to transform their arms into their instrument of flight. Tucking them in after being hit had probably caused his descent.
“Wizards,” the demon whispered.
Remalt glanced at the injured man’s face. Their gazes met, and for a moment he felt lost. Never had he seen such beautiful eyes, with irises as red as the blood that ran down the demon’s body. Was this the man the prophecy had foretold? The man destined to love him? Those stunning eyes shone at him like a well-fed bonfire; this had to be him.
Composing himself, he leaned down to help the injured man stand. “We’re not far from my friend’s villa. We’ll help you.”
The demon’s knees gave out as he stood, and for a moment, Remalt was the only one keeping him upright. “Thank you,” he said as he let out a breath.
“What’s your name?”
“Sitri.”
“I’m Remalt.”
Sitri looked confused for a moment, wrinkling his brows. “Senator Remalt, on the Council of Wizards?” he asked uncertainly.
“Yes,” Remalt replied.
Sitri seemed slightly reluctant to follow, but was obviously too weak to resist as Remalt helped him up the step of the carriage and inside the transport.
“Hey,” an unfamiliar voice called out. “That demon is mine.”
Two men stepped out from the shadow of the trees, one of them carrying both a bow and a quiver of arrows—the attackers Sitri had mentioned. The one carrying the weapon was a wizard with a pierced lip, long dark hair, and deep brown eyes; standing with a puffed-out chest, he was clearly used to people finding him intimidating. The other one looked skinnier, but his bright white eyes were almost as intrusive as his companion’s general presence—he was not a wizard, but a seer. Most likely a slave, brought along to tell the hunter where to shoot. In times like these, Remalt was glad titles mattered more than physique, though he wasn’t in bad shape himself.
“Oh, you must be the man who shot him. I’m glad you’ve come to report yourself.”
The dark-haired man scoffed. “Pardon?”
“Isn’t that why you came over?”
The brute began to walk toward them, which made Remalt take a few steps forward to meet him head on. Standing almost chest to chest, Remalt could see the hunter studying his face. The senator’s own cheekbone piercings would likely reveal his wizard ancestry—and hopefully keep the man slightly more in check.
“If you don’t step aside, I’ll rip your wings off, visart nol ve magik,” the hunter snarled.
Remalt stood with his back straight as the insult ricocheted off him. Was calling him a wizard without magic truly the best slur the brute could come up with? “Threatening a senator on the Council of Wizards is punishable by death. Would you like to repeat yourself, or will you and your slave be on your way?”
The man seemed to think it a joke at first—his mouth twitched in a smirk—but as Remalt lifted his hand to reveal the signet ring on his index finger, the other wizard understood the severity of the situation. Giving in, he took a couple of quick steps backwards, got on his knees, and bowed his head. “Forgive me, Domine. The demon is yours. Please, look at it as an apology.”
“Tread carefully from now on. We don’t want people to think wizards will harm them; that will just hurt our reputation. We are all children of the Eternal Chaos. If you want to shoot something, shoot the humans.”
“Yes, Domine.”
Remalt left the abashed men as he walked back to the carriage where Sitri still stood, slightly hunched over and clutching his side. Remalt helped the demon inside before getting in himself, sitting down beside Faustus, who looked fairly confused at this point.
“What happened? Who’s this?”
“Sitri. He’s a demon. Some big-mouthed wizard shot him with an arrow,” Remalt spat, gesturing to the arrow digging into Sitri’s flesh.
They all fell back in their seats as the carriage started to move again.
“You fell when you tried to fly away?” Remalt asked the demon. The pain was evident on the man’s face as he nodded in confirmation.
“He’s lucky they didn’t hit his wings,” Faustus mused, “and that demon wings are stronger than wizards’. My wings are so delicate, I don’t know what I would do if someone shot an arrow through them.”
“Yeah, I guess I’m lucky….” Sitri looked exhausted, as if he’d collapse at any moment.
Remalt got up, changing his seat to sit beside the injured demon. He pulled the man gently towards him, letting Sitri’s head rest on his shoulder. Remalt had to close his eyes as the sweet scent of the demon made him dizzy with excitement. For a brief instant he wondered if he had caught Sitri’s attention, too, when their eyes had met for the first time—if the demon also felt the fluttering of wings in the pit of his stomach.
“Don’t worry,” he murmured, “Faustus and I will patch you up. We have a potion that will help with the healing. You’ll be better in no time.”
Remalt lifted his head as he heard bare feet running across the living room floor. A young slave girl stopped in front of him, staring at the ground as she spoke.
“He’s wo
ken up, Domine.” Her voice was barely louder than a whisper.
“I should go check on him,” Remalt said to Faustus, who was about to roll two dice onto the table.
“You’re just saying that because you’re losing this round. If you leave now, you won’t know if I cheat,” Faustus teased, grinning at Remalt with a row of pearly-white teeth.
“You always cheat. I know your dice are loaded, and yet I’ve still managed to win two rounds,” Remalt stated with a satisfied smile as he got up from his seat.
Faustus acted offended, resting a hand over his heart to claim that he would never do any such thing. Before leaving the room completely, Remalt took one last glance at Faustus, who looked shocked as he picked up the dice from Remalt’s side of the table. Faustus wasn’t the only one playing with loaded dice.
When he arrived at the bedroom, Remalt knocked lightly on the wall before pushing aside the curtains to enter the room. The demon was sitting up in the bed, studying his own arms, but he looked up when he heard Remalt approach.
Now that the situation wasn’t so dire, Remalt had time to study the demon properly. Those red eyes still stood out the most, but now he also noticed the long, curly brown hair. The man had a handsome face, with intricate markings enhancing his sculpted features. They smiled at each other as Remalt came closer and sat down on the edge of the bed.
“Let me see.” Remalt held his hand out. Sitri did as he was told, and Remalt studied the bruised skin of the demon’s arm in silence for a second. Sitri’s bicep bulged, and it took all the wizard’s strength of will not to place the palm of his hand against the tight muscle. Brushing his thumb over one of the bruises instead, he had to let go of the demon’s arm altogether as Sitri abruptly pulled back.
Remalt straightened his back a little, composing himself. “How are you feeling?”
