by Ellias Quinn
“Chief?” Matil said. “That’s wonderful!”
“But I- I fear I am doing wrong.” He looked down and cleared his throat. “What I mean is…after what my sisters did, I see harshly that having the chief’s blood does not make someone a good chief. Yet my father gave us instructions that we were meant to follow. To fight those instructions is high disobedience and dishonor, yes?” Ansi stopped. “I have something to confess.” He pointed at a long bench by the wall. “Please sit.”
Wondering what he wanted to say, Matil followed him and sat beneath one of the ceiling flowers, a delicate rosebud almost as large as her.
“Do you remember my tale of Emperor Ivu?” Ansi said. “How his empire turned on itself?”
“I think so…yes, I remember.”
His wings flicked open and shut. “My father told me and my sisters to learn from Ivu, from his good and from his bad. That was the reason my father named both Fridda and Dag as heirs. He wished to leave a spirit of harmony in his clan, unlike Ivu.” Ansi looked at his hands. “What happened today wasn’t harmony. When I rise to the treetops…if I continue in this way…the Elders and my ancestors may judge me unworthy. My father might not accept me as his own son.”
Matil frowned. She wanted to ease his conscience, but she didn’t know much about the treetops. Somewhere in her mind, a soft murmur told her what she did know. “Why wouldn’t he accept you?” she said. “Your father’s plan brought chaos. And even though there was a fight today, it seems like it’s brought harmony with it. If…if you do what’s right, isn’t it better than if you put the whole clan in danger by following his instructions?”
“Perhaps,” said Ansi hesitantly.
“Then I think he’ll have to accept you, otherwise he’ll look bad.”
Ansi gave a brief chuckle. “I miss him. He wanted us to be one family, but I have not brought us together.”
Matil thought of her family, loving faces only revealed to her in dreams. She ached to know where they were – Bechel must be a young man now – and resolutely pushed away every possibility of their fates that occurred to her. Better not to consider anything until she knew the truth. She turned to the other side of the bench. It was empty.
In the middle of the hallway, Ansi stood speaking with a baggy-eyed Teres. He motioned down the hall, in the direction of the infirmary. Teres shook her head, but Ansi stepped behind to take hold of her shoulders and gently push her forward. She smiled up at him before walking away.
Ansi whirled back to Matil with a twitch of his leaf wings. “Kal, kal,” he said. “Eten gil pai. I mean—this way.”
* * *
Ansi and Teres accompanied the three travelers to the city’s gate at noon the next day. They all wore new clothes, sturdy robes and leggings of leaves, petals, and leather. Khelya’s clothes were baggy, made with various swathes of materials stitched together in haste. She held a heavy Eletsol spear while Matil and Dask had received wide-bladed knives. Several Eletsol were already at the gates, loading bags on two familiar-looking beetles.
“Dewdrop! Olnar!” Matil rushed up and hugged Dewdrop just behind the head. Dewdrop felt Matil with her antennae.
“Teres’s village was left undefended,” Ansi said, “so our men secured it last night. Your beetles were still there.”
Dask took Ansi’s shoulder in a friendly grip. “Thanks for getting them back. And thanks for getting us free again.”
Khelya knelt to be on the others’ level. “What was it you said to the mob the other day that made them like you so much?” she asked Ansi.
His cheeks turned pink. “I asked them why we still fight. I said that our clans were one, so why is it that we fight now? Because my sisters are angry with each other? Because we must prove whether strength or magic is better? I said that we were at our best when we were together.”
Khelya eyed him and nodded in approval.
“Ansi?” Dask said. “Is that you?”
His wings fanned out defensively. “Of course it’s me. What do you mean?”
“You’ve changed over the past few days.” Dask nudged him. “Trying to impress a girl really made you a hero.”
“I don’t understand.” Ansi primly folded his wings. “I have always been courageous and intelligent.”
“And charming?” Dask added.
“Charming, yes,” Ansi said.
“Uh-huh,” he said. “Right.”
Ansi began to fiddle with his hands. “In…in truth, it was the plight of my alva that drove me, and it was all of your guidance that gave me strength. Thank you, outsiders.” He bowed to them. Teres did the same. Straightening, he said, “After the Taina hear of these events, I hope they will not stand for Fridda to keep power. I will strive to reunite the clan.”
Matil was eager to hop on the beetles and move out, but she slowed herself down to savor the warm feeling of having taken part in helping these alva win back their land. All across the city, Eletsol rested and celebrated. They no longer trudged wearily, nor flew like they would fall out of the sky. Some had returned to working on construction already, vigorous purpose in their movements.
“Together we heard the voice of the Watcher,” Ansi said. “Such an occasion will be rejoiced in, and I’d hoped you would stay to enjoy it. Although…even more, I had hoped I could help you with your mission.”
“You have helped,” Matil said. “We’re very grateful for it. Thank you for the maps and supplies, too.”
“It’s pretty nice, being friends with a chief’s son,” Dask said. “And, uh,” he winked, “invite us to the wedding.”
Ansi tilted his head. “What? I don’t know that word.”
“Yes, you do.”
“Way-deen?” The corners of his mouth lifted slightly. “Is it a kind of bread?”
Dask shook his head. “A man shouldn’t be this shy.”
“I’m shy?” said Ansi. “Then what about you?”
“Ha ha ha. But really, invite us to the wedding or I’ll come after you.” Dask shook Ansi’s hand. “Take care of yourself, buddy.” He tipped his head to Teres. “And you take care. Ansi’s a good guy. Don’t make him start too many wars.”
Teres spoke to Ansi, keeping her eyes on Dask.
Ansi snorted. “She doesn’t doubt your spirit, but you look like one who cheats in games. She thinks you should change that.”
Matil looked down, straightening her dark green jerkin and yellow flower petal robe to hide her chuckles, but Khelya burst into snickering.
Dask smiled. “Sure. Anything you say, lady.”
When Khelya recovered, she dipped her head to Ansi. “I’m sorry I was in a foul mood toward you.”
“And I’m glad that I was wrong about the Watcher,” Ansi said. “Colthal, friends.”
“Colthal,” Teres said.
Matil waved at them as Dewdrop and Olnar trundled them off into the wild forest of Fainfal. The three travelers were on their way once again.
* * *
Through rotting doors and down curving steps, Lyria found a dungeon cell that held a single prisoner. The cell was painted with shadows and soft yellow light from the torch orb on the ceiling and the guttering wings of the long-haired Sangriga man inside. He shifted and fussed, his chains scraping the floor. He was someone Lyria had wished never to see again. Her accursed curiosity had overcome her and here she was, looking upon a man whose past held horrific atrocities. Despite the wall of bars that acted as a large window in and out of the cell, he hadn’t noticed her.
“When will they let you play with the charcoal?” he said to himself. “You’ve been getting good at portraiture.” He yawned. “Mmm, finally getting tired, are you?”
Lyria watched from the dark passage with a cloak drawn tightly around herself. She had dimmed her bright wings before setting off on this excursion, and the strange feeling it gave her – of holding h
er breath without actually holding her breath – was finally bothering her. She relaxed her shoulders. Her wings radiated farther and farther until they were back to normal.
The man in the cell stood.
Few alva knew of Verys Ila Saikyr, as he liked to be called. Lyria had stumbled across his cell one night on an unrelated investigation and at first had thought him merely mad. She’d soon understood the truth.
“Lookity-look, she’s backity-back,” Verys muttered. “Don’t you remember? She’s the one who hates you.” His head snapped up with a wide grin. “Why, hello! Come to cry again?” He held out his arms and rattled their chains. “Closer, closer, so this’un can hold you tight.”
Lyria could barely contain her fury at the sight of his hunched form and pale eyes like a green forest pond frozen over. “I’ve come to ask you a question,” she said, voice wavering.
“Question? Ooh, a question. This’un likes questions. Can’t say he likes answers quite as much, though. Hmm.”
It was as she expected. When they captured him all those years ago, the magicians hadn’t been able to extract answers from him. Though he’d lost the Book of Myrkhar, his mind and body were still protected by its dark power.
She must stomach his grating words in order to get anywhere. “What happened on the day of the Myrkharen Invasion? How did you summon the Skorgon? Why can’t you die?”
“Quite a private matter, you know,” Verys said. “He didn’t tell aaanyone else. But after all, this’un owes you a favor for his rude behavior that day. It’s only fair he tells you.” He let out a chuckle.
Lyria couldn’t do it. “Never mind,” she said through her teeth, and she turned toward the door.
“You want to know very badly or you wouldn’t be here.”
She whirled back around to face him. “I’ll send someone else and you tell them all about it, how does that sound?”
“Not nice at all. He wants to tell you in particular.”
“Why?”
Verys smirked. “Because you’re pretty. Pretty girls get pretty words.”
How dare he, knowing whose blood was on his hands?
“You are the lowest of scum,” she said.
“Lowest? Scum? This’un wouldn’t deign to touch the lowest of scum with his boot heel. His body may be locked away, but in essence he is greater than the greatest king in Eventyr! Why? Why?” He grandly raised his arms as high as they could go in their restraints. “He did what it told him to do. He killed himself…and became…an Elder.”
Lyria frowned. She had learned about the man’s Elder delusion when researching his records, but the first part was new. “How did you kill yourself? You’re clearly alive.”
“He was crying, you know. He didn’t want to die, didn’t want to hurt all those alva, but this’un had the Book and the dagger. What was he to do? He could only wait and cry while this’un spoke the words.”
“It sounds as though you’re talking about two different men.”
“That would be because he is. He speaks of the being you see in the flesh,” Verys laid his hands delicately on his chest, “and the man created in order to be destroyed. When the second man died, it was the most wonderful feeling. Yes, it was. His fear died, too.”
Lyria leaned against the cold stone wall. “One man is you, and the other was created…how? With a spell from the Book? Why?”
Amusement glittered in Verys’s icy eyes. “Have the doctors ever bled you? Drained the illness and impurities from your blood? The two were one flawed man before. An Elder and a half-man after.”
“Are you saying…that you were split in two? And then you killed the other half?”
He yawned loudly and sat down. “This’un is entirely spent. Leave him in peace now.”
The concept amazed and disgusted her. Nychta Olsta might have cast the same spell as Verys. The ghost of a thought occurred to Lyria. “I promise to leave after one last question.”
“Oh, very well,” Verys said. “It was your mother.”
Her fists clenched, and, noticing them, Verys smiled.
“Your question?” he said.
She shut her eyes in order to regain control. “What would have happened if, instead of dying, he escaped?”
“Escaped? The Book wouldn’t like it. This’un would hate it. Because everything he hated in himself would still live.”
“Would you be able to die, then?” Lyria prodded.
Verys stared at her, mirth tugging at the corners of his mouth. “You promised to leave, and we mustn’t break promises.” He flopped on the ground and giggled as though he had told quite a joke.
Suddenly taken with the urgent desire to silence him, Lyria shook herself and hurried away down the passage. Echoes of his laughter followed her. If her guess was correct, then Matil…
Did the wingless girl know who she was?
Chapter 14
Old Enemies
Matil, Khelya, and Dask traveled southwest for two days. The third morning, Matil lay rolled up in her blanket with her eyes closed and back wedged under a curving tree root. She fuzzily wondered if she should get up and then decided that she wasn’t ready yet to begin another dull day of travel.
Dask shrieked.
Matil flailed into a sitting position and struggled out of her blankets, but Dask was nowhere to be seen in their small camp encircled by roots.
“That tickles, you nach-tickering—ah! Help! Khelya! Matil!” His voice was coming from the other side of the roots.
She crawled onto a root to find out what was going on, and her heart skipped a beat at the sight of Dask’s adversary.
He was grappling with a slithery Skorgon. The insect-like alva had two short legs and four short arms along its slender length. Its back was shielded by natural armor, brown plates that bent easily with its movement and protruded at the base of its crystalline wings. While it climbed on Dask, he stabbed its shell without effect. The face came into view, a gaunt, gray face with endlessly-champing mouthparts and glistening black eyes. The Skorgon lashed out with its own knife, slicing through Dask’s jerkin and forearm. He grunted in pain but was able to parry its follow-up strikes.
Draped on a pack behind Matil was her belt; she yanked her dagger from it and bounded over the root. Where should she go in? It looked like the underbelly was its weak spot. She sprinted forward, grabbed both edges of the Skorgon’s shell as she passed, and threw herself to the side. With a thin skreeee, the Skorgon separated from Dask and crashed onto her, buzzing, wriggling and waving its limbs. Matil’s face was smothered by the shiny shell. As she turned her head to get air, the Skorgon bashed her with the back of its head. The world seemed to blink out of existence and her grip on the shell loosened.
The Skorgon started to roll off of her and then suddenly stilled. Matil’s vision cleared, though a budding pain throbbed in her temple. She looked up to see Dask holding his long knife at the Skorgon’s throat. Puffing with effort, she slid out from under its shell and readied herself again with the dagger. There was only uneven breathing as they all looked at one another.
Khelya poked her ghostly head above the roots, blonde hair straggling over her face. “Why’re y’all makin’ so much—” Her sleepy eyes got big when she noticed the Skorgon. “Hey!” She frowned. “You two know I don’t like eatin’ bugs.”
The Skorgon’s eyes, despite being wide already, grew larger. “Naaa!” he said in his wheezy voice. “Do not eat! Skorgon, not bug! Na, blednuv. Do not eat!”
“Wha…uh, yeah, that’s right!” Dask said. He licked his lips. “This one would be great basted in oil, sizzled up, and served with cider. And then afterward we could have those little cookies the Sangriga eat, you know?”
“But I am Skorgon,” he cried. “How can alva eat alva?”
Dask showed his teeth. “You think we care? Look at the Obrigi, look at her. She’s too bi
g to live on our measly Ranycht diet. She’s gotta have something that’ll fill her belly.”
A shudder rippled the Skorgon’s slippery length. Khelya stared at everyone in bewilderment.
“But let’s say you answered some of our questions,” Dask said. “We might, just might, be willing to take you off the menu.”
The Skorgon folded both pairs of hands together pleadingly.
* * *
In their camp, Dask reclined against a root while Matil tended the shallow wound in his left arm with a wet cloth. They had tied the Skorgon’s feet, four hands, and the bases of his wings, and the beetles were curiously tracing him out with their antennae. He clacked his mandibles at them.
“So…” Khelya looked at Dask, who encouraged her with a ‘go on’ gesture. She turned back to the unblinking Skorgon. “You’ll tell us what we wanna know, right?”
“Khel,” Dask said. “Khelya, my dear child—ow!”
Matil winced. “Sorry.” She approached his sliced arm even more carefully. At this point she was barely touching it.
“Ah!” Dask coughed. “No, keep going, it didn’t hurt. Khel, you have to tell him he wants to tell us. Give him something to fear.”
Khelya edged closer, reached out, and shook the Skorgon violently by the shoulders.
“Naaa.” His plated head flopped forward. “I talk. I will.”
“Is Nychta Olsta nearby?” said Dask.
“She is southeast, in Nychtfalnia. Lady Nychta sent my company to loathhh-ful bright land under command of General Crell.”
Crell? At least Nychta wasn’t here. Matil believed she would sense her double’s presence, but she still felt better knowing without a doubt. “Why were you sent here?” she asked as she wrapped Dask’s forearm in a bandage.
The Skorgon’s mouthparts clicked when he spoke. “For finding Kyndelin wise man.”
“Have you found him yet?” she said.
