by NS Dolkart
The word “fairy” was a misnomer – the denizens of the first world changed their complexions depending on the lighting. In the dark, their skin was not only pale but luminescent; in daylight, it turned blacker than night. Phaedra and her friends had only barely escaped them a few months ago, rescuing eight human children in the process. The fairies had meant to eat them.
Phaedra was amazed that she had never made the connection between elves and demons until now. Demons were a well-known part of religious lore, a part that Phaedra had always vaguely considered metaphorical. They were supposed to be the cursed children of evil Gods, living to torment humanity through temptation and guile, guiding lovers to ruin or sailors to their deaths. But Auntie Gava said they stole children, and that changed everything. The more she thought about it, the more Phaedra realized how obvious the connection should have been to her. Of course elves and demons were one and the same. The people of Mur’s Island were right to fear them, and they were lucky to have aunties like Gava to protect them.
There being no place for them to sleep in Gava’s shack, at sunset they clambered down the rocks and wandered into the village below, more or less begging to be lodged. A generous widow took them in, and they blessed her in the name of God Most High. Hunter, as usual, had no trouble sleeping, but Phaedra was too excited about her theory to sleep well. If she was right, then magic was an art. She would learn it like a new dance, step by careful step, until she was confident enough to improvise. What glorious days she had ahead of her!
They awoke late, luxuriating in the island’s relaxed atmosphere. It was nice to be away from the continent, away from the stares, and from the instant recognition that the five black-skinned youths must be those cursed wanderers from Tarphae. Here on Mur’s Island, she and Hunter blended in, at least until they spoke their flawless Atunaean. In any case, the freedom from recognition was priceless.
They ate with their hostess, a breakfast of dried fish and seaweed, and went down to the beach for a stroll. Phaedra had it in her head that they might find some gift for Auntie Gava, but in the end she and Hunter spent more time talking than they did searching for gifts. They had barely spoken for days, but now Phaedra could see that Hunter was worried about something, though he seemed willing to let her chatter on endlessly about her theory of poetic magic. After a time, she gave up on letting him bring his worries up himself and asked him outright what the matter was.
He grimaced. “I don’t want to distract you.”
He was too stoic for his own good; always had been. “Hunter, the last time you tried to keep everything inside, you forgot to feed yourself and nearly fainted. What’s the problem?”
She had embarrassed him. She was a bit sorry about it, but it did get results.
“I don’t know how we’re going to get off this island,” he admitted. “Not that we shouldn’t stay as long as you need to, it’s just… I don’t have anything to do here. They don’t need any of the skills I have. And we’re going to want to leave eventually, right? How long until another ship comes by? How are we going to pay for our passage on it?”
Phaedra had no answers for him. She was making progress here; was it selfish for her to hope not to leave any time soon? After all, Hunter had known from the start that this was what she wanted. That was why he hadn’t wanted to admit to his concerns.
They walked on, the silence between them growing. They were both being selfish, both feeling bad about it, and why? It wasn’t as if some sea captain had actually offered to sail them elsewhere.
“I keep thinking about Bestillos,” Hunter said out of nowhere. “He’d have killed me if Narky hadn’t shot him in the back. I keep thinking through our fight, over and over again. He was faster and stronger, but his technique wasn’t perfect – I should have been able to beat him.”
Phaedra studied him curiously. Bestillos had not been the sort of man to surrender. Had Hunter defeated him in combat, it would have been another death for him to carry.
He seemed to read her mind. “I know,” he said. “It’s still true, what I said before. I don’t ever want to kill a man again. But I still think about it sometimes, just for myself, like I used to when I was learning to spar with my brother. I used to think about fighting all the time, and it felt good.”
“I can imagine,” Phaedra told him. “I’ve seen you fight, Hunter. It was terrible, but it was also like a dance in some ways. Beautiful.”
He looked at her with such relief and joy that she wanted to weep. “Exactly. You understand. When I tell myself that that part of my life is over, it’s like saying I’ll never dance again.”
Oh Gods above, there were actually tears in her eyes. She could hear Hunter gasping at his own thoughtlessness, then floundering wordlessly as he searched for a way to apologize. But of course, there was nothing he could say.
It took an effort to compose herself, with Hunter standing there awkwardly, remorsefully, watching her. When she could trust her voice not to crack, she said, “I don’t think you should stop. You haven’t been crippled. Can’t you still enjoy it, as long as you don’t fight to kill? Maybe you could find someone to spar with.”
Hunter nodded hopefully. “My father had a swordsmaster who trained me and my brother. Maybe I can do that – find a nobleman with sons, who needs someone to…” he broke off, looking past her.
A group of five men was running toward them. Three of them were continental. Could it be? Why were those sailors still here – hadn’t that merchant ship left almost as soon as Phaedra and Hunter had come ashore?
The sailors reached them, and, to Phaedra’s shock, seized them by the arms. “You’re coming with us,” one of them barked. “You brought this curse upon us – now it’s your job to lift it!”
11
Delika
Delika knew there was something wrong with Galdon the moment he set foot inside the door. Her adoptive father looked all right, and he walked with the same heavy gait as always, but while she couldn’t explain precisely what it was, she knew there was something wrong.
Or maybe it was her imagination. Rakon didn’t seem to have noticed anything – he just kept on picking burrs out of his pile of wool, keeping his head down like he always did. He was better at that than Delika was: she was always sticking her nose out, and getting a beating for it.
She missed her parents. She would probably never see them again, and it was her own fault because she didn’t know where they lived. The black islanders had asked, and she hadn’t been able to answer. So they had brought the children they could back to their different homes and left Delika, Rakon, and Caldra here.
They had tried to bring Rakon back to Laarna first, but it was gone. His parents were probably dead, which was even worse than for Delika in some ways, but in other ways it was better. Delika knew that her parents were alive somewhere out there, missing her, but the world was too big for her to find them.
It was the same for Caldra, but Delika didn’t like her, so she didn’t care.
She had thought it would be better here than it was. When the islanders had brought Adla and Temena home to Galdon’s brother-in-law, Galdon and his wife had said they would happily raise the last three children as their own, since they couldn’t make any themselves. So Delika had thought, foolishly, that it would at least be nice here.
And it had been, for about a week. But then the red priest had come, and whatever he’d said to them, he’d scared them so much that now they spanked the children whenever they talked about the past – especially when they talked about the islanders. Well, Rakon and Caldra were good at pretending that the islanders had never existed, but Delika wasn’t. The big one called Criton had saved her from drowning, and she didn’t think it was right for her to try to forget him. But whenever she talked about him, well, out came the switch.
Galdon was looking for something by the doorway, and getting frustrated that he couldn’t find it, but instead of telling them what it was and demanding that they help him look for it, he was try
ing to do it subtly, as if he didn’t want to keep them from their work.
“What are you looking for?” Delika asked, knowing that it would likely get her in trouble. She couldn’t help it.
He looked startled at first, trapped even, but then he frowned. “Did you move my spear?”
She shook her head. Why did he want it? “It’s still there,” she said, pointing.
He went and got it. “You’re a good girl,” he said.
“I know you’re not him,” she answered.
Galdon froze. “What?” he asked.
Rakon’s head snapped up so he could glare at her, but Delika ignored him. She’d said it already – if she was going to get in trouble for it, it was too late anyway. “You’re not him,” she said. “You’re someone else. Why do you want his spear?”
At that moment, Galdon’s wife Sina came in with Caldra and their baskets of vegetables. “Oh, Galdon,” she said in surprise, “I didn’t realize you were home! Did something happen?”
She was between him and the door, and Delika could see the terror flash across his face. “The Dragon Touched are back,” he said, walking toward her. “We need to drive them off before it’s too late.”
The Dragon Touched! That meant Criton! Wait, was this Criton? Delika squinted at him as if she could force him to turn back into himself, but it was no good. Not-Galdon met Sina at the door, gave her a quick kiss, and fled.
Delika wanted to scream at him to take her with him, but it was too late. He was gone. Sina looked frightened, but she only put her basket on the table and stood with her hands on her hips, staring at Delika. “You’ve let Rakon do all your work for you, haven’t you?”
“That wasn’t Galdon,” Delika said, trying to deflect. “That was someone else, and he took Galdon’s spear! Maybe it was–”
She stopped herself, but it was too late. Sina knew that she had been about to say “Criton.” Now Delika was in so much trouble.
“What makes you say that?” Sina asked, poison in her voice.
Delika didn’t even answer. She backed away around the table, slowly at first, afraid of Sina’s hand and of the switch that it might soon hold. Sina marched toward her, already reaching out to catch her adopted daughter. Delika kept backing away from her, then suddenly changed direction and sped underneath the table and out toward the door as fast as her legs would carry her. She had to dodge stupid Caldra on the way, but she ended up being glad for the other girl’s presence, because Sina actually did crash into her while giving chase, and had to stop for a moment to pick the girl up and apologize. By that time, Delika was gone.
She tried to find the man who had pretended to be Galdon, but she couldn’t spot him anywhere. Had he already transformed into someone else? He wasn’t Criton – she didn’t want to believe that Criton would visit her new home just to steal a spear and run away. But he was like Criton. She was sure of that.
She had to find a place to hide before Sina could catch up to her. She had already turned a corner so that she wouldn’t be seen from the door, but that wouldn’t be enough. Where could she hide? If she tried running into a neighbor’s house, they’d recognize her and bring her back.
Ahead, she saw the Temple of Magor. She hated the place, since it was the fault of Magor’s priests that her new parents had started hitting her, but it did have lots of little corners to hide in. That, and Sina would never expect her to go there. Delika ran for it.
When she slipped inside, panting and out of breath, the priest was busy pouring sacrificial blood from the altar’s four blood-collectors into the big metal vat in the corner. His back was to her, so she had time to hide under one of the benches without him noticing. Then she crawled forward a few rows so that she wouldn’t be visible from the door, doing her best to calm down and stop panting.
The priest went about his business, totally oblivious to Delika’s presence. She watched him over the top of the bench in front of her as he cleaned the altar, swept the floor around it, and rearranged various items she couldn’t see from her vantage point. She tried to breathe more quietly. There was a commotion outside, and she was afraid that Sina and the real Galdon might be looking for her, but then there were some cries and thuds and she realized that it was a fight. Even the half-deaf priest heard it, because he grabbed his spear and turned toward the door.
Before he could leave, another man came rushing in. “What’s going on out there?” the priest asked him.
Delika turned to see if she could spot the other man, but he was still too far away. She could only see his feet, which were big and dirty and wearing sandals, just like any man’s feet might have been.
“The Dragon Touched are back,” the man said. He sounded young, and familiar. Which of her neighbors was it?
“What?” the priest cried. “Impossible!”
“Come and see for yourself,” the man answered, coming closer. Now she could see his hair peeking out above the benches. She might have seen more if she moved a little, but she didn’t want either of them to notice her.
The priest strode forward, but as he reached the other man he gave a sudden cry. “See?” the second man said. “I told you.”
The priest’s knees hit the ground in front of where his feet had been, and the second man’s feet took a step or two back, transforming before her eyes into scaly claws. There was a grunt as he yanked something out of the priest, and then the old man was lying prone on the ground, staring straight at her. He wasn’t dead yet, and his expression turned to surprise and then to worry as he saw her there, hiding under her bench. But he didn’t say anything, and soon the butt end of a spear came down on his head and quieted him for good.
The second man laughed and ran to the altar, breathing flames at it and at the statue of Magor behind it. She got the briefest look at his face as he ran by, and she knew it instantly. It was her teenage neighbor Pilos, who lived with his wife and parents only a couple of houses down from Sina and Galdon. If he was like Criton, how many of her other neighbors were like him too?
Delika tried not to move, tried not to breathe. She didn’t want Pilos to notice her. Criton was good, Criton had saved her, but that didn’t mean that all these people were good. This one had just murdered a priest.
She wanted to run away, but she was afraid that he would catch her and kill her just like he’d done to the man on the floor. So she stayed while he lit the altar on fire, lit the statue on fire, lit the temple on fire. She stayed until he ran laughing from the building, and it grew hot and smoky around her. And by then, it was too late.
The smoke was everywhere by the time she crawled out from under her bench, and the flames too. There were casks of oil by the door, and their tops were aflame – they’d probably burst soon. Delika crawled away from them toward the burning altar, not knowing which way to go. A piece of roof fell down behind her, smashing the bench she had just crawled out from under. When she raised her head even just a little, the smoke choked her. She coughed, and sank lower to the floor.
Where could she go? There were killers outside, and flames inside, and soon she would burn just like that statue of boar-headed Magor. The benches were on fire already. Her skin and lungs felt like they were burning too.
At last, she remembered the vat in the corner. She sucked in a big breath from the good air near the ground, and ran as fast as she could for it. When she reached the vat she fell down again, winded. She felt weak, and her back was so hot – oh mother, it was burning! Her dress was on fire!
Delika coughed, sucked once more for air, and climbed into the vat.
12
Bandu
The men did not stay long. Off they went to get their weapons, with Criton in the lead, leaving Bandu and the baby with the Dragon Touched women. That was no good. The women all avoided her gaze like they were afraid of her. One might have thought she was the one with claws.
Hessina muttered something under her breath, apparently praying. Bandu did not catch the whole prayer, but she kept hearing the wo
rd “arise,” over and over again. When she thought about it, it made sense that the Dragon Touched should pray like that: others may have believed their God to be dead, but the Dragon Touched only thought He was far away and inattentive. Salemis had even said something like that once. What had it been? That for his God, people’s lives passed in the blink of an eye?
It certainly didn’t feel like the blink of an eye, waiting like this for her mate to return. Goodweather had woken up and was crying for the breast again. Bandu felt Hessina’s eyes on her as she fed her daughter. She met the old woman’s gaze and asked, “You have young once?”
The old lady looked surprised, but then her expression softened. “Six. It was a joyous time, before the purge.”
“Does your mate help then?”
“Not much. He had duties serving my father, the High Priest.”
That explained a few things. “Your father is High Priest for your God? This is how you are important.”
Hessina’s eyebrows shot up. “Yes. I don’t mean to be insulting, but where did Criton find you?”
She didn’t mean to be insulting? If she hadn’t begun that way, Bandu wouldn’t have known that she ought to be insulted. Now she was annoyed.
“Criton is lucky he ‘finds’ me,” she said. “You and your God are lucky too. You think Criton wakes up Salemis? I wake him up. You think Criton grows Goodweather’s seed so the dragon can come back to this world? I grow the seed. I do these things while you are still hiding. You should be happy and say thank you.”
“I apologize,” Hessina mumbled. “I did not mean–”
“You think Criton should not love me,” Bandu pressed on, not letting the old woman recover. “You think he should love only his kind. You are wrong.”
Hessina tried to shrug this off. “When you’ve lived to be my age and seen some of the things I’ve seen, you may begin to see things differently. I am grateful for what you have done to help us, and am sorry if I suggested otherwise. But people should stay with their own kind. I make no apologies for thinking so.”
