The Chronicles of William Wilde Boxset 1

by Davis Ashura

  “What does that mean?” William asked.

  “Exactly. What does it mean?” Travail shrugged. “There are several illnesses that can be described to kill a person by such means. At the time I read this account, I suspected the author was simply unaware of such diseases. After all, five hundred years ago many of those illnesses hadn’t yet been categorized.”

  “You think whatever happened to that long-ago Servitor is happening to Sherlock?” Serena asked.

  “The accounts do seem to mirror one another,” Travail replied.

  “Did they have any idea what happened to that Servitor?” Jake asked.

  “The asrasins of the time suspected that lashing a raha’asra somehow rebounds on the lasher. Remember, only two or three raha’asras are born each century. They create lorasra. They also purify it. Raha’asras are remarkable, and tearing into the lorethasra of someone with those rare qualities is bound to have a negative impact on the one doing them harm.”

  “You really believe this?” Serena asked, staring hard at the troll.

  “Does it matter?” Travail asked. “If the healers from that account are to be believed, your brother will die whether what I posit is true or not.”

  SISTERS, TRUTHS, AND SELENE

  May 1987

  * * *

  Village Bliss’ pier consisted of a two-yard-wide span of wooden planks extending into a sheltered cove and held a dozen slips. Mid-morning, no boats remained berthed at the docks, as all the fisherman were out on the water. They went to sea at first light and weren’t expected back until early afternoon.

  Serena stared at the empty pier, but in her mind’s eye she pictured herself elsewhere. She imagined Sinskrill’s gloomy weather fading away, the dull clouds parting and replaced by a bright, vibrant sun. She stood atop basalt cliffs where a warm breeze played with her hair, swirling it about her face. The call of gulls echoed in her ears, and the scent of a different shore filled her nostrils. Serena lifted her face, closed her eyes, and let the images and sensations sweep her away.

  Selene was with her in this dream, just the two of them. They left this new island at their leisure, sailing away upon their dhow; free to travel wherever their hearts took them.

  Freedom. Such a dangerous word. Such a desperately, dangerously longed-for need, especially for someone born and raised on Sinskrill. Until meeting Mr. Zeus and the magi of Arylyn, Serena had always thought her fantasy of escape was simply that, a fantasy.

  And now . . .

  Serena exhaled heavily, opened her eyes, and let go of her dream. The world of Sinskrill returned, and so too did the confirmation of certain truths.

  She couldn’t stay here. She’d known it for a long time, and her time in the Far Abroad had only reinforced what had long been in her heart. More importantly, she wouldn’t allow her sister to be raised on Sinskrill. The island would eventually break Selene, twisting her lovely heart into something grotesque and wicked.

  They had to escape.

  “Madam, should I paint this section of the dhow?” a soft voice asked.

  Selene. A nub of paint smudged her sister’s nose, and Serena wiped it off, causing the little girl to grin.

  As always when they were alone, Serena didn’t hold back her fond smiles or her affection. No matter what else the future might hold, she wanted Selene to know that she’d been loved.

  “Yes, why don’t you paint it,” Serena said. The figurehead at the prow, a cat that reminded her of Aia, caused her to wonder where the strange calico kitten might be, what adventures she might have involved herself in.

  “Madam, can I tell you how much I like being with you?”

  “Of course. I like being with you, too. But remember, we can only speak like this when we’re alone,” Serena cautioned. “You remember the rule I told you about how you’re to behave when others are around?”

  “I remember,” Selene answered. She straightened to attention and her face grew flat and unreadable like a drone’s. “Never allow anyone to know your true emotions.”

  “And the reason?”

  “Because emotions can be manipulated,” Selene said in a drone-dull affect.

  “And manipulation leads to slavery,” Serena finished. “Good. Now let’s get the painting done. The Servitor will still expect you to taste his food at supper.”

  “Yes, madam. What will you do with the boat when it’s done?” Selene asked, her features transitioning into those of a curious little girl.

  “Sail it,” Serena answered with a smile. “I can teach you once you’re my shill.”

  Selene’s eyes grew wide and her face brightened. “Will I truly be your shill?”

  “I promise you will,” Serena said, although her heart’s desire was that she and Selene would be long gone from Sinskrill by the time of her sister’s Tempering.

  William and Jake would be the key. Their longing for freedom was evident in every breath they took and every insubordinate statement they made to her—and that she ignored. They likely thought her forbearance due to guilt, but they were wrong. Need drove her, not guilt. She needed William and Jake to regain hope that they truly could be free of Sinskrill.

  And if their needs required that she allow them to speak to her in ways she wouldn’t allow anyone else, so be it. While they would always hate her, she didn’t care. As long as they went along with her plan.

  The strength of what she had in mind was its simplicity. Jason and Mr. Zeus had been able to dream to one another. Only those who loved one another or were closely related could do that, and William and Jason loved one another as deeply as any natural-born brothers. Or so Serena imagined, since such love didn’t often occur on Sinskrill. Once William had further training, she reckoned he would be able to dream to Jason and tell the magi of Sinskrill’s rough location. Then her plan could be implemented, and they could all be free.

  Serena smiled at the notion before resuming her repair of the dhow. She hummed “Gloria”, and the song momentarily startled her. How long had it been since she’d thought of it?

  The night sky of Sinskrill could be a glorious abode of uncountable stars, of bright pinpricks and a smear of light on a vast canvas of darkness. However, for such a wondrous vision to appear, the island’s infamous shroud of clouds had to clear, an infrequent event in any season according to Travail.

  Tonight was one of those special occasions. Tonight, the clouds had parted, drifting into cotton-candy shapes lit from above by a half moon. Tonight, heaven’s beauty became manifest, and William and Jake decided to stay up late to watch the evening’s glory. Or at least what counted for staying up late on Sinskrill. It probably wasn’t much past ten p.m.

  Crickets chirped, coming forth from wherever they spent their winters as they sensed spring’s arrival. For once the wind had also died down, the cold not as biting as usual. William still put his hands out toward the crackling fire, although he hardly needed its warmth tonight.

  Travail lay nearby, an indistinct lump blending in with the other indistinct rocky shapes around him. “A beautiful evening, is it not?” he asked in a voice full of longing. “In times past, my elders would spend such a night in dance.”

  “How did you end up here?” William asked. He’d asked a variation of the same question a few other times, but Travail had never answered, always promising to tell him later. This occasion seemed no different as silence followed William’s question.

  He expected no response, but Travail surprised him.

  “Curiosity and foolishness,” the troll answered. “A deadly combination, especially in a child.”

  “What happened?” Jake asked.

  “A lying mahavan told me of a book of surpassing wisdom, one holding all the secrets of the stars. I came here, enraptured by those false pretenses, intent on unlocking heaven’s mysteries. And here I’ve remained, trapped since my foolishness led me astray.” He sighed. “The stars have forever been my weakness. I long for them like a sailor longing for the sea.”

  “Who tricked
you?” Jake asked.

  “The Servitor’s great-grandfather, the Servitor of his time. He is long since dead.”

  “That doesn’t make sense,” Jake said in confusion. “How old are you?”

  “Two hundred and twelve,” Travail said. “For my kind, it is early adulthood. I came here when I was fifty-five, a child then.”

  William whistled. “That’s even longer than asrasins live.”

  “Yes,” Travail acknowledged. “Trolls live up to five hundred years.”

  Jake looked back and forth from William to Travail in uncertainty, obviously wondering if they were joking.

  “It’s true,” William said. “Mr. Zeus was born before the Civil War. Jason says that creatures of magic live long.”

  Rather than being elated by the news, Jake gaped in horror. “You mean we might end up being slaves for over a hundred years?”

  “No, because we’ll master what we need to learn and do what we must to earn our place,” William declared. “No one’s going to keep us in chains forever.”

  “In this, the two of you demonstrate far greater wisdom than I,” Travail said. “I should have listened to my mother and remained in the mountains of my birth.”

  William couldn’t imagine Travail as a youth, nor could he imagine the troll having a mother. “Is that where you . . . you know?” he asked, not stating the entirety of the question in case an eavesdropping Walker was listening to them.

  “I don’t know. My mother is likely dead by now,” Travail said. “She was old when she spawned me, and I was the first troll birthed in centuries, possibly the last. I may be the last of my kind.”

  “What about your father?” Jake asked.

  “I don’t have a father. Trolls are born of obligate parthenogenesis.”

  William frowned. Obligate what? Wait. He searched his mind, certain he’d heard the phrase before. He smiled when he remembered, and silently blessed Mrs. Nelson and her boring biology lectures. “Isn’t parthenogenesis an asexual form of reproduction?” he asked.

  “It is.”

  “But I thought only plants and lower animals reproduced by parthenogenesis,” William said.

  “They do,” Travail replied, “but how do you know the process is limited to those species?”

  Silence descended as William and Jake digested Travail’s words. Rarely did the troll fully explain his thoughts. More often he gave them snippets of knowledge, expecting them to puzzle out the rest on their own.

  William stared into the fire as he considered Travail’s words. “Are you a lower animal?” he finally asked the troll.

  “Am I?”

  William scowled. He hated when people answered a question with a question.

  “You’re a lower species according to the asrasins,” Jake said, sounding sure of himself.

  William shook his head in disagreement. “But he looks like a mammal. Look at his hair.”

  “Looks can be deceiving,” Jake reminded him, and William’s thoughts went to Serena. “Remember what he told us last week. Only asrasins can create the woven, the beings of magic. And trolls are magical beings.”

  William remained perplexed. “Okay. Asrasins created the trolls, but I don’t get why that makes them a lower species?”

  “Because all woven species were made by asrasins,” Travail explained. “All were created lesser in some ways. For most it comes with our birthing. Parthenogenesis, the reproduction of the lower animals.”

  “All the woven are like that?” William asked.

  “Not all reproduce by parthenogenesis,” Travail said, “but all of us have a weakness. The unformed, witches, warlocks, banshees, chimeras, dwarves, and so many more. Even the proud nearly immortal elves. We’re all lesser than asrasins in some way.”

  “Elves and dwarves are real?” William interjected.

  “Were real,” Travail said. “Most woven are gone from this world, destroyed when their saha’asra homes emptied of lorasra. Only a few such braided creations still roam the earth, those lucky enough to find themselves upon either Sinskrill or Arylyn, a saha’asra which can still support our kind, or those who can create their own lorasra.”

  “You mean some woven are like raha’asras?” Jake asked.

  “Yes and no,” Travail answered. “Yes, they can make their own lorasra, but no, they cannot share what they create. Their lorasra is all for themselves, to keep them alive.”

  “What about the necrosed?” William asked.

  “The necrosed.” A snarl leapt to Travail’s lips. “Pray you never meet one of those abominations. But if you do, flee. Nothing but the long dead holders could kill such fell foes.”

  William and Jake shared a look of uncertainty. Jake gestured, as if inviting William to tell the story.

  “We met one last Christmas,” William said.

  Travail startled. “Truly?”

  William nodded, knowing the troll’s night vision allowed him to see the movement in the dark. “His name was Kohl Obsidian.”

  Travail sat up, his interest piqued. “Was? As in past tense?” he asked. “Tell me what happened.”

  William explained what he, Jason, and Serena had endured. Had it really only been five months ago?

  “A talking cat, a Shining Man, and a man with two minds,” Travail mused. “What does this portend?”

  William didn’t know, nor did he care. Studying someone else’s future, worrying about it when it didn’t directly impact him, held no interest. Right now he only cared about the present, how to shape each moment so he, Jake, and Travail could escape Sinskrill.

  Thunder rumbled, cutting off their conversation as heavy clouds rolled in. Heaven’s brilliance was curtained away, and dampness rolled in as a misty rain pattered to life. The lovely evening ended.

  “I know where I would go,” Travail said, his words masked from listening Walkers by a rumble of thunder. “There is only one saha’asra where I could freely roam the land. Arylyn.”

  “Arylyn,” William whispered in reverence. The name itself felt like a prayer.

  Choices.

  In nine-year-old Selene’s mind, the notion of choices, of choosing for herself, was as foreign a concept as a cow with hands. It might be funny, but what would a cow do with hands?

  Maybe it would make it easier for them to shove grass in their mouths?

  Selene mentally shrugged. She didn’t know, and she didn’t care. Choices were for big people, like the Servitor. Little girls like her could only do as they were told, like fetch William Wilde, the new raha’asra.

  Madam had asked Selene to bring him to Village Bliss to help her restore the dhow. Of course, Selene had done as she was told, and the two of them rode the rusted bicycles the Servitor maintained for such journeys on the Great Way. While they traveled, she tried to study William, eyeing him sidelong and hoping he wouldn’t notice.

  What a strange man, she decided. Not a mahavan or drone. Maybe a shill or a bishan?

  Selene frowned, trying to figure out William’s status. On Sinskrill, status meant everything. Those with greater status were better people, and those with less were obviously worse people. It was the core of Lord Shet’s teachings.

  Selene continued frowning, and eventually decided that William must be an enigma.

  She drew herself up in pride.

  Enigma. A word Selene had discovered while sweeping the Servitor’s Library as part of her duties, serving the holy man who was also her father. Enigma. A good word. It described William Wilde perfectly.

  She gave a firm nod. Yes, that’s what he was.

  “How old are you?”

  William’s voice startled her, not because he’d spoken but because of its curious, friendly tone. Only Madam ever spoke to her like that. “I’m nine. Sir,” she added a beat later in case she was wrong about his status.

  “William,” he said with a smile.

  Selene’s puzzlement deepened. Whenever there was no one else around, Madam smiled at her like that. Warm and kind. Every time she d
id, it caused Selene’s belly to tremble and made her eyes blurry with tears. She didn’t understand what her reaction meant, but she knew the smile was something between only her and Madam.

  William was someone else. He was a stranger, an enigma. Again, she puffed with pride at knowing the word. Selene’s bike hit a pothole and almost sent her over the handlebars, but she quickly regained control of it.

  “Are you okay?” William asked.

  Selene flushed and gave a brief bob of her head. She’d have to be more careful with her riding, but thankfully, she and William were alone. No one had witnessed her near disaster.

  Moments later, despite her decision to pay more attention to her riding, Selene’s thoughts drifted again. She stared at the strange raha’asra, wondering what he wanted from her. Everyone wanted something—another of Shet’s teachings. Everyone other than Madam.

  So what did William Wilde want?

  “Your name is Selene, right?” he asked, still wearing a smile.

  Selene nodded, still puzzled by his behavior. He spoke to her like Madam, like she meant something to him even though she was only a drone.

  Why?

  “Yes, sir,” she said in reply to William’s question.

  “I feel like stretching my legs,” William said. “You want to ride harder?”

  Selene tried not to frown as her confusion deepened. She didn’t know what to say, and she hesitated. The raha’asra was offering her a choice?

  “We don’t have to if you don’t want to,” William added.

  “I’d like to go faster,” Selene hastily replied. Early on, Madam had taught her that the best answer to a confusing question was generally a form of ‘yes’.

  William grinned. “Good. Let’s go.”

  The raha’asra set off, and Selene pedaled her hardest to keep up. She quickly fell behind, and William slowed to a coast, easing back next to her.