Soul Hosts

by Joseph Isaacs

  Chapter 10

  Wraith on the Stairwell

  Enjoy today, this moment, this sunset. - Kolram

  --

  Wayden trudged up the stairs by himself again. Would Night be on the window ledge? Or telling him more children’s stories tonight? Would she try to kiss him or throw a chamber pot at him yet?

  A burst of lightning illuminated the stairwell. With the shadow of the night comes the fear, the old saying went. The darkness unnerved him, goose bumps rising and his breathing ragged.

  Of course, Rory wouldn’t give him a lantern. "Ya ain't in the Telek Manor anymore, Lord Toast,” he had said. “You think we got oil to be wastin' on the likes of you? Feel yer way like everyone else."

  Rory hadn’t minded burning some oil the other night when he dictated yet another of his love poems to the innkeep’s daughter: ‘You be beautiful like a mountain. I want to climb you. Let me be your inn and you can keep me.’ Keeping a straight face during these dictations was challenging.

  Deprived of both lantern and lunar illumination, making his way was no easy task, especially balancing a tray of stew. Wayden had walked these stairs often enough, but a few steps had protruding nails, warped wood, or jagged splinters. A flash of lightning provided a moment’s light. Wayden managed another few steps.

  Rif was assigned to kitchen duty on this miserable evening. The Tulkarian might have helped guide him. Or possibly murder him. One or the other. On second thought, perhaps that wouldn’t help allay the fear overly much.

  "You're too old to fear the dark," Kolram said.

  Heroes weren’t scared of the dark. Heroes weren’t scared of anything.

  “No,” Kolram said. “They are afraid. But they do what needs to be done anyway.”

  Wayden could hear Rory and Master Crag arguing in elevated voices.

  "We should be tellin' the Fire Guard about what happened in them fields. They be using unauthorized magic on them scagazi!" Rory shouted.

  Wayden ground his teeth. He and Rif would have to run for it, if Crag decided to tell the Guard. Luckily, Crag wasn’t in agreement. "Oh, go marry yourself a magic-eater, Rory. You’ve been writing too much poetry and it’s made your brain go funny.”

  "But the law-" Rory said.

  "It was the divine power of the Source watching over your sorry arse. No child can master magic.” Crag snorted. “Even I haven't mastered Fire-whispering yet. You'll make us look right fools. No Fire Guard. That’s an order."

  Even through the darkness, the Wall of Flame was visible, a curtain of orange and red. Handsome claimed he’d been to the Flame Wall. Wayden longed to see a Wall of the World, or for that matter, any wall other than those of the Dracon's Home for Unadoptable Boys.

  Upon his sixteenth birthday, Wayden imagined trekking southwards to the ice kingdom of Raslo and wreak vengeance against Gar Skymaster. Perhaps Rif would come as his squire.

  "Wayden, this dream is a child's folly,” Kolram said, “Your father led an expedition with a large squadron of armed men to bring Gar to justice. Why would one boy fare better than a small army?"

  "I held my own against the scagazi."

  “You either think you are nothing, or you think you can do everything. The truth lies in between."

  "I know,” Wayden sighed. “It's just...I need to do something. What else can I do?"

  "Join the Fire Guard. Convince the Court of Flames to make an offensive. Study magic and become a stronger Beast Tongue than Gar."

  "Those plans would take ages. I've been waiting eight years now. I'm tired of waiting."

  "Patience. It will happen in time."

  "No, it won't. I'm nothing and nothing will come of me. My father died for nothing. My mother died for nothing. My brother was captured for nothing. And I'll die for nothing too. The Dragonking is a nothing and the Source is a bloody menace."

  "Take it a step at a time, young Wayden, for even the smallest of steps matter. Who knows what the future shall hold? There is naught you can do about tomorrow. Enjoy today, this moment, this sunset. The greatest treasures of life belong to orphan and royalty alike."

  "It would be easier to enjoy the wraithin’ sunset if my stomach wasn't rumbling," Wayden thought.

  The internal discussion was interrupted by the creaking of the wooden steps below, and the pitter-patter of footfalls approaching. Wayden’s muscles tightened. Someone was coming up the stairs. Lightning lit the stairwell…but… there was no one there.

  A shadow bumped into his shoulder as it passed. By some miracle, Wayden held onto the tray. What in the Seven Heavens was that? A shadow with warmth and dimension?

  Wayden’s insides quivered. “Was that a ghost?"

  "There are no such things as ghosts,” Kolram said. “Well… unless you count me. Though I think I count more as a disembodied spirit—"

  "Then what pushed me?"

  “You imagined it. ‘Tis natural for one's nerves to play tricks when we walk alone in the dark.”

  Footsteps creaked up the stairs ahead of him, and he heard the wail of rusty hinges as a door opened.

  “That was not my imagination.”

  Or was it? He and Mavik used to imagine every shadow was a demon coming to get them. Their fear had felt so real, they had been sure a parade of monsters were passing outside their bedroom window. But those shadows had not shoved him. This was past fanciful imagining.

  What could Wayden do about it? He couldn’t tell Crag he didn’t deliver Night’s dinner because he was afraid of the dark. Besides, some supernatural demon might be murdering the old woman. He forced his feet into motion, silently as he could, inching up the stairway. Perhaps it was some assassin skilled in the ways of stealth. Or a burglar coming to steal some treasure Night had stashed away. But what mortal man could be so stealthy as to be invisible? Could the intruder be a mage?

  "There is no such thing as invisibility magic," Kolram said.

  "Wraiths can turn into shadows," Wayden thought.

  "The Immortals trapped the wraiths two millennia ago," Kolram said.

  "Maybe they missed one."

  Through Night’s half open chamber door, Wayden heard a familiar young girl's voice.

  "Tell me about Jazlyn's mother. Did she die in childbirth as the Dracon claimed?" In a flash of recognition, he realized the girl speaking was Verica, daughter of Healer Berik. Could her bizarre scar have anything to do with his not seeing her?

  The growl of thunder startled Wayden, who stifled a cry. The rain drummed against the window glass.

  The thick oak door muffled Night’s voice: "You will not believe the truth."

  Floorboards squeaked. Footsteps approached the door. Wayden squeezed behind the doorframe, pressing against the wall and wishing he could turn invisible himself. He held his breath, tightness running through him. Why am I so scared of a girl? But then he remembered the scar. She was no ordinary girl. There was something dark inside of her... A flash of lightning lit up the landing.

  The door swung open, brushing against the edge of the tray. Through the door crack, Verica peered out. The scar looked unusually menacing; the darkness in it flowing like hot tar. After a moment, she shrugged, and closed the door. Wayden placed the tray on the floor, and tiptoed closer, pressing his ear against the grain of the wood.

  “Thought I heard something,” Verica said. “Go on.”

  "You should not be burdened with such, my girl," Night said. "Such a sad tale for tender ears."

  "My ears can take it," Verica said.

  “Did you bring the herbs?”

  “Yes.”

  “Can I have them?”

  “After you tell me.”

  “Very well then. So be it. Fifteen years ago, the Dracon and Dakarth summoned the Grandmasters to Dark Fist on Three Moons’ Night, when magic is at its strongest.”

  "Why is magic stronger on Three Moons’ Night?" Verica asked.

  "How should I know? Do you want to hear the story or not?" Night paused and Wayden heard th
e sound of a glass clinking. "The Draconess, not the cow who calls herself the Draconess now, but the real one. Jazlyn’s mother. She accompanied Dracon Niar. She was with child, and I accompanied her in the place of one of her midwives who got the pox. Can I have the herbs?"

  "After the story.”

  “That evening, while I fetched water, I heard screams from the temple chamber. The Dracon forbade our entering, but this seemed an emergency.”

  Wayden moved his foot and the floorboard squeaked. He held his breath.

  Night continued, sounding as if in a trance, “On the inner ring stood Flickers clutching bloody knives. The blindfolded corpses of the Grandmasters formed a circle around the entrapped Immortals. I recognized Kolram’s corpse. A mist rose from his lips. And from the other Grandmasters as well.”

  “A witness to our murder!” Kolram said.

  “Mists poured from the lips of all the Grandmasters as blood gushed from their bodies.” Night’s voice became a whine. “Just a bit now?”

  "After the story."

  Exchanging drugs for information didn’t seem right, but Wayden understood Verica’s need to know—to understand. His own need burned as hot as a coal in a hearth.

  "The Dracon chanted, but the Grandmaster’s mists drifted away from him. ‘What is this? They should be coming to me,’ the Dracon had said. But the mists slipped away, drifting out the breached eastern wall of the temple. ‘No!’ the Dracon cried. Two more mists rose from the Guardian energy shield enshrouding the bodies of Asgaroth and the Dragonking. The clouds hissed as they passed through the energy snakes slithering over the Immortals' bodies. Asgaroth’s had a hint of black to it, like a storm cloud, and the Dragonking’s a streak of red.

  “Dakarth stared at the black mist, as the Dracon watched the red." Night cleared her throat. "The Dracon held aloft the Sword of Luminescence, chanting, ‘Come to me Dragonking, and let your power be mine.’ The red mist moved towards the Dracon, who stood with open mouth, as if to receive a worm from a mother bird, but the mist swerved, and entered the Sword of Luminscence instead. The Dracon cursed, ‘Arth said the mists would enter me!’ The black mist drifted over Asgaroth’s body, but the Bone King did not stir from beneath his amber blanket of Guardian magic. Dakarth yelled, ‘The mist isn’t awakening my father...the scrolls...they were forged. Arth lied!’”

  "This fits with Rif's account," Kolram said.

  “Do you remember any of this?” Wayden asked.

  “Vaguely. Like a bad dream. It seems right.”

  Night’s voice strained, "Arth, who was busy lying dead on the stone floor, had very little to say in his own defense. The black mist from Asgaroth floated in my direction. I fled down the hallway. The mist followed me. I raced back to the Draconess's chamber and slammed the door shut. I thought I was safe.”

  "Asgaroth's spirit was following Night?” Kolram asked, “Toward what end?"

  Something clinked, possibly a wine goblet or a teacup.

  Night said, "The other midwife screamed at me, ‘Where have you been? It’s coming. And where is the water?' I didn't know how to explain what had happened. The other midwife sent a serving girl to fetch the water. If I had dreamt the whole thing, the delivery would help me forget it. The Draconess and the other mid-wife screamed and I turned to see the dark mist gathering behind me, pouring through the crack in the door."

  Verica gasped.

  "The mist flowed past me, hovered over newborn Jazlyn, and then plunged into her crying mouth.” Night sniffled. “Some claimed the former Draconess died during the birth, but that was a lie. She arrived safely back from Raslo.”

  “Jazlyn’s mother? She’s alive?”

  “On that day at least. A few days after we returned, all her regular midwives disappeared. I realized it was because of what we witnessed. They must have been confused, and done away with the midwife I replaced in my stead. They thought they were getting rid of the witnesses. Breathe no words of this. If they find out you and I possess such dangerous information, we’ll likely disappear ourselves.”

  “Another Three Moons' Nights' is approaching next month. Do you think the Dracon will try again?” Verica asked.

  "The Dracon has been sending the Fire Guard to imprison magi, hasn’t he?"

  "So he’s preparing."

  "Yes. Your scar...would I be wrong to suggest you host a wraith?"

  "How did you know?"

  Verica hosts a wraith? Wayden's nanny had told him stories about wraiths murdering innocent townsfolk and making clothes of their skin. Was Night in danger? Verica might do something terrible to her. Cold terror rushed through Wayden's throat. He flung open the door.

  “Oh, wraithin’ hell!” Verica said. “I thought you were going to the third floor.” The girl was a head shorter than Wayden and stick thin. Not exactly a terrifying sight.

  “Don’t move!” Wayden yelled.

  The blackness in Verica’s scar swirled and sparkled. Dark material trickled from the crack in her forehead. It spread over her face, like a watercolor transforming itself into a charcoal sketch, until the girl’s flesh became shadow.

  Footsteps scampered past him. The door swung open and the tray Wayden had left upon the floor went flying, spilling stew across the stairwell.

  "Darius's mercy,” Kolram said.

  Wayden pursued her. There she was, a part of her at least. Her head and arms had reappeared as well as her legs and feet. In between remained invisible, which made a bizarre sight. Wayden grabbed her hand and pulled her towards him. She fell on top of him. He felt the flesh of her arms and face press into him. His head swirled and everything turned black.