by Brindi Quinn
Pop! Pop! Pop!
Sparklers of Gold flash into existence.
“KWAH!” The commotion is enough to startle Pedj. Not that it is difficult to do so.
“What was THAT?” Feligo garbles, swaying this way and that and trying to remain upright.
“THAT would be our naefaerie . . . I think,” the ex-zombie says, once recovered.
Mael shrewdly surveys the campsite. “Grim?”
“I am here!” I stand before her, jumping, but my shadow is distorted by the angle of the crystal yet within Pedj’s hand.
“You have a fae?” says Feligo. “Is it . . . safe?”
“Well, I wouldn’t say she’s safe, per se. She ain’t zactly tame, if that’s what you mean . . .” Pedj picks at his hair in reflection of my disposition.
Tawdry boy.
He is punished by a cold chill passing through his body. “KWAH! She got me!”
“Shup, Pedjram.” Mael comes to my defense, assuring Feligo, “Grim’s safe. That boy sleepin’ over there’s her ward, see, and them two’re . . .”
Again, I experience a flushing in my cheeks.
“Don’t really think you need to go into it now, Mael,” says her cousin, under his breath. I am grateful for his interference. To have my relationship with Awyer spoken of by another is . . .
Arms folded, the Maestro taps his feet with impatience. Thoughts run over his face and mind, and when he reaches some sort of conclusion, he lets out a triumphant, “Aha!” He pounds his fist into his opposite palm – a gesture which sets him immediately off balance again. “She can assist me! Have her enter that man’s stomach and extract my agion!”
Enter . . . Techton’s . . . STOMACH?!
“Absolutely not!” I shout at no one.
“That’ll work?” Mael asks.
“If she is powerful enough, she can find the fragments and extract them.”
Pedj tips his head. “What do you think, Mistress? . . . Er, Grim? Should be fine, shouldn’t it? Senses to say, you go through my stomach all the time.”
Ah. So I do. But this is different than passing through someone. To focus on the abdomen alone – to fish about in another’s body in search of partially digested goods – it is crass. However, if I am honest, it will be worth it if we can also ‘extract’ something from the Maestro Feligo in exchange.
I need a communicator. And of the two people who can hear and see me, one of them is asleep and the other is under the influence of a drug most powerful. I will have to trust that this so-called ‘knight’ will demonstrate valor and offer knowledge in return for my cooperation.
The others have no idea what my opinion on the matter is. They do not see it when I tepidly approach Techton. They do not see it when I inhale a breath and exhale a breath. Nor do they see it when I plunge a hand through his exterior and will the contents within to receive me.
It takes not more than an instant for me to regret the action. I was wrong to enchant the whole of his innards. Slimy. Wet. Wriggly. “Ah!” With a cry I remove my power from them and instead focus on the image of the grassweed’s ash in my mind. As it was in Techton’s palm, so I picture it. Receive me, ashes, and ashes alone. Receive me.
After much concentration, I have them, dry and magickally separated from the rest. Disgusted, I take them from the belly of a confidant who is not perceptive to what has transpired. He gazes at the black sky with madness.
“You see that?!” cries Pedj. “Somethin’ moved smack outta him!”
“Here.” I present the reclaimed goods to their master, and their master accepts them with an open palm.
“My gratitude is yours . . . even though your colleague was the one to wrong me in the first place.”
Mael sticks out her bottom lip. Taking no notice, Feligo, self-proclaimed Maestro of Azuria, holds the ashes delicately in his uneven palm. From his shirt pocket he removes the other, intact piece of grassweed. Dipping the fuzzy tip of the blade into the ashes in his hand, he rambles a sting of words behind his lips, and as the shadows fall chastisingly upon his face, tips his head back, and, instead of swallowing, mashes the mixture of ash and grass against his forehead. But the mixture does not meet resistance of skin; it passes through his flesh and bone and is absorbed into his being.
Afterward, he straightens. More than straightens, he perks. To his feet, in one fell and swift motion, he does prance.
“My equilibrium! It hath returned!”
Hath? An archaic term even by my standards.
He bows at Mael. “You’re forgiven, mancer.” Next, he does a pivot so that he is facing me. “And you, fae, thank you.”
He can accurately detect my positioning?!
As if to answer, he continues. “Yae, I sense her now. She is . . . full, for a fae.”
“Full?” says Mael.
That is because I am not as I should be. I am not the naefaerie I once was.
Feligo struts about the area, trying out his newfound balance while the zombie watches with misgiving. “By the hoo, what are you?” says Pedj. “You ain’t asleep, so that means you’s a mythic, right?”
At last! At last someone thinks to ask such of their own volition! The Bloődite has earned favor. I award him with another pass through his body, not giving care to the fact that he might read it as punishment.
“Wahk! Someone’s got on excited . . .” he mutters, mid-shudder.
Feligo, again at full potential, points to each of us in turn. “Mancer, fae, mancer-ish?” Pedj does not read as full necromancer to the Maestro, apparently. Even more ambiguous is Techton. “He reads as common sorcerer, but . . . there’s something else, isn’t there?”
“He’s a baby,” says Mael. “A baby . . .”
Say it.
If she truly wishes to ‘keep him good’, she must admit that which she has refrained thus far from admitting. Speak it, Mael. Speak the name witch.
But say it, Mael cannot.
“Mm. A dark thing,” says Feligo. “I see. That’s why he reads as mortal, but smells of . . .”
Witch.
Feligo trails off.
Will no one else speak it!?
“And I,” says Feligo, “am a silvie.” It is more than a statement; it is a proud utterance of proclamation.
“Not somethin’ I ever heard of,” says Pedj.
Neither have I. Not until –
“Silverfox,” expounds the Maestro.
“A silverfox!” I exclaim. I have encountered silverfoxes before. Prior to my days in Eldrade, they roamed the mountains and sequestered themselves within small burrows. They were keepers of lore and seekers of weaponry, always searching for elusive metals and gods. “But where are his ears?! Where is his tail?!” My questions reach no one.
“So you’re one of those,” says Pedj. “Explains a lot.”
Dusting his long hair over his shoulder, Feligo swivels to inspect Awyer. “Almost forgot,” he says. “A partial sphinx. Now that is worthy of note. Just what is a company like you doing in Azuria? Hmm. It does stimulate a few theories.”
“‘Bout that . . .” says Pedj, shifting uncomfortably.
“Long story,” completes Mael.
“Well.” Feligo drums his fingers along his belt. “Isn’t anyone going to initiate? Duty goes to me, then?” He does a spin and points forcefully between the two of them. “Do you know what has caused the world to fall!?”
The cousins sport equally dumbfounded expressions.
“Uhhh . . .”
“You mind hangin’ out here for the night? I’m sure Grim’ll wanna talk to you, and seein’ as we can’t zactly hear her now, we’d better wait for that guy to wake up,” Pedj says.
“The dark thing is able to hear the fae?”
“Yeeeah,” says Pedj. “Another one of those ‘long stories’.”
“I see. As you wish. I’ll stay here for the night. Be advised that my detection skills are heightened right now. There is a snake behind that rock, a burrower here, there, and over there, and a doze
n earwigs hiding in that tree. If you try to pull anything over on me, I’ll have your hand cut off at the wrist before you can snap.”
Pedj eyes his wrist before answering, “Oka, oka, no need to be gettin’ snippy.”
“A precaution, only, I assure.”
Mael disregards the weightiness of the conversation. Making her lips full and showing signs of her previous airiness, she asks, “Wanna sleep in with us?” Habits are not easily broken, no matter what amount of will behind their undoing.
“I . . . I’ll pass.” The Maestro is more confused than anything.
“Oh!” says Pedj. “And so’s you know, if YOU try anythin’, Mistress Grim’ll be over you like THAT, and she’ll do more than cut off your hand – she’ll cut off your head.”
Really? Never before have I demonstrated decapitation as a skill within my possession. Awyer would surely snigger over the threat.
“Naturally, I won’t ‘try anything’. If I were going to, I would have slain you all by now. Rest assured.” He unsheathes his sword and gives a few quick slices and jabs through the air to prove his point. “I will take residence in a shelter of my own. You lot can retire as you please.” With that, the Maestro sets about pacing the campsite for suitable settlement.
A silverfox, hmm?
I watch him even after Mael and Pedj have dragged Techton into the tent, and I continue watching him long him after the others have gone silent in their motion and murmurs. I look on as he curls up in a shallow piece of soil and covers himself with leaves and other brush.
And the last thing I see before my heavy eyes droop?
I watch as he sprouts a large fluffy tail that curls around his body, shielding him from wind and weathering, and showing off his truer form.
A silverfox. Yes.
I have not encountered one in many, many years.
Pray this encounter turns out better than the last.
Chapter IV: Watcher
“Shim haarnon! Perana ishtan? Acka, haarnon weeana!”
Ancient words echo, but I cannot understand their meaning.
“Shim haarnon! Perana ishtan? Acka, haarnon weeana!”
That is right; I recall it now.
‘Foolish pest! You think to leave? You belong to me!’ The voice of my prior ward, witch of Ensecré, resounds.
I answer, “I will leave you, Hamira, for your time has ended. You may cheat time, but you will not cheat our pact.”
“Fa! Sino haarnon weeanan, haarnon yiisan!”
‘Ha! Without belonging, you will fade!’
If I am not pacted, I will fade. This is the curse of a naefaerie. From host to host, reborn in new form, the cycle is endless.
When was the first time I heard of such? I do not remember, for the lives distant to me grow more distant. I can no longer see clearly the faces of my first pactors. But one thing I know for certain: My first wards . . . I did not take pain in their passings. I merely moved on to the next. If I am without pactor, I will fade.
That is the truth.
That is –
“What proof do you have, my faerie?”
I am without vision. Without feeling. Without sense of self. The world has gone black. But I know that voice.
“Awyer!”
“Grim, how do you know that you will disappear without a ward?”
“Awyer! It would please me greatly if you would awaken! Please–”
“How do you know that you will disappear without a ward?” he persists.
How do I know? “Because I have felt myself grow weak following the death of a pactor.”
“Weak? What does ‘weak’ mean? Is ‘weak’ the same as ‘fade’?”
“I–” Never before have I questioned it.
I am wrapped in the warmth of oblivion. And then things change. Things turn gray.
“Grim.” Awyer says my name with perturbation. “Move.”
“Move?”
“Move.” The voice is no longer Awyer’s. It belongs to a certain sultry necromancer. She and I and the rest of the travelers are lit by the morning sun. Awyer is at my side, asleep as ever. How is it that his voice sounded so clear? “Said MOVE, Pedjram. Gotta make room for Silvie,” Mael presses. By ‘Silvie’ she refers to the silverfox, who remained in our company through the night even without me keeping watch over him. This day, he has knotted his trailing hair into a rope and tucked it around his shoulder.
Now that I am seen and heard once more, I waste no time. “Techton!” I am at his side in a flash. “Your actions yesterday were unacceptable!”
“Apologies, Grim.” He scoops fried yolks into a bowl. “Believe me when I say I’m doing the best I can. . . . Did you want one egg or two, Lady?”
“Three.”
“Heh.”
In the morrow, the addict is recovered. He has ingested his fix of Void-dusted Gold and for a time, at least, he is cordial. As breakfast commences, he does not readily become agitated. He does not readily snap – not even when the tailed one in our presence who has since lost his tail sits beside his beloved Lady, eating up most of her attention.
“He’s one of them, Techt. Only heard stories ‘bout them before.”
“Said to be real rare,” Pedj agrees reluctantly, into his bowl. “Can see things others can’t. The webs of fate, supposedly.”
“Oooh and also ahhh,” coos Mael.
For the Bloődites, it is as if their grievances over the fox’s past sins have forfeited in consideration of the rarity of his species.
Techton studies the newcomer with sound mind. “So you’re a silverfox, huh? I didn’t know your kind was able to mask its appearance.”
Nor was I.
“It wouldn’t be much of a mask if everyone knew what was behind it,” is Feligo’s valiant response.
Techton’s pleasantness ticks downward one level. The skin beneath his eyes is darker than before. Bagged, it shows signs of unhealthiness. I should not bother with it. I should not rightly . . . I cannot help myself. “Techton, how is your demeanor?” I ask.
“Believe me when I say I’m fine, Mistress.”
“Believe me when I say to call me Grim. And it is acceptable if you are NOT fine, you know. It is better to admit when–”
“I’d appreciate if you’d drop it.”
Sigh. “Very well. If you are truly repentant for your behavior yesterday, you will act as my voice.”
“Of course.” He lowers his volume into a hush. “I’ve been meaning to get your take on this fellow, too. Think he’s all right?”
“That is precisely what I aim to find out.”
He gives a compliant nod of camaraderie. How I favor this side of him.
“Speak to him this: ‘I think it time we discussed that which needs discussing, Maestro.’”
“It is high time!” the Maestro agrees, rather exuberantly.
Through my confidant, I proceed to question him. Where did he last see Count Bexwin of Eldrade? Was he aware of what was to come? Did he know of the sleepness prior to its arrival? Feligo, in turn, has more than a few questions for us, for he did not know of the sleepness prior to its arrival. He was not aware of what was to come. And he, like Techton, believed Ark to be nothing more than a storytale. In turn, I answer his queries, divulging only the bare minimum of what has transpired.
At least, that is all I intend to share. But Pedj and Mael, lacking greatly in craft, see fit to reveal that which I restrain, and there is no stopping them. They blurt without thought, giving neither Techton nor I time to prepare.
“And Awyer was destinied or somewhat to bequeaf the Amethyst to his . . .”
“NO. NO! DO NOT–” My protests reach only one person, and that person does his best to smooth over the truth, but the story is filled with holes, so much so that even a man of limited wit would be able to fit the pieces.
Unfortunately, Feligo appears to have more than a limited amount of wit. I witness the swift processing of neurons as comprehension dawns upon his face.
“Ower wa
s the one what got hit first. Guess it was sorta his fault the sky got opened up . . .”
“TECHTON, DO SOMETHING!”
The Azurian wrangles the blabbering necromancer by hooking an arm around her neck. “Eh-heh. What the lady means is once he was there, there was really no helping what happened. That stuff just burst out of him like a cyclone.”
“THAT IS NOT BETTER!”
The exchange is labored, and by the time it is through, the silverfox knows more than he ought, and we know less than we hoped. When it comes to the collapse of the world, Feligo is far more innocent than we.
At the end he stands, dusts his hands, and turns to Pedj and Mael with a bow. “I’ve wronged you. I sincerely apologize for my actions against the Bloődite outdwellers. It wasn’t they who stole the Amethyst.” But before his apology may be accepted, he redirects his attention, unexpectedly pulling out his sword and turning heated in the process. “It was him!”
Eyes fixed on Awyer, he makes a leaping motion that is ended by three blasts of power, two Gold, one Void. Because Gold will not attack Gold, Mael and I are creative with our spells, each hoisting a rock above the silverfox’s head as leverage. Removing enchant from the objects will ensure that Feligo is hit. Only Pedj remains as he was, too slow to anticipate battle. He offers a verbal protest in place of his participation:
“Hey! You got no right attackin’ on Awyer that way! Was you who went stormin’ into our Capital without a reason, and after we helped you blue-smokers break into the Amethyst City, too!”
“Calm down, all of you!” Enveloped in a cloud of Void, Feligo yet holds his blade over his head. “The one who stole the Amethyst is there!”
“The fault was not his!” I frantically spit at his face. “Amethyst was promised to the sphinxes long ago! We had no way of knowing what would happen upon delivery!”
Alas, my confidant is not able to relay the message before the Maestro begins a rant:
“You can’t see it, can you? None of you can. Listen here, travelers! You don’t travel alone! You’re being watched. Now, I don’t know if what you’re saying is true or not – after all, to believe in the existence of Ark is purely ludicrous – but I can say with utmost certainty that you are being watched by something through that sphinx, and that something is a man resembling the folklore of Ark. His presence grew the more you shared, and it faded the moment I challenged it!”
