by Brindi Quinn
My desperation halts him. He takes my wrists in his hands and jerks me to him. “Do not be sad. I will see and hear you. I will touch you.” He takes the curve of my back and pushes me to him. “And taste you.”
While my neck erupts in splotches of heat, he thinks on what he has just admitted.
“You dreamt that last one, Grim.” He stares at my mouth. “But if it is what you want–”
My sphinx leans in.
Ah!
For the first time in many, many days, our mouths meet, his and mine. Soft. Warm. Real. The sensation of kissing him is as real as when he was awake. But distance makes the kiss more eager. With his kiss, my kiss reacts deeper. With my deepness, his kiss reacts with charge.
And when I again open my eyes, it is no longer night. He and I lie in a bright space upon a floor covered in down. His body is over mine. His eyes shine with a hunger I have only so far seen in Techton’s. But from the feel of it, I would guess that my eyes shine that way too.
I do not hover. I am solid and real, and the floor holds me as it would any mortal. My hair, grown longer since my days of naefaeriedom, falls over my shoulders.
Awyer sweeps it away to place his lips upon my silver skin. I shiver.
“You are fair, Grim,” he says when he retracts. “It is a shame others cannot see you.”
“Awyer, I–”
He kisses me before I can speak to him the words I must.
“Tell me once I have woken up,” he says. From over my body, he looks behind his shoulder. “You are dreaming, Grim. I will not be able to show you the place if you detain us here.”
“I am sorry, my pactor! I do not know how to stop.”
He leans down and pinches the lobe of my ear between his teeth. “Forget it. Maybe this time we can just . . .”
“Gwim?”
An outside voice breaks into the land of dream, kicking up the feathers on the floor.
“Sorry, but it’s time to get on movin’.”
I stiffen. “No!”
“What is it?” says Awyer, showing concern.
“It is . . .”
No, I will not allow Pedj to wake me!
“Nothing,” I lie.
“Grim,” Awyer says, stern-voiced.
“Fine,” I grumble. “Pedj seeks to wake me.”
At the utterance, Awyer shows signs of panic. “We did not make any progress!” He wraps his arms around me, squeezing me tightly to his chest. “Has the crystal been fueled? Can they hear you now?”
“Yes!” I search my mind for what is most important to ask, as Awyer begins to say in calm repetition, “Stay with me. Stay with me. Stay with me.” It is not a request but an order.
“Do you know anything of Ark’s mother?” I ask. “And with the prophecy . . . must Mael kill Pedj? Has she really gone mad? And will we remain together, even if the world is rid of color?”
“Stay with me. Dream deeper. It was not long enough.”
I try. With all of my might, I will that I would remain with him. That my mind would be lost with his in the land of Dimensia. I want nothing more than to stay with him. Even if we are to sleep forever, I would rather it be this way.
“Stay with . . . Stay . . .”
“Geesh, Gwim! You sleep like a cwankin’ rock!”
I groan and sit up. I am awake. My mind is rested. I will not return to that place anytime soon.
It is with this knowing that my eyes begin to drain.
“Hoo!” Pedj absconds my gaze. “You saw him, eh?”
I weep with tears unreal over feelings that are more than real, not giving care that Pedj is uncomfortable.
Even so, he keeps the voided crystal in his mouth so that my cries may be heard.
The ex-zombie is a good soul. It would be a shame for him to die.
In the throes of sobbing, I attempt to gain clarity. If Ark’s mother was truly a naefaerie, then what of his father? There are no male naefaeries. Besides, the thought of a naefaerie birthing anything is beyond my comprehension. Though we resemble women, we do not bear offspring . . .
Do we?
Chapter XII: Yel’ram
The world belongs to the mythics now. It is ours, so generously handed to us by a liberator of mysterious origins. Ark, self-righteous savior, bequeathed this land unto we who are more ancient than man.
Aye, this world belongs to the mythics.
Where, then, are the mythics?
Sometimes, there are travelers – shadows in the distance – which upon realizing our presence rapidly avert their paths. In the Azurian towns, it is seldom to see faces peering through the windows and cracks of structures. These disappear when approached, leaving not a whisper or figment in their trail. Is this the vision Ark saw for his people? From where we walk, the world is deserted.
But that all changes on the road to Yel’ram.
The first sign of civilized society comes in the form of a very small girl. No more than a decade old, the girl bows, at the side of the road, picking at sprigs of spiraling twig that happen to stick from the ground. Her hair is braided into two thick strands, both of which are weaved with vibrant ribbons of peach and pearl. Upon her person, she dons a dress of rippled fabric and dangling lace.
“A kipper’s there, plain’s the hair on my head!” Pedj says when he sees her. His hair is anything but plain. That aside, the thought of gaining information is salivating. I make haste to hide my shadow in Awyer’s and direct the others to move forward, but the tactician among us holds out an animated hand of stalling.
“There are creatures with the ability to transform their appearances,” says Feligo. “I’d argue that a child is the least threatening form one could take. Proceed with caution, travelers!” Taking his own advice, the silverfox snuggly grapples his hilt for comfort.
Meanwhile, Pedj begins his creeping approach. “Here, kipper, kipper, kipper,” he says.
If I existed, I would smack him upon the back of his head.
“First of all,” I say, “if it is a genuine child, your behavior is creepy enough to scare her off! Secondly – again you insist to speak to her as you would a feline?! Cease at once!”
“Eh-heh.” The zombie releases one foolish laugh.
Feligo fares little better. “Child!” he calls regally. “Place your hands in the air slooowly.”
His directive does not work. Rather, it does the opposite. Alarmed, the girl pops into a standing position and clams her hands firmly to her sides.
“Zombie! Between the two of you, any person would feel endangered! Neither of you holds an ounce of tact or craft!” I scold.
“Hold up, cwoop!” Pedj relays. “Gwim says we’re creepy.”
“Creepy?” Feligo does not take his eyes from the girl. “How so?”
How so?!
“You behave as offenders behave!” I say.
“Offenders?” says the Maestro. “Preposterous! . . . Er, what do you suggest?”
Sigh.
“Feligo is least offensive of you. His militant appearance warrants him respect. He should approach alone, but he should not act as though he is on the verge of arresting her! Speak softly. That is the best way to deal with children. After all, I have had more than a few young wards.”
“Hey!” Pedj squeals. “What’re you impwyin’? That I’m creepier than this old cwoop?!”
“Just tell him to do it! The girl absconds as we speak!”
Indeed, her tiny feet have taken a tiny step backward.
Feligo attempts to take my advice. “Hello, child,” he says in an awkward tone. “How are your parents?”
“THAT IS SURE TO PUT UP HER DEFENSES!”
As expected, the girl does not respond, and instead makes quicker her backsteps.
“It isn’t working!” Feligo cries with frustration. His patience is short. He has no natural demeanor for interacting with youth. In the know that he is losing his mark, he shakes his head, sending his train of fair locks riling. Their silky quality catches the girl’s attention.
She stops and drops her collected twigs.
“Ooooh,” she says in a dialect that is unfamiliar. “What ARE you?”
Feligo sniffs.
Pedj hobbles forth to poke him in the back. “What’re you waitin’ for? Tell her, croop!”
“I am a maestro of Azuria,” Feligo says, guarded.
“Nooooo,” says the girl. “I mean WHAT are you?”
Again, Feligo sniffs reluctantly. Pedj gives him another prodding poke.
“I’m a silvie!” Feligo blurts. “Satisfied?”
It would appear the girl is very satisfied. “Oooooh!” she says again.
Feligo attempts to swallow his grief. “Where are you from?” he forces. “Is there a village near?”
“Uh-huuuh.” The girl inches toward him.
Feligo glances over his shoulder for approval. Pedj sticks a hearty thumb into the air. “And other people live there?” says Feligo.
“Uh-huuuuuuuh.”
“And you can take us there?” says Feligo, strained.
The girl says nothing, but continues to inch.
“Child?”
The girl nears and sticks a tiny finger at the Maestro’s face. Feligo leans away, backward, and as the girl continues to inch, his arch bends deeper. Wide-eyed, he fondles the handle of his sword, saying through the corner of his mouth, “What should I do, fae?”
“Wait,” I instruct via Pedj. “I do not sense danger.”
When the girl’s fingers are inches away, Feligo’s forehead begins to bead with small pearls of sweat. He obediently waits for order, though it appears it is killing him, until, at the last second, the girl pauses.
“I’ll take you there,” she says.
“Splendid!” Feligo wastes no time stepping around her pointed finger.
Forsooth, her point follows him. “Uh-uh-uh.” She wags her finger. “I’ll take you there IF you let me.”
The Azurian shows more discomfort than ever I have seen on a man. “Let you what?” he says.
The tiny being at last makes apparent her goal, grabbing a helping of the highly well-kept hair that falls over Feligo’s armor.
“Braid it.”
I was wrong before. NOW the Azurian shows more discomfort than ever I have seen on a man.
. . .
When the silverfox’s mane is pulled back into a braid thicker than a rope, the child, who has since admitted her name as Armani, inspects her work, chin in hand, until satisfied. “Perfect,” she says. “Almost.” Then she sets about tucking a few of the twisted sprigs into the folds of Feligo’s hair.
In response, the Maestro’s dark eyebrows flatten with disdain.
Come now, it is not so different from when he knots it himself.
“Allow her to do as she pleases,” I instruct via my new confidant. “The people of her village may know a thing or two about Yel’ram. It is better not to enter that place blindly. We are near to it, now. We must prepare. We must utilize any resource available.”
“‘Sides,” Pedj adds of his own volition. “I think it looks kinda nice on you.” But even as he tries, he cannot fully suppress his snicker. Armani grins.
Feligo clenches his fist with vindictiveness. “Argh! I shall get them for this!”
“Get who, zactly?” says Pedj.
“Whom,” I correct.
“Whom cares?” says Pedj.
“Who,” I correct. Though I admit that it is a good question.
“Okeydokey,” says Armani, pushing the final embellishment into place. “I’ll take you home. It’s not far. But DON’T take it out.” She refers to Feligo’s hair. “Twig it?”
Twig it? There is only one person whom I have heard speak such argot.
“Zombie! Might this girl be a necromancer?!”
“Huh? Oh yeah, she is. Thought that went wiffout sayin’?”
It most certainly did not.
Sigh. There are times that I do not understand mortals.
Armani begins to move from the road and into the ditch where she formerly picked twigs. Pedj’s bonemen follow suit, but their barraging upon the ground sets the girl uneasy. She stops. Her round face looks to my resting pactor.
“You guys kill him?”
The ex-zombie nearly chokes upon the crystal in his cheek. “Hey! You think we look like the kinda folks to get on killin’ a person?”
The girl looks from Pedj to Feligo to Pedj. Her eyes pass directly through me. This child is no more aware of my presence than of her own mortality. She nods and says to Pedj, “Just you.”
“Whaaaa?! Crankin’ A!”
“Language!” the girl scolds. And with that, she begins again to lead us into the ditch and through a grouping of trees.
She spoke truth.
Her village is not far.
In fact, it is much nearer than far.
In fact, we are directly upon it. Or rather, we are under it. A mass of land floats, as high in the sky as the peak of Eldrade’s Grand Grimoire Library. The mass is large enough to house a hundred or more people; although, it is too early to say whether or not people actually occupy the island, for from the mass’ edge, water falls, racing over the side, pummeling straight to the ground, and into a giant gaping hole in the earth directly below. Adjacent to the landmass, connected by steel bridges and built upon pillars, eight smaller circles of land are elevated. Ramps run to these, allowing ground access to not only the lesser masses, but to the central falls through their bridges.
“What is this place?” says Feligo.
“The City Yel’ram,” says Armani, hands folded behind her back.
THIS is Yel’ram?! Or . . .
Cascade Yel’ram.
I understand it now. Though we must be near, this is not the same Yel’ram I have previously crossed.
The day is at peak. The wind is at rest. The sound of rushing water becomes louder the closer we draw, yet there is no crash to accompany it. The falling water escapes into that great chasm in the ground. If the hole has a bottom, it is not shallow.
“It’s always flowin’ like that?” says Pedj.
The girl ignores him. The ex-zombie clears his throat at the silverfox.
“Does it continually flow that way?” says Feligo.
“Always,” says Armani.
Pedj ogles the unfathomable sight. “Then where the cwank’s all that water comin’ from!?”
The girl answers him with a glare. “Mar says people only cuss when they aren’t smart enough to think of other words.”
“You know, for a kipper, you’s sure got a way with condescendin’,” mutters Pedj.
Again, the girl looks to Awyer. “You bringing him here to raise him?”
Pedj exchanges a glance with Feligo. “Maybe,” says the zombie.
With that, we travelers follow the tiny girl to the base of the floating shrine. The ramps leading to the smaller masses are steeper than makes for comfortable climbing. Armani instructs the sorcerers to utilize their magicks to easily enchant themselves up. She, on the other hand, is yet too young for enchants. While I have come to learn that the acceptable age of emergence differs for each nation and species – Pedj and Techton being prime examples – this child, at least, remains a child. She instead uses her youthful energy to cling to a rope and scamper up the slope.
“Girl’s got guns,” says Pedj.
“I see none,” I say.
“Tch. Never mind.”
And while Armani leads by example, and Pedj begins to fuss over how to make his skeletons make the climb, I take a moment to flit away and inspect the gaping hole in the earth below the floating landmass. I was correct. The hole has no bottom to speak of. The water flows endlessly downward from its floating source.
No, this is not the same Yel’ram that I crossed long ago. And the floating mass does not appear to have undergone any major destruction recently, which means that it was not floated by Amethyst, Bloőd or Azure. Does it, then, float by Gold? No, the amassing of Gold that it would take to float an island would be enou
gh to make me visible.
That leaves one possibility: Void. But there is not a stench of Void in the air! Still, to suggest that Cascade Yel’ram floats by natural means . . . I have not heard of anything like it in this lifetime nor in the last.
The shadow from one of the elevated islands shields me. I return to the others unseen.
Even without enchants, the girl makes it quickly up the incline. Feligo is soon to follow, but Pedj, who struggles with leading his bonemen, falls behind. “Oka, Gwim. I’m thinkin’ I’s gotta leave the bonebags behind. Can you and the croop get Awyer up by himself? Oy, you croop!” he calls. “Not so fast!”
With a limited amount of struggle, Feligo and I work to float my pactor up the incline. For the first time, I understand the resentment that comes with the action. I resent that he is treated in this way. Independent Awyer would surely frown upon the reliance of others to move him. He would prefer to be left alone in some abandoned cottage or waterside storehouse.
But we have little choice. I am bound to my sphinx. I cannot go if he does not go. I cannot wake him if we do not go.
My eyes search the golden clouds, as I will Awyer’s jostling body to ascend.
At least I will give him the decency of looking away.
At the top of the ramp, Feligo releases Awyer onto a bed of leaves fallen from a nearby tree. I am slow to release my portion of the enchant. I am preoccupied by the beauty of the risen landmass.
Yel’ram is as green and as serene as can be, lush with vegetation, sparse with development. From my immediate view, there are no structures. There are only half-naked trees, marked by leaves of scarlet and amber and gold. And although the trees undress, the shrubberies show green foliage in abundance. Emerald, the leaves of all manner of plant life intersect, bending around each other and filling in every open space. Cacti from the drylands, tropica from the wilds, and brush from the mountland, never have I seen such an abundance of varying florae.
“This place is a nexus,” I speak to no one. A nexus of earth and soul.
