The Lantern-Lit City

by Vista McDowall

  Mavian frowned, but then leafed through one of the tomes. "I was thinking you could try illusion charms today. Some of them can imitate memories or create false images. Here's one: illutre vel imatre, chanted as the caster holds an image in their mind's eye."

  "Illutre vel imatre," Gwen repeated. She held her hands on the table, picturing a bird laying on her palms. Before she could start the spell, though, one of her handmaids hissed, "My lady, the earl is here."

  Mavian quickly closed the book as Gwen turned around. Druam stood on the threshold, his face marred in shadows. He stepped into the room, giving a poisonous look to Mavian.

  "Get out," Druam said, his voice soft. "The maids too. I need to speak with Gwen. Alone."

  Giving a worried look to Gwen, Mavian gathered his books and scurried from the room. Druam stared at the ground and waited for the maids to close the door. "Sit down." As Gwen sat, he paced. "I couldn't believe it, but my own eyes didn't lie to me."

  "What? I don't understand."

  "I know of your affair," he said bluntly. The words punctured Gwen's lungs, and she gaped at him, speechless. Before she could say a word, he sighed as if trying to contain his emotions. "I know your Demar kin see such things as common, but I had hoped you wouldn't give in to your temptations. I know you thought I betrayed you first with my late-night excursions. But you saw the truth of what I do, yet still I find you here with Mavian."

  "It's not true!" Gwen protested. "I wasn't...there is nothing of that sort between Mavian and I!" Yet she remembered the queen's threats, the ladies' scorn; too late, she realized her mistake. In her desperation for friendship, she had ignored the possibility of rumors. Her mouth had gone dry, her stomach twisting. Could Druam really think so poorly of her? She wanted to run into his arms and sob, but the pain in his expression prevented her. What could she say to ease his mind?

  Druam said, "The whole court knows and looks upon me as a fool. I engaged lords and ladies on your behalf, yet none but the queen had the gall to tell me."

  "She lied! I promise, Druam, on the graves of my parents, that I have never strayed from you. The queen turned all the ladies against me, and now she seeks to separate us, too." She prayed that the truth rang in every word. Tentatively, Gwen took Druam's hand, then wiped away a tear before it could fall to his skin.

  Druam searched Gwen's eyes, his expression inscrutable. Running his fingers through his hair, he asked, "Then what are you doing with Mavian? Why are you meeting him in this secluded place?"

  Gwen stared at him, afraid. She'd wanted to tell him for so long, but she didn't know how he'd respond. If she lied now, she would lose all his trust. If she told the truth...what would he think of her? Would he feel disgust at her cowardice in fleeing Demarren while innocent people died for witchcraft? Yet she saw no other way forward. It was time.

  Gwen's throat closed, and she swallowed with difficulty. "He was teaching me."

  "Teaching you what? I could have hired curates to work with you on all sorts of things: reading, writing, history, arithmetic, geography, even one of the sciences."

  "It wasn't any of those things. He is teaching me to use my magic." Once the words had left Gwen's tongue, she couldn't retrieve them. She took a quick breath, as if the admittance had taken the same toll as a sprint.

  Silence consumed the air around them. At last, Druam said, "The accusations made toward you in Demarren...they were not unfounded, were they?"

  "No one knew but Wullum and one councilor."

  "Tell me. I would have no secrets between us."

  The emotion behind his eyes was unreadable. Gwen swallowed her fear and spoke.

  "When I was a child, Ebarren – the councilor – noticed that I had potential for magic. He had traveled much in his youth, and learned secrets forbidden in Demarren. He taught me some, but Wullum discovered us practicing. His rage was awful, but he was also scared for me, worried that someone would find out and he would have to execute me. He made me promise never to do it again.

  "So I hid all the spellbooks and materials under a flagstone in my room and kept to my promise. When the Inquisition came, they targeted me to get to Wullum. I doubt they know the truth." All the secrets Gwen had kept from him tumbled from her lips: using magic to heal him, her days of newfound joy in practicing her talents with Mavian, the spell to follow Druam to the tavern. When she had finished, Druam stayed quiet a moment, thinking.

  "I am profoundly glad that you haven't strayed," Druam said. "But I am also unsure of your use of magic. Show me what you've learned so far."

  A hundred cantrips and workings flowed through her mind, but none seemed right. Then Gwen looked at the portrait over the mantle, still beckoning to her. She took Druam's hand, led him over to it, and asked who the woman was.

  "Her name was Imira Strilu, the matriarch of my family line," Druam said softly, a strange wistfulness in his tone. He reached up to touch the frame. "For years her smile graced the dinners of my forefathers, until newer and larger halls were built and she was forgotten. She brought the Strilu family out of Belleslye and to the River Valley after the Eadrons stole our country from us. Songs used to be sung of her beauty and compassion, her ferocity and quick wit."

  "Do you know any of the songs?"

  Druam shook his head. "There are Valadi storytellers who do, but I cannot remember them now. I know a song of Belleslye, but it is a song of longing and loss."

  "Sing it for me."

  Though he gave her a bemused look, Druam complied.

  "My child, my child, come back home to me,

  Tarry not in the woods where the wild beasts be.

  Their swords and their knives know not the cries

  Of my child who was lost in Belleslye."

  The melody tugged at Gwen's magic, and she fed into it, harmonizing the words of the illusion working – illutre vel imatre – with the song. Picturing the woman's smile, imagining her warmth as she moved, Gwen chanted to Druam's singing.

  "Dear child, dear child, oh where have you gone?

  Hear the drums and the notes of the dark man's song.

  Run faster than wind, so you'll never die

  In the woods around dear old Belleslye."

  Their voices filled the ancient air around them and the song grew stronger. Her hand held up, Gwen took the words of her working and imagined entwining them with the paint, infusing the portrait with the song's power.

  "Twas there in my home 'neath the old oaken's gaze,

  Where my child was lost,

  Lost to me in the wintry caves."

  The dust motes between Gwen's fingers and the painting glowed blue and green, shining like the sun hitting a fast-flowing brook. The glow sunk into the portrait, brightening its tarnished frame.

  "My love, my love, sing once more for him,

  Buried there in the dirt 'neath the tall oak limbs."

  The ghostly form of the painted woman emerged from the portrait, her skin shining, her hair sparkling with jewels. She floated in the air before them, an angel brought to life by Gwen's illusion. Druam's voice faltered, but he faintly sang:

  "Sing, else the wood will hear, and you too shall die

  Never to again see sweet Belleslye."

  For a moment, the air hung still, and though Gwen kept humming her magic, she did not need to say the words for the working to continue. The ethereal form of Imira Strilu bent down to Druam, her fingers caressing his cheek. Gwen tore her eyes from the illusion and saw that Druam's lip trembled as he stared into the matriarch's beautiful face. Gwen let the working fade, the illusion dissipating. Imira remained in her frame, her hand once more reaching out from inside the painting. Druam stepped forward, wordlessly reaching up to where the illusion had been only seconds before. Though the magic had gone, Gwen thought she smelled the scent of the plains after a thunderstorm.

  Druam turned to face Gwen. "What did you do?"

  "I brought an illusion of her." Without her Gaiar buoying her humors, Gwen's fingers shook with an effort she h
adn't realized she'd exerted, her limbs cold. "I used your song as a guide."

  "I see." Druam looked back to the portrait.

  "I had never tried that spell before. It was more difficult than many others I've cast." Tentatively taking his hand, Gwen said, "Please don't forbid me from using my powers. It is one of the greatest joys in my life now. Without the threat of execution over my head, I no longer feel afraid of my own Gaiar. Please, Druam. Please. The queen has taken away all my friends in the court, and besides you, Mavian is the only one who speaks to me beyond mere courtesy. Please."

  Druam hesitated, and there was a foreboding in his eyes that Gwen didn't understand. However, he tilted her chin to give her a quick kiss. "You must keep it secret. Lord Daghorn is seeking proof against you, and the king...may be displeased. I will put guards at the entrance to this wing so that you and Mavian may practice in peace.

  "But," he continued, "You are still my wife, and I do expect you to fulfill your duties as the Lady Seastone. You have my blessing, provided you do all that your obligations ask of you."

  Throwing her arms around him, Gwen hugged him close. "I promise I shall be as good a wife as you have ever wanted. Thank you, Druam."

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Cara

  DEEP IN the heart of the swamp lay a town that made most of its money from travelers seeking a safe place to rest away from mist-folk and prowlers. A few rice farms had taken over the marshes, but most of the townsfolk made their business through trade. Cara exclaimed in delight as the oppressive marsh gave way to large rice paddies and lovely wooden homes made from sturdy oak. She had never thought to be so happy to see the sun.

  "This is Banyi," Alex said. "Home to the best artisans in the valley."

  "And home to warm pies and pork," Sandu said, looking longingly at a bakery's display.

  The town had been built on a series of raised wooden platforms connected by bridges. A wooden barrier with stakes circled the village, no doubt a small defense against prowlers. A wide stone bridge with a long, low ramp led from one side of town to the other, packed with wagons, carts, and livestock. Alex waved at their caravan and kicked his horse to a trot.

  "Ho, Ronan," Alex called to one of the scholars. "Did you all enjoy your break?"

  The scholars gathered around their horses, holding out bread and salted meat. Cara took her portion gratefully and ate while Alex explained what had happened. Sandu stared ashamed at the ground, but the monks only clapped his back and praised the gods that he'd been safely found.

  Cara hugged Sandu after the press of people had diminished. "They won't judge you, you know. They're just glad we're all safe."

  "I know," Sandu said. "But it's my fault any of us were in danger in the first place."

  "You say that like danger doesn't follow us regardless."

  "I suppose," he said, but he had a guilty look in his eyes that Cara didn't understand. She was about to ask him about it when Alex bounded up.

  "Not much time to lose," he said. "We'll rest for a candle, then press on. I know a spot to make camp tonight."

  "We're not staying here?" Cara asked, her heart sinking. She had been looking forward to a nice bath and a real bed.

  Alex said, "We've already lost half a day's travel, and the earl is expecting us well before the Masque. But tomorrow night we've arranged to stay at the inn in Redbank."

  One more night won't hurt, Cara thought with a sigh.

  The candle's break seemed all too short, and before she knew it they were back on the road. This time, Alex rode his horse alone while Cara and Sandu shared. He liked to move back and forth between the wagons, talking with his scholars and making sure that everything went smoothly.

  Sandu squirmed uncomfortably on the horse every few minutes until Cara asked, "You can walk, you know. I'm sure not every horse will ride as well as Galen for you."

  "I'll be fine," he said. Then he sighed, "I miss her. You know, when she was first given to me she was a miserable nag of a creature. But she took a liking to me, and though she wasn't anything like a highbred horse, she always made sure I had an easy ride."

  "I'm sorry."

  "It's my own fault. And she was just a horse, not a man like Merick. I shouldn't be the one grieving when you're still mourning for him."

  Cara had certainly thought that, but she didn't want to say it aloud. She hesitated, then said, "It's still a loss. It hurts. But we have each other and Alex now, and things will get better. I promise."

  "Thanks."

  Though she didn't know if she could really keep her promise, Cara wished she could. She rubbed Sandu's hands, then turned her attention to the swamp. Once again, trees blocked the sparse sunlight, and puddles and muddy spots gathered haphazardly over the road. In the distance, she thought she heard something calling her name. She shook off the thought, and stared resolutely at the wagons in front of them.

  After a time, she asked, "What did the mist-folk lure you with?"

  Sandu's arms tightened around her. "Someone from my past."

  Cara started to demand a clearer answer when the forest shook. The horse stumbled underneath them, the wagons trembled on their wheels. Leaves fell from the trees into splashing marshes. A faint, familiar scent of mustiness and bad eggs assaulted her nose.

  The quake ended quickly, and the scholars shouted down their line to make sure everyone was safe. Cara answered for herself and Sandu. As she spoke, her palms tingled. This feels familiar, she thought. She kicked their horse's flank and rode up to Alex as he helped get the wagons moving again.

  "Strange," Alex commented when he saw her. "Never thought the swamps would get a quake like that."

  "It's the Hooded Man," Cara said. "He's here."

  "I didn't see a purple light," Alex said. "That's what you described, isn't it?"

  "Yes," she said, "but–"

  "We have to press forward. If this enemy is out there, we'll be ready for him." Alex called to the scholars, and the wagons rumbled forward once more. Cara held their horse back, waiting for the last wagon to pass before she kicked it to move. She knew what she had felt, but Alex was right. If the Hooded Man had appeared, he must be far away.

  Candles passed, the swamp growing steadily darker around them. Bird calls and animal noises faded away until silence dominated the forest. Cara's hand strayed again and again to her sword as her gaze darted from tree to tree, sure that at any moment a hooded figure would appear.

  The oxen pulling the wagons snorted and shuffled. Their nervousness affected the horses, which danced across the road and rolled their eyes. Alex rode back to Cara and Sandu, standing in the saddle as he surveyed the swamp.

  "We're close to the campsite," he said. "Once there, we can set up a defensive perimeter."

  "The mist-folk aren't calling," Sandu said. "I could hear them all day, but they stopped a little bit ago."

  Alex chewed his lip, considering. "We should press forward."

  "My lord," a scholar called from the front of the caravan, "there's a log in the road."

  "It's a trap," Cara said, reaching out to grab Alex's sleeve. "We should turn back, now."

  The words barely escaped her lips before a cascade of arrows fell from the sky. Some struck the ground, but more hit the wagons and scholars. Men screamed in the gathering dusk. Alex shouted, "Defend the wagons!"

  Soldiers in black armor, their faces hidden with cloth, erupted from the swamp. They fell on the caravan as scholars rushed to defend themselves. Cara sat still a moment, shocked at how quickly it had all happened. Then she drew her sword and dismounted.

  "Get away," she said to Sandu. "You and Alex need to run. Now."

  Sandu stared at her wide-eyed. She didn't wait to watch him obey her. The beast rose up, and she accepted it. All around her, monks and scholars scrambled to fight with staves and daggers, but they were no match for the soldiers wielding spears and swords.

  Cara danced between the combatants, her body liquid, her swings water that sliced through the soldiers.
Their armor deflected her blade, but it was enough to distract them from the scholars.

  The beast purred in her head, its hot presence guiding her. As she moved, time seemed to slow around her. The soldiers' arms swung with the speed of molasses, though their eyes were determined above their masks. Cara waited for the right moment; she had all the time she needed. She smoothly side-stepped one, her sword slicing into the weak spot behind his knee. He cried out as he fell. Another one ran at her, but his steps were too slow. She gracefully slid her blade into his neck, an arc of blood flowing out. Its coppery scent fell tantalizingly through the air, and she paused, distracted for a moment.

  But the beast knew that the battle was not over. Though it, too, hungered for that sweet taste, it spurred her on. Cara lost track of the men who flowed around her, each slow as melting wax. Yet to them, she was a blur, a deadly creature that moved with inhuman speed.

  Cara grinned, relishing the fight. Somewhere deep inside her, she knew that these were men with wives and children, that they were not the undead prowlers she had killed before. The beast didn't care, and in that moment, neither did she. They had come for her friends, and she would show no mercy.

  From the corner of her eye, Cara saw the soldiers moving back. Ha. Alex, she saw, stood with his scholars by one of the wagons. She turned to him, ready to shout their victory–

  The ground trembled, greater now than earlier in the day. Trees groaned at their roots, the wagons nearly falling to their sides. Men shouted in alarm, and Cara stilled, her speed crashing back to normal. She stumbled in the growing quake.

  The stench made her gag, her late lunch churning in her stomach. Her ears rang, a high-pitched whine that drowned out all other sounds. She covered her ears, but it didn't stop. A purplish hue spread out from the center of the caravan, reaching not with the gentle changing of light, but with an aura of destruction and death. Black veins branched away into vine-like shadows that threatened to choke out trees and plants. The oxen pulled at their yokes, desperate to escape, as horses bucked and tried to run. Cara trembled with the memory of the first time she'd seen this dreadful void, of the too-slow run to save Renna, Ulton's death, the black tentacles flinging Merick off his feet...and the Hooded Man beckoning from the dark void.