by Giles Carwyn
“Stop,” she commanded, rising, letting the magic flow into the three murderers. She made the motion with as much grace as she could muster, but still she shook, as weak as a newborn. She had to be quick.
The largest man paused, his eyes going glassy. But the other two stabbed her with their spears.
The blows slammed her backward onto the ground in a shower of multicolored sparks. Just like the arrows, the spears were blunt and tipped with those strange crystals. Her magic vanished, and she moaned at the loss. The pain felt as if someone had pulled her stomach out through her belly button.
“Try that again, witch, and I’ll stab out your eyes,” the woman said.
Through a haze of pain, barely able to breathe, Ossamyr’s mind raced. She had to think of something. She was so close to her prize. The three brutes stood around her, gripping their spears. Rainbow colors swirled in the tips.
“She is not of the darkness,” said the largest of the three, a broad-shouldered man with a silver and black crescent painted on his chest. “The stones had no effect.”
The woman’s arms were painted with spirals of dark silver all the way to her shoulders. “She still must die. Reef says she is one of the Warden’s witches, dedicated to waking him.”
The third Silver Islander seemed content to defer to the other two. He remained silent.
Spiral Arms raised her spear, and the third Silver Islander copied the action, but Crescent Chest held up a hand.
“Wait,” he said.
“But Reef says—” the woman began, but Crescent Chest made a chopping motion with his hand.
“Reef is not here.”
The woman frowned, but she and the other Islander lowered their spears.
Crescent Chest turned to Ossamyr and crouched, putting them nose to nose. “Why are you here? This place is forbidden.”
Breathing hard, she stared into his dark eyes.
“I am here for love.”
He grunted, rocked back on his heels. “Love?” He rolled the word around in his mouth. “You are one of the Sleeper’s witches.”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“You are from the Blue City, the second Efften?”
“I am from Ohndarien.”
He nodded impatiently as though she’d just repeated what he had said.
“And you love the Corrupted One, the Sleeping Warden?”
“His name is Brophy,” she said. “He protects us all, and I’m here to help him.”
“There is no help for him.” Crescent Chest grunted, his thick, muscled legs rippling as he stood up again. He turned to the others. “Bring her. We must not linger.”
Ossamyr looked up in time to see Spiral Arms’ crystal-tipped spearhead coming at her. It struck her between the eyes.
The world went black.
CHAPTER 15
The black-lacquered walls of Arefaine’s stateroom glistened as if wet, as though she were trapped inside a shard of obsidian.
She stood silently in the center of her room as six attendants prepared her for bed. She stared into the mirror fixed on the wall over her chest of drawers, watching as the young women transformed her from Ohohhim goddess to nineteen-year-old girl. Their deft fingers sponged off the white powder that had been mixed with crushed opals. Slowly the servants revealed Arefaine’s true face, large azure eyes, straight nose, and high cheekbones, the features she shared with the legendary Illuminated Scions of Efften. She was her father’s daughter, a true child of the great race.
Arefaine had been confined to her quarters all day. She had displeased the Emperor at the celebration the previous night, and he quietly suggested that she spend the day meditating in her quarters, listening for the voice of Oh. Despite her anger at being treated like a child, she had made good use of her time in confinement, going over each moment of the previous day, savoring it like a rare delicacy.
When the bath was ready, the silent women removed her samite gown. One attendant held her left arm, and one held her right as she stepped into the steaming hot water. A slight pain ran through her as she knelt and lay back against the copper rim.
Arefaine closed her eyes as they delicately filed and removed the paint from her nails, brushed and meticulously removed the oil from her hair. They scrubbed her pale skin until it was pink. She did not move as they worked on her, did not say anything. There was no point. Her attendants never spoke to her. That would be rude, above their station. The only details Arefaine knew about them were their names, so she might call upon them if she had a need. Only the Emperor and the priests of Oh were allowed to speak directly to her, and it was a privilege they seldom used.
Arefaine was told that the people of Ohohhom loved her. They called her beautiful. They called her a goddess. They called her mystical, mysterious, magical, anything but friend.
When she was younger, Arefaine had dreamed of fleeing from her stewards to live a brutal life on the dusty steppes of Kherif, or to make a mud mask, run away, and hide among the Vizai, or perhaps even to sail away to the fiercely beautiful Fortress of Light, the last reflection of Efften in the world.
She had shared her feelings with the Emperor once, demanding to be set free. He simply nodded and reminded her of those few unfortunate incidents from her childhood. It was best for all concerned if she remained where she was. “Wait for the voice of Oh,” he told her. “He will show you when it is time to move on.”
The only glimpse of the world Arefaine had been allowed was through books. The only strangers she had contact with were a few foreigners whose ambiguous place in the divine queue allowed them greater freedom than the Ohohhim.
When Arefaine was seven, an artist from the Summer Cities visited Ohohhom. He quietly sketched her with bits of charcoal on a canvas as tall as a man. When he had finished, he knelt before her, bowing his head. “I have never seen anything so pure, so flawless,” he said. She reached out and touched his head, as the priests of Oh did with pilgrims. Two Carriers of the Opal Fire immediately rushed forward and escorted him out of the room. She never again saw the man or his half-finished portrait.
She did not touch anyone after that.
For years, Arefaine had played the goddess in Ohohhom, visiting temples erected in her honor, but never once setting foot in another person’s home. But now she was in Ohndarien. The Fortress of Light. The place that was once called the Free City, the one place in the world with no laws, no locks on the doors, no endless line leading to Oh. She had been here once before when she was just a baby, and a young man took pity on her, taking her crushing burden upon himself, granting her freedom at the cost of his own. It was time she returned the favor and emancipated herself in the process. The containment stones she brought would be the key to Brophy’s prison, and hers.
With the help of her attendants, Arefaine rose from the bath and stepped onto a plush rug. They wrapped her in soft towels, drying the water from her body. Two of them held out the sleeves of her dressing robe, but Arefaine shook her head and ushered them from the room. They seemed confused at first, but she insisted, and they slowly formed a short line and shuffled from the room.
Brazen in her nakedness, Arefaine spun about the room as if she were dancing with Astor again. She could still feel the touch of the young Heir of Autumn’s lips, the warmth of his hand on her back as they danced. It was still strange that they had stolen away and talked just like two young people. She’d wanted to kiss him again, to watch that eager young man widen his eyes. She’d wanted his hands on her, wanted to feel what was forbidden.
But she knew that was impossible. The Carriers would have leapt forward in an instant if she had dared such a thing. The Emperor had lengthened the chains that held her, but he was not ready to release her. And she was not yet ready to force his hand.
No. She would allow the chains for the time being. She would even use them to her advantage. After so much waiting, planning, the time had come, and it all began with her gift to the Sleeping Warden.
She needed t
he ani that young man held locked within his dreams. If Arefaine was going to go home, if she was going to rebuild the City of Dreams, she needed the power that Brophy held.
Her father still waited for her on the isle of Efften. He’d entrusted her with the task of returning the Heartstone to the City of Sorcerers filled with the emmeria, the Legacy of their ancestors. Together they would purify that dark magic. Together they would cleanse the sins of the past and rebuild a world of light, beauty, and endless possibility. Together they would release the entire world from her chains.
CHAPTER 16
Shara stalked from the Hall of Windows, seething with frustration. The council chambers had been packed for the past two days. Most people seemed to support Brophy’s immediate release, but everyone had the right to speak before the Ohndarien Council, and the obnoxious minority always seemed to eat up the majority of the time. Shara had sat through an endless stream of self-centered caution and petty cowardice as the citizens debated when—or if!—the Brother of Autumn should be released. She finally had to leave, unable to maintain her composure any longer.
She took a deep breath of the cool night air, thick with the scent of flowers, and headed down one of the secluded garden paths. Shara could sense Baelandra behind her, hurrying to catch up with her. Shara kept walking. She needed to be alone.
Eighteen years. She had never felt the time more heavily than now. The containment stones were here, waiting useless in her tower. Brophy should be free by now.
Her walk became a quick stride, and she broke into a run, blazing past fountains and glades of fruit trees in full blossom. Eighteen years of pent-up emotion surged through her body, and Shara channeled all that power into her legs.
She reached the edge of the Wheel and leapt over the rim. Magic burst from her heart as she fell. It surged into her limbs, tingling across her skin. Flinging her arms out, she whirled into the Spinning Fall pose, the edges of her dress whipping about her. The energy of the Floani form coursed through her as she fell fifty feet to the base of the Wheel. Her charged body took the impact, and she rolled twice across the ground. She danced to her feet, spinning seamlessly into a run, then slowing to a walk. The energy crackled about her, ready for more, ready to leap again, but she cycled it through her breath.
A single waterbug bobbed in the water not far from where she had landed. The man in the boat stood up, straining to get a better look at her through the darkness.
Shara ignored him and broke into a jog. She knew just where she needed to go.
Fifteen minutes later she stood atop the city’s ramparts, gasping for breath. A steady breeze pushed the hair back from her face, and she let the wind pass through her, cooling her anger, calming her racing mind. She leaned against the battlements until her breathing was back under control. Beyond her the Summer Seas were a black abyss flickering with sketches of scant moonlight.
The touch of the cool stone beneath her forearms was reassuringly familiar as she looked east from highest point of Ohndarien’s walls. Shara had come to this spot many times over the years. It made her sad, but the sorrow was tinged with hope.
There was a smattering of exposed reefs to the east of Ohndarien called the Petal Islands. Most were just jagged rocks, but a few were covered with verdant meadows and cypress groves. The islands drew their name from a poem written long ago that described them as “a wind dance of flower petals cast upon the moon-kissed waves.” The famous verses told the story of a man who fought with his wife and drove her into the arms of another man. When he heard the new couple had sailed from the city, the man forgot his anger, raced to the top of the wall, and threw himself into the ocean, vowing to swim out and catch his wife before he lost her forever. The poem never said whether he succeeded.
Shara could barely see the westernmost of those islands through the darkness, but she imagined one in particular. Her special one. Their island.
Long ago on a Kherish sailing ship headed for the Cinder, she and Brophy had dreamed of building a cottage in the Petal Islands. In the early years of Brophy’s sleep, she had built that little cottage to surprise him when he finally awoke. With every stone she added to the little cottage’s walls, Shara imagined the glorious days she and Brophy would spend making love and the endless nights they would lie in each other’s arms, catching up on everything they had missed through the long, lonely years. It was meant to be their little haven away from the pressures and duties of Ohndarien. No one would clamor for their attention. There would be no decisions more pressing than which berries to pick for dessert. They could finally have their happy ending.
Shara sighed. That island seemed closer than ever but still just out of sight.
She pressed her palms against the blue-white marble of the battlements, trying to cycle her frustration out through her breath, trying to find patience with the council’s hesitation.
What if the council refused to release Brophy? Would she use the containment stones regardless? Would she go behind the backs of the people who had become her family?
After three days of clear skies, another storm was passing them to the south. The dark clouds made her think of Ossamyr, wherever she was. She could really use a dose of the queen’s bitter sarcasm right now.
“So you are the spider at the center of the web.”
Shara turned so suddenly she nearly lost her balance. Gripping the parapet with one hand, she stared at the man who’d just spoken. She hadn’t sensed his presence. And what was worse, she still didn’t.
To her magical senses, he didn’t exist.
She took a step back. “Who are you?”
The man was not tall, he stood at eye level with her, but he was massive. His shoulders stretched the fabric of his rough-spun, sleeveless shirt, and his arms were as big around as her thighs, covered with an intricate network of tattoos. He wore the loose blue leggings of a sailor, stained by salt water and worn by use, and his legs were tree trunks underneath. Shara had never seen a man so thick, so solid. He looked like he could row a boat from Ohndarien to Kherif and barely break a sweat. His eyes were an eerie golden color.
“I am Reef,” he said, walking up and putting his thick, hairy forearms on the battlement next to her. He had short-cropped black hair going gray at the temples. A deep scar puckered his face, starting at the bridge of his nose and curving to his ear. He looked in the direction she had been staring and spat over the edge.
Shara appraised him through slitted eyes. Most men knew enough to leave a Zelani alone. “If you’re looking for a good time, Islander, you won’t find it here. You’d best move along, I’d like to be alone.”
He gave her a sidelong glance. “Islander? That’s being polite. Most call me pirate or sea scum.”
“Believe me; I have good reason to distrust Silver Islanders.”
He shrugged. “Can’t say I blame you, I don’t trust most of them either. But I would wager you’ve never met a real Silver Islander before.”
He was goading her, but she refused to take the bait. “That’s absurd.”
He smiled mirthlessly, just a slight widening of his mouth. “The world is full of absurdities.” He spat over the edge again and turned around. “You’re prettier than I thought you would be.”
“I’m flattered.”
“We heard you were fair from some of the Gold Islanders, but I didn’t believe them. I thought they had fallen under your spell.”
Shara tried to probe him with her power, tried to feel his heat, his emotions, anything. He simply wasn’t there. It made her fingers itch to reach out and touch him, to make sure he was real. At least she could smell him, a faint masculine smell mixed with the sea. It was chilling to realize how much she had come to rely on her magical senses.
His smile curled the corners of his mouth. “You won’t get your hooks into me, witch.”
“Don’t be so sure.”
“I’m sure.”
“What do you want?”
“I came to give you a chance. To see reason.”
“This coming from a Silver Islander?”
He shook his head. “We are the sane ones. It’s the rest of the world that’s crazy.”
“Siren’s Blood drives people mad. I’ve seen it.”
“Not the strong ones.”
“And you, of course, are one of the strong ones.”
He bored into her with his odd golden eyes. “Don’t wake the boy.”
She gave a short, sharp laugh. “I hope you didn’t come all the way from Slaver’s Bay just to tell me that.”
He paused, running his fingers behind the rough-spun sash wrapped around his waist. It was burdened with several pouches, a small sack, and a seaman’s knife. His fingers rested lightly on the pommel. “I could kill you,” he said.
“You’d have to.”
He sneered. “Without your magic. It’s your arms against mine. Your speed against mine.”
Shara gathered her energy, ready to respond. “Somehow I doubt it will come to that.”
“You shouldn’t.”
“And yet there you stand.”
The muscles in his square jaw worked for a moment. His forearm twitched, and she watched him struggle with the idea of stabbing her.
Finally, he smiled ruefully and shook his head. “That is the problem with you people. You children of Efften have always lacked the capacity for self-doubt. You refuse to see the whole picture.” He looked her slowly up and down. “But you will. If you refuse to listen, the truth will be forced on you just like it was forced on them.”
Shara remembered the tapestries depicting the burning of Efften that once hung in the Zelani school. She imagined Ossamyr out there alone somewhere, trying to slip past men just like this. “The last man who tried to force something on me came to regret it.”
Reef snorted. “I’m sure he did.” He spat over the wall. “You are not what I expected. I’ll give you that. I’d say you’ve cast an enchantment on me if I thought it was possible.”
