Dark Embers

by R. L. Giddings

What the hell am I doing up here?

  Out of all the people in Arcadia, why was I the one risking my neck?

  I hesitated for a moment, gently swaying. Pictured Silas as he used to be: loud, opinionated, clever. And handsome, of course. I mustn’t forget that.

  But what if the Silas I knew was gone? What if I couldn’t reach him? Even if I did manage to return him to his human form there were no guarantees.

  Did I really love Silas?

  I’d never really sat down and considered it before because, in many ways, it was a ridiculous question. We’d only known each other a short time before we’d been separated. But then, we’d found one another again. And now this.

  Silas had been trying to save his sister, Carlotta, at the time. She was in the process of being kidnapped and his knee-jerk reaction had been to try and protect her. He had put himself in jeopardy because of his love for his sister. If all I did was to see them re-united, then that would be good enough for me.

  Anything else would be a bonus.

  So far, I had climbed without any hesitation, my movements calm and measured. But now, I could feel fear starting to take over. A primal fear which I had no control over. My steps were getting shorter, almost as if my tendons were contracting. Then there was the matter of my posture. Knees bent, head kept low, one arm held out for balance. I was finding it more and more difficult to stand upright.

  It would only be a matter of time before I froze up completely and was unable to continue. What would happen then? According to Macrory, I couldn’t come down. But I also couldn’t keep climbing indefinitely.

  I managed three more steps before I found myself at a dead end. There was no block in front of me and neither was there one to my right. The only way to proceed was by stepping left.

  But I had to avoid the left.

  Had I taken a wrong turn at some point?

  “Macrory!”

  No reply.

  “Macrory!”

  In trying to locate him, I had to look down. I caught only the merest glimpse of the drop beneath me, but that was enough to upset my balance and start me swaying. I fixed my gaze on the far wall and took a series of deep breaths, desperately trying to calm myself.

  The urge to drop to my knees was enormous but I had to resist. If I did that I’d never have the courage to get up again. I just had to keep going.

  Macrory’s little rhyme popped into my head.

  Avoid the left and never frown

  Always up and never down.

  It had the urgent simplicity of something from Alice in Wonderland whilst, at the same time, being both misleading and stupid.

  Keeping my head absolutely still, I shifted my gaze over to my left. There was definitely a step there. Then I repeated the process over to my right. Nothing there. Nothing at all.

  But how could that be? Could there perhaps be a step there? A step I couldn’t see?

  Was this some test of my resolve? Was I meant to just close my eyes and step out to my right? Step out into nothingness in the simple hope that a step might materialise. Was that the idea? Well, if it was then it was a bloody stupid idea.

  Avoid the left and never frown,

  Always up and never down.

  “Never frown?” For some reason that seemed to have special relevance.

  Why shouldn’t I frown? What was a frown anyway?

  Turn your frown upside down.

  I’d heard that a couple of times in my life though it had never struck me as being particularly good advice. Slightly patronising, if you asked me. Turn your frown upside down and it becomes a smile. Same thing, just a different way of looking at it.

  Then I did something really stupid. I started to turn myself around on the block. I was careful not to rush it. Using the tiniest of tiny steps, I managed to edge my way around through 180 degrees, so that now I was looking back the way I’d come. Only this time, the step was on my right.

  I didn’t give myself a chance to hesitate. I just went for it.

  Only, this step wasn’t like the other steps.

  It was very solid, for a start.

  So solid that, when I looked down, I could have sworn that I was standing not on one block but on an actual granite floor.

  I slowly counted to twenty, fully expecting the floor to disappear at some point, but it didn’t.

  I took one tentative step forward, waiting until the very last moment before transferring my weight. Nothing untoward happened.

  That’s when my legs started to shake. It was probably the sudden release of tension. I sat down then before I fell down.

  I was in a large, windowless room, the walls that surrounded me were rough and unfinished. Just ahead of me was the bronze statue of a man, Oberon perhaps, if his robes were anything to go by. He was sitting in a high backed chair. A handsome figure of middle years but with a wrestler’s physique: thick forearms paired with a powerful, corded neck. He had his right arm raised, his eyes fixed on the knife he was holding.

  I pushed myself to my feet and went to examine the knife, comparing it to Sigurdsil. Whereas Sigurdsil’s blade was a blinding maelstrom of ever changing colours this other knife was different. The light played over the sleek blade, picking out the silver threads etched into the dark metal. Beads of moisture only served to enhance the craftsmanship which had gone into its construction. It was a thing of beauty, so much so that the statue itself paled by comparison.

  Could this really be Ib Ure, the healing blade?

  But then I saw another knife, sticking out of the chair a few inches above his head. It looked as though it had been thrown at him for effect. By a jealous lover, perhaps?

  Which one was this then? Volgud or Lillhalven or Doverfjell?

  I found the other two after a couple of minutes searching. One was sheathed at his hip while the other was trapped under his right foot, begging me to pull it free.

  But which one was Ib Ure? It could be any one of them and I wouldn’t know the difference. There was no point speculating further. I had to take one of the knives and then find my way back down to where Silas was waiting. That was the only way I’d ever truly know.

  But which one?

  Aleena had said something about this. I had to keep my mind clear so that I wasn’t distracted by the other sentient blades.

  And if that were the case, if my mind had been clear when I’d entered then surely the first blade I’d seen would have to be the one I was looking for. The one Oberon was holding.

  Yet how was I supposed to get it?

  How was I going to get the statue to release the knife?

  I tried everything. I tried twisting the hand in the hope that it was spring-loaded; I tried pressing sections of the statue in the hope of finding a hidden release mechanism; I tried shouting commands: ‘Release!’ ‘Yield!’ even ‘Drop it!’

  Nothing worked. And all the while I could hear the other knives calling to me, trying to get my attention.

  Another powerful vibration came up through the floor, threatening the building’s integrity. I didn’t have long. I had to make a decision.

  I brought Sigurdsil up to my face and studied the handle, looking for anchor points. Ways that it might be attached to the statue. There weren’t any.

  Another low-pitched, grating sound but this time it seemed to come from the statue itself.

  Something had changed.

  I looked down at his other arm braced against the chair’s armrest.

  And then, I saw it.

  The fingers of his left hand were splayed open, as if they’d been holding something only moments before.

  As I ran my fingers over the statue’s cold palm, I experienced a strange buzz of excitement.

  I didn’t think about what I did next. It wasn’t a conscious decision. I was just trying to solve a particular conundrum. If I’d thought about the possible ramifications of what I was about to do, I would probably never have done it.

  I placed Sigurdsil in the statue’s left hand.

 
Slowly, oh so very slowly, the bronze fingers closed until they gripped the handle. I felt a sudden surge of panic at that.

  There was no way now of releasing it now.

  I checked the right hand. Its fingers had somehow opened. Ib Ure – if that’s what it was – nestled there.

  I went over and peered at it.

  What if the hand only opened for a short time?

  What if it closed just as quickly?

  In the end, in my eagerness to pick up the knife, I almost dropped it.

  I weighed it in my hand. It wasn’t nearly as heavy as it looked.

  I flinched when the statue moved a second time. The fingers on the right hand had closed into a triumphant fist, but that wasn’t all.

  The statue’s head was different. Whereas before it had been inclined up and to the right, now it had dropped to the left. Towards its new prize: Sigurdsil.

  *

  “Did you get it, then?” someone was saying.

  I swallowed and started to turn, wondering what fresh madness awaited me now.

  I was back in the high tower. Macrory and Aleena were looking at me with a combination of awe and suspicion. Silas was unperturbed by my sudden reappearance. He was lying some way off cleaning his paws.

  When I checked over my shoulder, the statue had disappeared. If it had ever been there at all.

  “Is that it?” Macrory looked to the queen for confirmation. “Is that Ib Ure?”

  I tried to say something but couldn’t. My head was starting to spin from the shock of my sudden transition. I was suspicious of everything, including the floor. I expected the feelings would fade soon enough but it was still a disconcerting experience.

  “The knife,” he insisted. “Is that it?”

  I offered it to him and was a little surprised when he took it. Obviously, this one didn’t come with a curse attached.

  “Let me see it,” said Aleena, stepping forward.

  “Don’t!” I held up a hand in warning. “Don’t let her touch it!”

  That brought her up short.

  She gestured frustration. “What possible harm could I do?”

  I snatched the knife back from Macrory and pointed it at her. “I don’t know, but I don’t want you touching this.”

  She looked at me with eyes older than time itself.

  “I don’t see how you have much choice,” she indicated Silas who was pacing back and forth. “You came here to save Silas. Or did I get that wrong?”

  When I didn’t reply, she continued. “The only way to do that is to let me have the knife. I can bring him back to you. You know I can.”

  She held out her hand. It seemed small and unthreatening.

  Still I hesitated.

  “You can’t do this alone,” Macrory looked glum. “Only a true member of the Sidhe can wield the knife.”

  “He’s right, of course,” the queen said. “Now, if you’ll allow me!”

  The whole tower began to shake. A marble block dropped from above, punching a hole through the wooden floor.

  “We haven’t got much time,” she reached to take the knife.

  “And your price?”

  “You’re holding it.”

  The floor was starting to buckle, timbers starting to splinter. More blocks rained down and I flinched every time.

  “What about you?” I said to Macrory. “You’re a member of the Sidhe.”

  It sounded like an accusation.

  “I’m sorry,” he said gently. “I’m only a humble sprite. I wouldn’t know where to start.”

  I gave Aleena the knife. She took it like a mother accepting something dangerous from a wilful child.

  When she next spoke she addressed Silas, speaking in the Old Language. It had a sing song quality to it: a bird calling to its mate. Alluring and invidious all at the same time.

  Silas tensed, then turned his great body in her direction, eager for her attention yet at the same time wary of it. She called him again and this time he didn’t resist, climbing to his feet. He seemed impelled to attend her. It was an aspect of their relationship that I hadn’t seen before and it gave me fresh hope.

  She stepped towards him, grabbing him by the scruff of his collar. He tried to pull back from her then but she was much stronger than she looked, her grip tightening, keeping him in place.

  Aleena knelt beside him and kissed the top of his head. It was a move calculated to be more possessive than protective. Silas raised his face and started nuzzling her shoulder.

  “Goodnight, Silas,” she said.

  She drove the knife hard into his ribs, letting the blade sink in.

  When I tried to go to him, Macrory caught me round the waist and held me back.

  Silas bucked and tossed in an effort to escape but, remarkably, she managed to hold onto him, ignoring his cries of pain and anguish.

  “Stop it! Stop it!” I screamed. “You’re killing him.”

  “This is the way of it,” Macrory said very, very calmly. “You have to let her finish.”

  The queen had a fistful of his pelt, holding him clear of the ground as his front paws scrabbled for purchase. All the while she was working the knife back and forth, working it between flesh and bone.

  I could hear the blood roaring in my ears and then, in the background, came a similar rush of noise as part of the roof collapsed. I stopped trying to pull away from Macrory and stepped back, exhausted by all that had gone before. A cross-beam crashed down over to our right, sending up a pall of dust.

  We’d run out of time. Even if we were to leave now, it would already be too late.

  The queen crouched in front of me, her dress riding up to reveal one long thigh. She was more beautiful than I’d ever realised: more beautiful and more dangerous. I wondered how I had failed to realise this before, this peculiar combination.

  Another thought occurred to me at that moment. Nagging at the back of my mind.

  Where’s the blood?

  It was inconceivable that, with an animal of Silas’s size, a stab wound like that wouldn’t have elicited a great deal of blood. And yet there wasn’t any. Not a single drop.

  True, Aleena still hadn’t removed the knife. When she finally did, it might well be a very different story but, in the meantime, I had reason to hope.

  Silas had collapsed onto his side by this point, allowing the queen to work the knife ever deeper while, with her other hand, she was gathering up enormous swathes of his coat. It was a peculiar thing to see, as if Silas himself was shrinking.

  There was a thundering roar from behind us, and daylight spilled into the tower robbing Silas of all dignity. What I saw bewildered me, prompting emotions that I couldn’t explain.

  The queen got to her feet, drawing Silas’ pelt after her. Something gave way and the whole skin came away in one complete piece. What remained spilled out over the floor, pale and naked. The subject of an aborted transformation

  “Is he dead?” I asked.

  Macrory stepped forward. “He’s not moving.”

  The queen’s laughter chilled us both. High and cruel, delighting in her ingenuity. The laughter rippled through her in spasms as she revelled in the frailty of others. There was relief there too, with Sigurdsil safely hidden away, she was untouchable once more. She could never empathise with poor, weak humans, no matter how hard she tried. The certainty of our deaths only served to amplify the richness of her own.

  The lumpen thing at her feet twitched and lay still. Fascinated, I drew close enough to feel the steam coming off it: a long, glutinous envelope with veins of fat running through it. There was a spasm of movement from within, which sent me staggering backward. The front of the thing - caught between two strange states - strained upward, revealing a dark, gaping mouth.

  “Silas? Silas?”

  The queen gave a flick of her hand, granting me permission to approach. I fell to my knees, scrabbling at the fibres which made up the waxy cocoon. It was remarkably resilient and in the end I took to tearing at it with my teeth
, the membrane becoming instantly flaccid as it peeled away.

  I didn’t recognise him at first, his features only partially defined. His skull, soft and newly formed. When I touched him, his skin was fever hot.

  A blank, I thought.

  A poor copy. That was all.

  But then, he made a wet, ragged sound, drawing air into his lungs. It was only then that I realised I was staring at the soft, moist, gentle face of Silas.

  My Silas.

  I pulled him to me, wiping the last vestiges of blood and muck from his face, marvelling at the paleness of his skin. I held his face, fascinated by every line, the perfect shape of his mouth, the way his hair matted against his forehead.

  “Get him up,” Macrory was trying to grab him under the arm but he was too slippery. “We have to move now while we still can.”

  I helped Macrory get him to his feet, his legs limp and yielding. I laughed at our clumsiness, delighted just to have him back again.

  It didn’t seem to matter what happened next.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  We watched the tower collapse from the gardens at the rear of the palace.

  Sections of the upper tower had been breaking off for the last hour and we had watched, in fascination, as whole sections crashed down into the square.

  We’d started to accept the idea that it probably wouldn’t collapse completely, not today at least. But that was before the tremors returned. For a moment, the world went entirely silent and then a brutal roar was upon us, seemingly issuing from everywhere and nowhere all at the same. Macrory drew our attention upwards and we all watched as the highest section of the tower came away in one complete piece, crashing to earth in an enormous shower of rubble, shattering on impact and throwing a huge cloud of dust up into the air.

  The remaining two thirds of the tower, riven with cracks and fissures, remained stubbornly upright, though now pitched at an alarming angle.

  Macrory left the shelter of the low wall we were standing behind and strode out to take a better look. Resting his hands on his hips, he tipped his head first one way and then the other like a builder appraising his work.

  Out in the daylight, the queen looked conspicuously young. Only her cat’s eyes suggesting that she was anything other than the young girl that she purported to be, her beauty under-lined by the mineral sheen on her forehead from a faint covering of dust. She had ruled the land for far longer than she should have done but now, with the collapse of the Dandelion Tower, there was a sense that that time was over.