Magic After Dark: A Collection of Urban Fantasy and Paranormal Romance Novels

by Margo Bond Collins

  The thought of taking his own life snuck into his mind, but his people did not believe in such things. It was the worst kind of cowardice, a proclamation that you did not have enough strength to face what the world brought against you. He may not be considered by his clan to be of the Croagh Aet Brech, but in his own heart, he always would be. His family may have disowned him, but he would not turn his back on what he was: Aeden, of Clan Tannoch, one of the Croagh, and he would not be a coward.

  But what would he be? That was the question, wasn’t it?

  Chapter 13

  “Your people beat you nearly to death?” Darun asked when Aeden had told his tale. “And your father? What did he do while this was happening?”

  Aeden’s mind went back to that night, to the circumstances he last remembered before awakening in the caravan.

  The blows rained down upon him, precise, painful, but not lethal. The men attacking him were all skilled warriors, both with weapons and unarmed. Their strikes—punches, kicks, strikes with the knees and elbows—were delivered with just enough force to turn his tissue to blue-black mush without breaking his bones. The attacks meant to cause internal damage would wait until later. The sole purpose of the blows at the beginning were to cause pain without crippling him. Yet.

  Through it all, Aeden did not make a sound. He became dizzy with the pain, and soon it seemed as if he was removed from the actions, as if he was feeling it from somewhere else, watching the pitiful wreck of a body beaten over and over again. He fell many times, too many to count, but always dragged himself to his feet again. He would not die a coward. He would show them he was a man of the clan, no matter what they did to him.

  Soon enough, though he thought it had been more than an hour, his father stepped up. He had not yet taken part in the beating. His was a special role. Aeden was on his knees, unable to get to his feet any longer. In fact, he was surprised, in the murky midst of his thoughts, that he was even able to balance on his knees.

  His body swayed, threatening to collapse, but he locked his muscles rigidly and—through a great force of will—lifted his chin to look his father in the eyes.

  Aeden had never seen his father cry, but there were tears in his eyes now. Tears, and something else. Through the fog that clouded his mind and his vision, Aeden could swear he saw respect in those eyes. His father clenched his jaw, drew back his hand and struck Aeden in the side of the head. A brilliant flash of light exploded into his sight, and then he knew nothing after that.

  Until waking in the caravan.

  “He struck the final blow,” Aeden said.

  “Your father actually struck the last blow?” Darun asked. “Danta’s tender mercies, what kind of people are the Crows?”

  “A strong one,” Aeden said, leaving it at that.

  The people in front of Aeden remained silent for a moment, some busying themselves with food or drink, some scanning the area. Aeden caught Fahtin watching him, and he looked at her defiantly until she averted her gaze. Her eyes held unshed tears, but he could tell already that she was too strong to release them. He respected her for that.

  A few others had come to sit nearby as Aeden was telling his tale. An old woman, the skin of her face creased like aged walnut bark, sat next to Fahtin on a log. A small boy huddled at her other side, almost hiding in the folds of her skirts. A man and a woman stood at the edge of Aeden’s vision.

  “Well, then,” Darun said, looking at Ritma sitting next to him. “We’ve had your story now. I am convinced you are not a criminal, though I daresay I may question your sanity. We usually do not come this close to Crow’s land—”

  “The Cridheargla,” Aeden interrupted.

  “What’s that?”

  “Cridheargla, it’s what our land is called.”

  “Cree…cree… what is it again” Darun said, trying the words out on his tongue.

  “It is pronounced cree arg la. It is a shortened form of the full name which means old blood-red teeth. Crionna crodhearg fiacla in my tongue, Chorain, the speech of the clans.”

  “Right. Cree arg la. As I said, we normally do not come this close to the Cridheargla, but it was lucky for you that we did. You would not have lasted much longer without aid.”

  “I do appreciate it, Darun. Why were you so close to the clan land?”

  “We are Gypta,” the man said. “Traveling is what we do.”

  “Gypta,” Aeden repeated. “I do not know much of your people, other than that I have heard you sometimes trade with the clans. They say you make good clothes and knives.”

  Darun smiled. “Yes, that we do. Know you nothing else of us, then, good or bad?”

  “Some say other things, too.”

  “Let me guess,” Darun said. “We are thieves, we are cowards. We will cheat and rob you blind if you turn your back on us. We are the despised ones.”

  “I have heard such things,” Aeden said. “And I have heard that others outside the clans name us barbarians and workers of dark magic, the most evil kinds of men.”

  Darun laughed. “So some say. We, most of all, don’t believe everything we hear.”

  “Nor I.”

  “Good,” Darun said. “Fair is fair, boy. You told me your tale, so I will tell you of my people. The reality, not the rumor.”

  The caravan leader looked around at the others, his audience. Aeden had a feeling the man was waiting for others to arrive, the more the better, but then Darun shook his head and fixed his eyes on Aeden.

  “Many long years ago,” Darun started, “perhaps a thousand, perhaps more, there was a great nation. It was called Agypten. Now, you have to realize that there were many places in the world that did not have multitudes of people, yet most of the land had been claimed by one nation or ruler or another. Such was the case here.

  “Agypten had a king. As kings go, the legend says, he was not bad, but the most important thing to him was to build his legacy for his sons and future generations.

  “There lived an isolated community of craftspeople within his lands. The name they called themselves has been lost to the ages, but the important part is that the king looked at them and saw how they prospered, and he began to worry. You see, these people were proud, and they rarely mingled outside their own large family.

  “Of course, when I say family, I mean an extended group of people related more by their being together over time than by blood connection. Still, they did not seek mates outside the family, kept themselves apart. Perhaps they thought they were better, or the culture of other groups insulted them, or there was some other reason, but there it is. They remained apart from the rest of the kingdom. This worried the king.

  “He could not eliminate an entire group of people, not quietly, so he came up with another idea.

  “‘You are to be my emissaries,’ he told them. ‘You are to travel the wide world sharing your crafted items, trading and becoming rich, all the while proclaiming me and my nation. You will bring fame to the name of Agypten so that whenever someone uses an item of your crafting or wears clothing you have made, they will think of this, the greatest nation in the world.’

  “The people were skeptical, but what could they do? They had to obey their king, and so they built wagons, packed up their belongings and the tools for their trades, and set out, looking forward to the promised time when they would return to the nation in favor and honor.

  “The world was different then, but one thing was the same as now: people were selfish and suspicious. As the traveling people made their way around all the areas of Dizhelim, rumors began to spring up like mushrooms after a heavy rain. They were thieves, they were swindlers, they stole children and ate them, they worshipped dark gods. As these false rumors spread, people treated them more and more poorly. Sometimes they were even forced to flee when large forces threatened attack.

  “Through it all, they continued to make their slow circuit of the land mass of the world. Their crafts narrowed to things that could be done more easily while traveling. No longer did
they make swords or large wooden pieces. Knives and other small metal objects easily made on transportable forges, clothing, and other items were their stock and store.

  “And music. The People loved their music. Some made instruments, lutes, lyres, fiddles, and wind instruments, but all of the People sang and danced. You have to understand, when the world has taken all from you, even the common decency due to all men, music has a way of lifting the spirits, making the heart free. So it was that music became such an important part of life for the People.”

  Darun scanned his audience. Others had come to hear, though Aeden’s attention was only on the storyteller. The man smiled and nodded his head. He seemed to like for the number of his listeners to grow.

  “For over thirty years the People traveled. Sometimes they were treated fairly, but most often not. Even in places they were not shunned or threatened, there was never an offer to stay, to settle and become as others. This idea, to stay in one place, became a source of contention amongst them.

  “Some among the grand caravan wanted to go back to their lives as they were before the exodus. Others, taking up the spirit of the music and the freedom that comes from not being tied to one location, argued that they must continue to move. This caused the first great rift.

  “Every day, some would leave the caravan, sneak off to go settle somewhere as the stationary folk do. It can only be surmised that they succeeded in assimilating into the different nations and lost their love of the road. They stopped being of the People.

  “Those who continued disagreed at times also. The structure of order started out as patriarchal, one elder head of the entire group, but that soon ended when he died, as heirs squabbled over who was to take leadership. This caused further splinterings as whole groups of the People left the grand caravan.

  “As they came back full circle to Agypten, ready to reap their reward and finally regain their land, they were shocked yet again that they were refused entrance. The king had died and his son ruled. The new king had no place for traveling craftsmen and musicians and declared in no uncertain terms that they must leave his lands, upon pain of death.

  “The People sent emissaries to speak to the king directly, reminding him of the service they had rendered, proclaiming the name of Agypten throughout the world, but he would hear none of it. He made a formal declaration that any of the People found on his land, one or a thousand, would be hanged as criminals. They had no choice but to withdraw and begin their traveling anew.

  “Some among the People had learned things from their travels. During that time, there was more magic in the world, and some particularly clever or gifted members of the caravan learned things and passed them to others. Fortune telling, potent curses, things such as these, were incorporated into their lives, even sold out for money. But the most important use was the one they directed at the king who had spurned them.

  “All of those with magical talents coordinated their efforts in a lengthy and complex ritual of cursing before they left Agypten land. They created a curse so potent, its like has not been seen since.

  “Its effect was simple enough, even if its casting was not. The king would be murdered within a score of days, and the civil war caused by his death would weaken the nation to the extent that neighboring nations could take advantage and overwhelm them.

  “Within the allotted time, the king was murdered by a trusted advisor. Within a year, Agypten was no more, its lands carved up and taken by other nations.

  “Still, the People had no home, so they began to travel again. On their circuit, they found that the rumors had spread…and changed. They were now the lowest of men, not to be trusted and to be shunned where possible. They were treated even more poorly than before. And they had been given a name. Because of their proclamation of their former nation during their travels, they had been named Gypta, a name synonymous with the lowly. In fact, in the ancient writings in the language Alaqotim, Gyptuman means lowly or despised, though whether that came from the name of the people or the name of the people came from that term is unclear.”

  Darun looked at the old woman Aeden had seen before. She sat down next to Fahtin, drawing Aeden’s eyes there, and was shaking her head. She wore a sullen expression. “Of course,” the leader continued, “Jehira has other ideas about our history, but that is perhaps an argument for another time.

  “Let us leave it at the traveling people, the Gypta, are reviled and spit upon in the world, but it matters little to us. We have always been set apart from others, and our songs and crafts keep us busy and our fires keep us warm. Perhaps we will settle down again someday, but I cannot see doing that. Why would we give up the ability to go where we will and chase the wind? Why would we want to put down roots and be unable to move? No, to be Gypta means to be free, and to be free? Well, I will let music do our talking where words fail.”

  He clapped his hands. “Let us show Aeden from the Cridheargla how the Gypta celebrate life, how we take that which has been thrust upon us and draw from it happiness.”

  Others had joined the crowd during the story, some with instruments. Many of the objects had strings on them, but some were also held to the mouth and blown through to make sound. Others were coming, Aeden saw, and soon the strains of music washed over him.

  They soothed him in a way he had never felt. He was still in pain from his wounds, but as the sounds vibrated through him, he felt like getting up and dancing. The only music he had been exposed to in the clans was that of funeral dirges. This was new, exciting, and pleasurable. He lay there, propped up, and closed his eyes. He could feel the smile crawling across his face as he did so.

  Chapter 14

  It was almost two weeks before the boy was moving around relatively comfortably, Fahtin dogging his every step. His wounds had healed well, and though he still moved carefully as if he had aches and pains, he was in surprisingly good shape for someone who had been so close to death. He began walking the camp, using a stick as support. Within a few days, he was using it only for balance, or just in case he should fall. Each day, he seemed a little stronger.

  Fahtin found him fascinating. She had never met a young Crow before and wanted to learn everything about him.

  Besides his walking, he also practiced some kind of dance consisting of what looked like fighting movements. He did it each day, very slowly, seeming frustrated when he lost balance. In those cases, he would set his jaw, start from the beginning again, and do it all over. Each night, he fell into his cot right after eating the evening meal and went immediately to sleep. She was exhausted just watching him.

  She sat on a log at the edge of a small clearing, watching the boy. He had healed and was able to move about, hardly ever showing that his wounds still pained him. At the moment, he was doing those strange exercises he did every day.

  She had been the one who found him as she was out gathering wood for their evening fires. He’d been a mass of bruises and cuts and seemed like a corpse already, though his chest did move with shallow breaths.

  He had looked like he had been through a battle, but the area didn’t look it. There was some trampling of the vegetation around where he lay, but no significant damage to nearby trees or shrubs, no blood, and nothing else that indicated he had fought back or that anyone else had been attacked. Well, except for the other boy twenty feet or so away.

  The other boy looked to have tried to run or to defend himself, as evidenced by the more pronounced bruising on his forearms from trying to block blows. His damage was more severe, too, not as precise. Wilder. He was dead of his wounds. Neither boy bled much, so Fahtin’s father stated that they had not been attacked with weapons, even blunt ones like a cudgel or a quarter staff. No, they had been beaten to death with bare hands. Almost to death, in Aeden’s case.

  Aeden was now unrecognizable from that discolored lump of flesh she had found. Her heart had sunk when she had really taken a good look at his injuries, when she had gone to get her father and others. She had expected him to die while s
he was fetching help.

  But he didn’t, and though he was thinner than he probably was before his injuries, he looked human again. Even in the last week, he seemed to be putting on a little weight, eating as much as any three other people in the caravan. He looked to be a victim of starvation, but he would fill out. She wondered what he would look like when that happened.

  He moved with the grace of a dancer, like one of the Gypta. It intrigued her. His red-brown hair, matted and tangled when they first found him, had been shaved off so his head could be inspected for wounds. It was just fuzz covering his skull, but he looked good with it short like that.

  He really was very handsome and exotic. She’d never seen eyes like his, the same color as the shallow waters of the Aesculun Sea far to the south, a blue-green she found fascinating. Her heart leapt when she thought what he would look like when he had regained his normal appearance. How he looked already did things to her body that were at once mysterious and exciting.

  She thrust the thought from her mind and watched him more intently. He started his exercises the same way every day, going through slow movements, turning, balancing on one leg, dropping low to the ground. As he proceeded, his speed would increase, just a little at a time. It took him almost half an hour to work up to his full speed, but once he did, it was clear what the exercise movements were.

  He was fighting as if surrounded by invisible foes. He whirled, struck out with his hands, feet, knees, and elbows. He evaded, blocked, and moved about with such grace and flexibility, it was hard to believe this was the same boy who just a few weeks before couldn’t even lift his head. And he was not healed completely yet. How fast could he move when whole and healthy?

  Aeden stopped, as he always did, with his right knee bent, left leg straight out behind him, left arm above his head—forearm parallel to the ground—and his right arm thrust out in a fist, as if he was lunging in and striking someone in the belly. Then he stood and turned to her.