When I finally sat up, I carefully sent out some short probes while lighting a tiny mage light. When nothing reacted badly, I made the mage light bigger till I could see.
I was sitting on a cold floor that was way too pristine and way too white to be natural. It looked like a solid sheet of marble and stretched as far I could see.
Liberace would love this, I thought, gathering my legs under me and standing, slowly.
When I was on my feet, I peered around the darkness, trying to figure out where on earth I could be. I did, after all, know where I was supposed to be—somewhere under the Sow—but marble flooring was really not what I expected for under-Sow decor.
My mage light rose over my head as I looked around, and I let more magic pulse into it. Too late, I realized that my actions weren’t going unnoticed. My light got brighter and brighter, despite my no longer pumping magic into it, and that’s when I realized that more lights were coming up, all around the room. None of the lights were attached to walls; they all floated, in what seemed to be a long oval, with me at one end. On the other end, I could very faintly make out the shape of either a door or a mirror.
Well, I thought. It’s fairly obvious where I’m supposed to go.
I looked around the darkness for another option, but there wasn’t any. Besides, I thought, when in search of Wonderland, one plays by the rabbit’s rules…
Walking forward, I kept my magics flared out around me, both shields and probes working overtime.
Ouch, I thought, as pain started registering up through my feet. I must have hurt myself when I fell. But it was an odd pain, not from my arch or from my ankle as I would have assumed. It felt like it was coming upward through the soles of my feet. Weird.
But I kept trudging forward, despite the pain in my feet never letting up. When I was a little closer to the fixture at the other end of the oval, I still wasn’t sure what, exactly, it was.
A mirror? A door? A portrait?
For there did seem to be images dancing over its surface, but they weren’t standing still, and they didn’t seem to be my reflection.
It looks sorta like the mirrors the glyphs are set in, I thought, pausing my strides to attempt to stretch out my feet—pointing and flexing my arch—to try to work out whatever cramp was getting the better of me.
It feels fine, now, I thought, irritably, as I worked my left foot around. Nothing hurt, although my right had begun to ache as if the pain had been transferred. And as soon as I put my left foot back down on the ground, pain again flared up through both my legs.
I frowned, putting my weight on my left foot, as I strode forward onto my right. Again, the pain receded, and then flared, as each foot lost and then regained contact with the floor.
Shit, I thought. It’s the floor. A memory flashed through my mind of the Little Mermaid: the “real” Brothers Grimm version of the story and not the Disney version. In that tale, after her deal with the Sea Witch gave the mermaid legs, every step felt as if knives were being driven into her feet. So that when she danced with her prince, later in the story, and everyone lauds her grace and skill, they should really have been praising her sheer masochism.
I shuffled forward, the pain increasing. After checking the soles of my shoes to make sure they weren’t ripped open, I tried a few more steps. But still the pain increased. I swore, but persevered a little more forward, cursing out loud this time.
“Shit!” I shouted, as my next step felt like a long, needle-like lance shooting up through the heel of my foot.
I continued to swear, creatively and with great vigor, as I looked up toward the mirror in front of me. My pained steps had shuffled me close enough that I could finally see what the mirror or portrait or door contained.
Iris? I thought, wondering what the succubus was doing at the end of the hall. Why on earth is Iris… But just as I finished that thought, Iris shifted to become Anyan, the man. I almost cried out with relief to see him outside of his doggie shape, until I remembered that this mirror wasn’t showing reality. I shuffled painfully forward, anyway, towards Anyan. But then the mirror changed, again, and there was my dad, smiling at me and looking—finally—so healthy and hale.
It’s everything I have to live for, I realized, as I took another painful step forward. This is a test. To see what I’ll do for the people I love.
More images appeared with each stumbling step: Caleb and that unit I’d come to ignore so well; Grizzie inexplicably wearing Western gear, including some very tight chaps; Tracy patting her enormously pregnant belly.
I finally know what those crazy people who walk on spikes feel, I thought, trying to make light of the fact I was in absolute agony. And I’m only halfway there.
A few more feet and it didn’t feel like knives on my feet anymore. Instead, it felt like fire—a burning sensation that compounded with my already sore feet to make walking murder. I tried everything to mitigate the pain in my feet: I bit my tongue and clenched my fists so tightly my nails bit into my skin, all in an attempt to use differently placed pain to distract the foot pain. But every step I took just made it worse.
Another picture flashed on the mirrored surface in front of me. This time, it was Miss Carrol. Then she was replaced by the Tanners, who owned our local bakery.
I screwed my courage to my sticking place and took one huge step forward… only to land in a crumpled heap. I’d heard of crippling pain but had no idea what it meant till now.
“Fuckfuckfuckfuckfuck,” I gibbered, collapsed in a heap over my aching feet. While I was down there, I pulled off my shoe and then pulled up my pant leg to check my flesh. But it was totally unmarred. And yet, any part of my body that touched that floor eventually began to prickle, and soon enough I was standing again. There still stood a huge gulf between me and the end of the oval.
You have to do this, Jane. Suck it up and go.
And with that, I strode forward. Unfortunately, the bigger my strides, the more the pain hit. But smaller steps meant only a constant, nattering pain. I did my best impression of Lamaze breaths as I strode forward, only to nearly pass out before I realized I was only ever inhaling. As I learned later in life at yoga, it hurt more on the exhale.
When I was about a third of the way to the mirror I stopped, panting. Sweat had broken out over my whole body, drenching my skin. I felt like I’d had a bucket of mucky water thrown on me. My long-sleeved tee clung uncomfortably, and my comfy old camo pants were stiff with mud.
Feeling tired and gross and beaten down, I looked to the mirror for inspiration. Only to be met with Graeme’s leering expression.
“What the fuck?” I asked, very rhetorically, to the empty room.
The incubus only smiled with more malice, reaching into his pants to pull out his already engorged penis. Only biologically correct terms worked to describe what he did; there was nothing sexy about the way he stroked himself, watching me. His masturbating was less like a sex act and more like to a militant feeling up his gun before shooting a civilian in the head.
Soon enough, however, Graeme disappeared, only to be replaced by Ryu’s cousin, Nyx. While I didn’t think Nyx was as evil as Graeme, I couldn’t actually be sure. She had, after all, brought a human—her “sack lunch”—to her supernatural compound, only to ignore him when a huge battle took place. She didn’t even notice when he was killed.
I took a hesitant step forward, not exactly liking what I saw before me. It was one thing to think that my friends’ safety waited for me behind that glossy surface, but to think about all the people I loathed in the same context…
Fugwat flashed across the mirror, and then Kaya and Kaori. Together, of course, since I didn’t think they could actually exist apart. When Morrigan appeared on the mirror, and then Jarl, I’d already ground to a halt. The mirror lingered, then, on the oafish, bullying face of Stuart Gray.
And therein lies the test, I realized. It was one thing to walk over hot coals—quite literally—for the people you loved. But another thing entirely to endu
re such torture for enemies and idiots.
But I don’t get to judge, I realized. Not in that way. If someone attacks me, I have the right to fight back. But I don’t get to allow some force to wipe out everyone—good and bad—as if I’m a god.
I’d never liked Job’s whirlwind. And that’s what would happen if I allowed Phaedra to win. She’d rouse the creature, destroying the East Coast. And then she’d destroy even more with the power she won.
So I walked forward. The pain was brutal, but I gritted my teeth and I endured. I knew it wasn’t “real” pain—no marks were on my feet or legs. I’d survive this test, but Rockabill itself wouldn’t survive if I failed.
Finally, I made it to the sigil. Graeme was back up, leering and whacking off at me, but I ignored him as I pushed at the mirror. Okay, in all honesty I sort of fell forward onto it, but it worked.
Swinging the door open, the room around me winked out into darkness as I once again plunged forward into nothingness.
This time, I didn’t even bother testing a mage light. I just flung my arm out into the darkness and lit up my surroundings like it was a beach wedding.
I was still on my hands and knees where I’d landed. Hard. There were definitely going to be some interesting bruises decorating my body after today.
For some reason, that thought made me think of Anyan, still trapped as a dog. He was the one who always healed me… The thought of those big hands rubbing over my body made me miss him fiercely.
We have to reverse that spell. Then I thought of what Blondie had said. We need the creature’s power.
Stumbling to my feet, I got my bearings. This new room was just as stark, white, and unnatural as the other one had been. Although, instead of an oval of lights, this room was dotted by four enormous statues set up to form a square. The figures stood so tall—I barely made it to their knees—that it took me a moment to realize what I was seeing.
It’s those ancient Alfar, I realized. Melichor and Tatiana stood on one side of the square, looking as forbidding as their ghostly shapes had before. Across from them, forever their seconds, stood Glynda and Straif.
As I walked into the room, I felt magic swirl around me. The statues all turned, as one, to look down. I froze, blinking in their gaze like a deer in the proverbial headlights, but they didn’t move again. Their eyes seemed still to be unseeing stone, but one never knew.
Once the statues had finished moving, a light shone down from above to land smack in the middle of the square made by the statues. Within that light floated what looked like a pedestal.
I moved forward slowly, carefully, imagining Straif’s huge hand reaching down to smoosh me like a bug. When I got to where the pedestal stood, I stared in confusion.
It wasn’t really a pedestal. Instead, a thin, gilt rapier floated horizontally, looking from the side like the pedestal top. And under that floated a vertical scabbard. It didn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out that this test must be about sticking the rapier into the scabbard.
The problem was that lying prone over the scabbard’s mouth was a white dove, its wings outstretched like some sort of feathery crucifixion character.
“Shit,” I swore, under my breath, as I stared at the conundrum. Meanwhile, the dove watched me back, its beady little eyes rolling as its breast fluttered in panic.
First things first, I thought, studying the sword. The rapier looked razor sharp, and so very thin, but I knew the damage it would do to that white breast. I moved around it, trying to see how it was floating, but it was obviously magic.
When I reached for the pommel, I couldn’t help but emit a low chuckle. The rapier’s grip was surrounded by a large, circular shield that was the same shape as the sigil we’d just chased all over Rockabill. Grasping the sword, I pulled, nearly falling back on my ass when it came to me with no resistance whatsoever.
I stood there, sword in hand, staring down at the bird. The bird stared back.
What kind of test is this? I wondered. Is it testing my resolve? My cruelty? My willingness to sacrifice? Or is it the complete opposite? Do they want to see my mercy, my kindness?
I studied the faces of the statues around me for some clue as to the true nature of this test. Because if I got it wrong, my little corner of the world was doomed.
What would they have honored? I wondered, scrutinizing the ancient Alfar’s enigmatic stone expressions. The Alfar I’ve known are either distant or monstrous. Either they wouldn’t care that I murdered what amounts to a fancy pigeon or they wouldn’t even notice.
What had Blondie said about these ancient Alfar? I remembered her mentioning something about power, and about cruelty. But certainly there had to have been wisdom, too, for the Alfar not only to have thrived but, in their own way, to have flourished?
I walked around the scabbard again, feeling the weight of the rapier in my hand. The bird was still shuddering in fear, its lovely white breast feathering up and down.
Besides the fact that I wasn’t a huge fan of animal cruelty, I had no idea what I was supposed to do. Kill the bird? Try to free it? Do a tap dance with it on my head?
And what right did these ancient Alfar have to test me in the first place?
It was then I realized what they would have wanted. Any being that would muck about, so, with others, wouldn’t want mercy or kindness. They’d want strength—of arms and of purpose.
“I hate that you’re making me do this,” I told the statues, as I stood up from where I’d been kneeling. “I hate that you’re making me kill this little bird just to prove I-don’t-even-know-what to your long-dead asses.”
Clutching the pommel of the sword, I readied myself to place the tip of the sword right at the bird’s breast. Part of me knew that it had to be a fake; no bird could have survived underground like this, for thousands of years. And yet it didn’t look fake. It looked alive, and terrified of me. So it took me a while to work up the nerve to actually do it. The bird kept watching, the whole time, like it knew. Finally, however, I forced myself to place that point right where it would cut through to find its scabbard.
I don’t want to fuck this up, I thought. If I did it too slow, or did it wrong, the bird, fake or not, would suffer more than it had to. This is so evil. What if they’d put a baby here, instead? I shuddered, and then stilled myself, including mentally. I didn’t want my stray thoughts giving the magical tests any ideas.
Then I pushed down, hard.
A burst of bright blood marred the perfect white of the dove’s breast. “I’m sorry,” I whispered, as those panicked black eyes popped in pain and fear.
“I’m sorry,” I whispered again, as I kept pushing through the bird’s body, until the rapier was firmly sheathed in its scabbard. Bizarrely enough, I would remember killing that bird better than I would remember killing the humans who had attacked us at Anyan’s. One had been a desperate act done in the heat of the moment; this was done with calculation. At that moment, I hated the Alfar more than I ever had. They’d made me ruthless.
My “I’m sorry” then began to echo through the chamber, making a mockery of my whispered sentiments. I’d still killed the bird, after all.
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry” boomed through the white hall as I stepped back from the sword. The pigeon, scabbard, and sword all disappeared in a puff of magic, and I saw a pair of white doors appear where they’d once stood. But the doors were sealed shut.
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” continued the echo, till I put my hands over my ears to quiet it. That’s when the door began to tremble, as if it were being forced open from the other side. I took another step back, unsure of what would happen when it finally burst open.
Or what will burst through, I thought, raising my shields and a mage ball, to be on the safe side.
But when the door finally ratcheted itself open, only darkness waited for me.
I lofted my mage ball and stepped through into liminal space.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
This
room, unlike all the others, was inhabited. And not only with magic so powerful that my knees nearly buckled when I walked through the door.
Upon first entering, my mage lights had revealed what I first thought were enormous tree roots. Trained to think of the supernatural world as one in which our myths were almost-right, my brain jumped immediately to Norse legend.
“The World-Tree?” I wondered aloud. Was this what Phaedra had planned? Some old-fashioned Ragnarok action?
[Not the World-Tree, child] an amused voice rang in my head. [Look closer.]
Upon first hearing that voice, loud and clear but definitely not verbalized, I acted as bravely and with as much dignity as I always did. Dropping flat to the floor, I glared around with wild eyes, trying to figure out who the fuck was in my mind. Unlike Graeme, however, these were just words. I felt no presence, so it didn’t feel nearly as squicky. Just weird.
The mental voice chuckled. At me. Awesome.
Way to keep the enemy on their toes, I thought as I picked myself up off the ground.
“Who are you?” I called into the darkness.
The voice kept chuckling: a warm, gentle sound that matched the rich, if curiously nongendered tones of its speech.
[You know me, little one,] it said, eventually.
“So I’ve been told. But it doesn’t feel that way,” I replied, uncertainly.
[You do. In fact, we’ve spent quite a bit of time together.]
Now that I was standing, I lit a few more lights and took a few steps farther into the room.
Not tree trunks, I realized, staring at what I’d thought had been knotted lumber in front of me.
It’s only lumber if lumber is green. And kinda wet. With suction pads.
Eye of the Tempest (Jane True) Page 21
