by Blake Rivers
All who ventured up to the shack eventually saw him, the other, and each move he made as he played her. They’d feel the power like a burning in their soul, lighting their fear, an insatiable curiosity drawing them like moths to a kindled candle.
Ami hadn’t been the first to fall into the other place, but she may well be the last.
Colours bled across a normally sightless canvas, painting the outline of the dark shack—except now it was changing as she was, as everything was. In place of trees and grass came the shiver of golden corn, fields upon fields of it that stretched out into the far distance. The shack itself was rejuvenated, solid and whole, and upon the unbroken porch sat the other, beneath the gaze of the ever watchful sun.
Pops relaxed, shoulders falling as Grammy strode through the ears—never blind in this land—breathing deeply of the scented warm air. Earth, dried corn, and a hint of apples hung about, though no orchard could be easily spotted.
Pops was older than she in appearance, at least, that’s the way she saw it. His short cropped hair was as white as cotton, and almost the same consistency, his face as dark and as wrinkled as a discarded and hardened prune. His eyes were sallow and sad, and watched her closely as she approached, his generous mouth breaking into a smile.
He stood, a southern gentleman, and gave her his hand as she climbed the porch, tapping her cane on the hollow wood.
“She’s feeding him, ain’t she?” he asked as she hauled up next to him, grabbing for a beam as the earth shook lightly beneath them.
She nodded, turning to find her seat at the board. Her eyes skimmed the positions of the pieces, checking for unchecked movement, checking she still had a chance to win, which she did. She lowered herself down slowly, her cane taking her ancient weight until she was fully seated. The porch groaned, the land jumping and shivering around.
“She’s feeding it with something more than usual, ain’t she?” He joined her, his eyes on her.
Grammy nodded, studying the board. “Yup. She caught herself a unicorn from another layer. A prize for her, to be sure, though she underestimates her kin.”
The old man nodded, his fingers touching the golden piece in the shape of a horse. It had a horn also, though not as long or as sharp as the real thing. “That she does, and always will. Underestimates our girl, too.”
“We should’ve stopped it all the last time.”
“We weren’t to know.” His voice, deep, grizzled, sung an unapologetic song. “We reached out to her the first time when we glimpsed her. We arrived before her, that was the clincher. We gave her the power she ached for, the joining, the help; what did she do but squander it? She smashed two layers into one with more consequences than either of us could count. Careless. Then she raised the beast thinkin’ she could control it, thinkin’ herself all powerful. We gave it to her, and we took it away. It was right as right to do.”
Grammy remembered the breaking of the stairs so that Romany could never again try to cross the layers or bring them together. Banned she was, hobbled and trapped in the one layer, never to taste the dream of Celestial again. Until…
“Seems she didn’t like that too much,” Grammy said, contemplating her next move, even as the earth cracked around them, the fields parting for a fresh scar of zigged shadow. “Seems she’s raising the beast anyway.”
“That we should have destroyed.”
“Is not ours to destroy,” she said. “Was never ours, these other layers. On the meadow fate was sealed, our own doom certain. Anything that came from that disaster and lived deserves the right to.”
“But now,” Pops sighed, leaning on one arm, “we must try. All is to fall if she don’t get the girl.”
“It’ll all work out.”
*
The last memory Jonus had was that of the old woman, bending low over him and whispering in his ear words he could not recall.
Then had come the dreams in the dark, dreams that had terrified Jonus more than anything ever had, and he’d woken from them shaking, cold and scared.
But he was no longer in a wood.
There were no trees here, no birds or dry earth, and when Jonus rose up on his knees and reached out with his hands, all he felt was rough rock beneath and to the sides.
That’s when his stomach filled with dread.
Was this the price for defying Romany?
Or her counterpart?
The old woman…his Goddess…one and the same? It seemed impossible, and yet…
Jonus knew where he was.
Before him were crude stone steps that he’d felt out with his feet, and with his hands he’d traced the walls, finding no entrance he’d come through, and no hole to escape.
He made a step forward and stopped, arms and legs quivering, his voice sounding too old and too weak. “Anyone there?”
His words echoed and fell flat.
After a moment, a low roar answered him.
His heart pounded in his ears, blood thrumming through his neck as his throat clenched and clicked.
“Madam Romany?”
A sickly smell of sulphur stuck in his nostrils as he took a breath and stepped down. It was hot down here, but he continued on regardless, wiping his brow and turning a corner into the furnace—in Romany he had faith…in Romany—
The clipped sound of claw and scale accompanied the grumble and eventual roar, and the searing heat that made him scream.
*
Hero threw himself against the grate, calling out to Florina. He could no longer hear Raven’s voice, but no longer heard his own either. The ribbon of power that arced from the gallery pulsed loud with a heavy hum—the only thing Hero could hear clearly was Romany’s laughter as she ran to lean over the balustrade and look out upon the hillside.
Ami wasn’t coming. Ami had not saved them, though he still kept his faith in her. Her face was now constantly on his mind, her deep brown eyes, her gentle touch. She’d sacrificed them so that Romany couldn’t win, he was sure, but they hadn’t counted on Florina…
The tower shifted above with a crunch as the palace beneath began to break up, and Hero was thrown to the side. Something was below, and it was close to rising… His blade would do him little good now, and neither would his courage and years of guarding Legacy, of fighting and protecting. Now, behind simple iron, he would watch the magical unicorn, his friend, fail and die as all others would—as he himself would.
Yet when he chanced a look at Florina, almost completely submerged in the pool of fire, he was certain he saw her eyes, wide and focussed, and locked to his. She no longer screamed or whinnied, but fought only to keep above the surface, and the harder Hero stared into the depths of her eyes, the more he felt that something was about to happen, something he had to be ready for. He kept his grip tight on his sword, willing himself to take action, though what action he was unsure of. Something was passing between them in that stare, and without forethought, Hero raised his sword between the bars and waited.
Florina blinked, and Hero took a deep breath.
*
Ami flew down the hill past houses of watchful eyes, each with a Thomas and a Jade inside, filled with fear of Romany and fear of the Dragø. She watched as the palace shook with the land, the blazing ribbon rising from it powerful and destructive. The tower itself was tilting hard to the left, looking about ripe to fall like timbre.
Hero.
She stopped at the river’s edge, the bridge before her, the black water shivering below, the moon barely reflected and shattered on its surface. Scooting to the very edge of the bank, Ami sheathed her sword before bending her knees and taking a breath. With a simple drop, she dived into the dead river.
Chapter Sixteen
He was in no doubt now as to the trouble he was in. Blind and confused, his old feet stumbled the last step as flames licked his toes, sending him hurtling back the way he’d come. He clawed against the crumbling stone, his nails digging deep—yet there was no leaving.
A movement, a great shifting.<
br />
Jonus knew what was there, what was just around the corner. He’d seen it before, had seen it burn, destroy and kill first hand; he’d seen it heave the screaming people into the river, now black and lifeless. And after, he’d read about it in the many texts of Dragø, written by a great master of the power from long, long ago. They’d talked of the Dragø’s origins, the magic it held, and the deep, dark workings of its mind. None of it would help him now.
A roar burst forth so loud that it shattered his reason, and sent him running and screaming in any direction, anywhere at all. He hit the wall and rebounded back, landing on the floor, feeling broken and done, his aged body failing him once and for all; all trace of power was a rumour, a forgotten thought now caught in flame as fire snatched his robes and beard. Fire burns cold, he thought, his last as his fingers found the brand upon his forearm, the mark of infinity, before it burned from him completely. He called to his goddess.
Even as the fat burned from his immortal bones, Jonus had chance to see one last sight through his blind eyes, a figure of white flame, an apparition, a ghost.
*
The river enveloped her like tar, sucking her down into its depths, and though her eyes were closed, some things wouldn’t stay hidden behind thin skin lids. There was power here for sure, a current through the water that penetrated her in the darkest of ways. She saw without seeing, knew without knowing, and could hear the sound of a thousand silent cries. She opened her eyes to see for herself, seeing the tar disperse in clouds like paint from a brush in water, leaving dark sediment in murky shadow. Rocks jutted from the land on either side to meet her, an almost magnetic force passing between them, intent on pulling and tearing her this way and that. For a moment Ami was dragged too close and worried she’d dash her brains against them, but somehow managed to stay her course. Once in open water though, she gave in to the pull, letting it lead her to the source of the power.
The deeper waters were shadow and light that revealed irrefutable shapes of human decay, forms clumped and gathered as reef, black arms, hands, heads nodding and bobbing in a dull orange spill. They were so close and horrid: dead fingers, hooked and skeletal, clawing putrefied faces, skulls rising up from fossilised rock, the grinning jaws of laughing men.
Black bubbles fizzled like cola, rising to join the thick surface, the filth of the long dead.
The myth had truth, she was certain, for everywhere she looked she saw horror. But there was also light, a wash of orange licking the crags, picking out the gruesome in small cracks and runs—even below, deeper still, where the world was coming undone.
To Ami’s left the land fell sharply, leaving a sheer wall split in the shape of a cross. The vertical was thin, the arms either side large enough for her to climb through, and against the powerful pull—and her better judgement—she thrust herself toward it, coursing against the current with only the power to propel her.
Ami peered inside.
Beyond was another layer drenched in autumn shades of yellows, reds and deep golden browns, where crisp fallen leaves littered the floor; a few birds hopped and chirped, eying her through the split in their world, cocking their feathered heads.
She pushed away, allowing the pull to take her once more, leading her a deadly path down into the blackest of deep-water chasms plagued with fine amber cracks, each one a shimmering moment, each another life and layer disturbed.
Ami dove deeper.
It was fascinating, seeing snippets of worlds, both dark and light: a roadway here, a snowstorm there; a busy street with faces, eyes, peering back in at her; and as the land to each side of her began to narrow, the cracks became wider, and Ami saw even more through them. Streets were cordoned off with coloured cones in one, people passing by with stride and step and worried looks as buildings crumbled and fell. Stories of stories, each different and played out, a live broadcast, multi-screened.
This was the disaster unfolding, the world already crumbling.
Moments passed and Ami swam deeper and deeper into the dark, thinking of the girl she’d been not so long ago, the one who wasn’t a princess of myth and magic. Was she now responsible for the fate of the world, of the dimensions of reality? Was all of this really on her shoulders? But in truth, she knew that it didn’t matter if it was her duty or responsibility, or even her fate. It’s just…she was the only one there.
Soon Ami found she’d reached an impasse and had swum as far as she could. To each side, the jagged rocks had come together, the gulch meeting at an uneven dome that rose from the ravine floor. Cracked into it’s crown was a star-like hole, big enough for a person to climb through.
Ami withdrew her sword to look inside, the blade lighting a soft violet that dappled the water and illuminated within; and there she saw a lone, stone stairwell, shifting in shadow and phased somehow, blurry around the edges and a little out of focus.
This is the place.
As if she needed further confirmation, a roar echoed from inside, chasing her courage to the brink.
This is the place.
Ami breathed deeply of the dirty water.
This is it.
Dangerous.
For a moment she waited, staring in at the desolate rock, knowing that if she continued on, she might not come back out…and with that in mind, Ami climbed the dome and slipped into the hole.
Her feet hit the dry ground, a stale smell lingering about of breath and faeces.
There was no water here, no chasm of cracks, only the stairwell and the rumbling grumble and snort of the beast; the star had gone, leaving only the dark.
The familiar sound of crackle and spit preceded a golden bloom, the narrow way ahead kissed in fiery colours. Embers floated up toward her and extinguished upon the cold steps, winking out.
With a shaking hand, Ami pushed her wet plait from her throat, sweeping stray hair from her forehead.
The Dragø.
With a heart full of trepidation, Ami took the first few steps down into the unknown.
*
She thought she’d seen her for just an instant, a slip of shadow across a rooftop, a slinking panther stalking the streets—or perhaps not. Even with her heightened senses, Romany would’ve had trouble spotting a solitary drunkard stumbling from a tavern, let alone a powerful princess playing the shadows; the dark hill swarmed with light and magic, fire and destruction, and there was no sign of the Assassin Princess. No, she was not coming, not coming to save her friends, not coming to face her. Coward.
From her vantage point, Romany watched the flares of power hit the town, the slopes, the streets and the buildings. She watched as fires broke out, the screams of a people she’d bred reaching across the distance. Some of them would die beneath rubble, while others would fall or burn, or hide beneath the ground and hope to sleep awake in dusty darkness. But most were for the Dragø, for when he rose he would be hungry and he would need to feed on the life he found.
Beside her the powerful ribbon rose from the palace and cut across the sky, slicing the stars in two. It arced before the moon and fell to a point behind the land, and there to the river, deep, deep down. It fed him, strengthened him for now, but the source was weakening, the unicorn struggling for life in the fire-water of the lunar. She turned to her now, seeing her change between forms, the girl and then the horse and back again; at least the screams had stopped, her ceaseless whinnying noise…but if she weakened too quickly, the Dragø would not have strength enough to break free.
The first time the Dragø had been released was a terrible mistake, and when her other-selves denied her the help she needed—begged for even—Romany had been left with a rampaging demon. She’d battled him, fought him and had beaten him back with her power, and when he’d slunk back into the river, into the chasm from whence he’d come, she’d sealed him within the crack, in neither one layer nor the other. The beast had shaken her, frightened her even, for what creature, large or small, had ever threatened her as he’d done in all her long years? Her victory was stale
, her ego over-stretched, and the rejection from her other-selves a taste so bitter she couldn’t stomach it. They’d told her it wasn’t time. Not yet. Patience.
Many years passed where she took the role of goddess once more, and the land and the people prospered in her keep, but though they worshipped her, they eventually forgot what had happened and had woven instead some myth, part fact, part fiction. The Order had borne witness, and preached of her greatness from the temples in the town, but the lonely rejection of her long sought-after people festered. Not yet. Patience. Patience? For what? What else was there for her but then and now? How many long years had she truly endured alone, with no origin and no home? Her very existence was a torment to her. She’d reached out to the last remaining broken glimmers of herself and they had chastised her and abandoned her. The layers were shut to her. They no longer spoke to her. She was alone, the long ago memories of a peaceful land now a torture of her waking dreams.
The sea breeze lifted her hair, the salty smell pungent, fresh and welcome, bringing her back to the here and now.
Beyond the white pyre and the writhing unicorn stood the darkened shadow of the man behind his grate. She smiled and laughed, seeing his sword held aloft through the bars. How gallant and brave, foolish and weak. She thought of flaying him alive with a wave of her hand, or perhaps simply throwing him from the gallery and being done with him—his Assassin Princess wasn’t coming, her legend only rumour; in the end, just a girl. She walked toward him, her heels coming down easily across the already cracking floor, the tower above tilting dangerously over as the walls began to split, the land and palace alike crumbling atop a roiling demon.
