Rift in the Deep

by Janelle Garrett

  Yet fear was no reason to stifle curiosity. Shia would call her a fool, but if there was something outside, she wanted to know what it was.

  Graissa grabbed her robe from the chair beside her, pushing her arms through and leaving the room. The cold marble floor beneath her feet reminded her that she had forgotten her slippers. Quickly passing the library, Graissa glanced in to try and see the large window overlooking the grounds in the same direction her own window faced. Yet her inquisitiveness got the best of her; she wanted to go outside and see if she could find whatever it had been that had disturbed her. Maybe it was the creature, maybe it wasn’t. Either way, intrigue won.

  As she passed the library, the winding staircase to her left descended to the first floor. She ran the steps two at a time, skimming her hand over the balustrade to keep her balance. Yet even as her feet touched the floor, she almost tripped on the rich, thick, brag rug. Nearly every time she stepped on it, her heart dropped for the beast whose only purpose had been to be a decoration. Surely there was a better purpose for the large animals who roamed the Broken Lands than to be hunted for their meat and fur.

  Her father’s study flashed by as she ran, situated across from the staircase and off the entryway to her left. The formidable doors were shut, the red oak woven with intricate designs, his name emblazoned on a silver plate adhered to the frame. She paused, glancing to her right. The dark-tunneled staircase was visible beyond a door that should have been closed. Light burned below, and she frowned. The Mools weren’t supposed to be up this late, and certainly not roaming the house. What were they up to? Did they know about the creature? If they were caught, her mother would be furious. Graissa closed the door, but the urgency to dash outside claimed her once again. She ran through the dining hall and out the double doors. The wind nearly threw her to the ground as soon as she made it outside. The storm was strong, much stronger than she originally thought.

  Pulling her robe tighter, she fought through the wind to the back of the house. She searched the grounds for the apparition even as she tried to convince herself its existence was only a figment of her imagination.

  But no. She closed her eyes and produced in her mind the animal possessing no wings to fly, who flew nonetheless. Shivering now as the wind picked up force, she snapped her eyes open and raised an arm against the pummeling gales. The darkness of the storm shrouded her view. Maybe this was a bad idea after all. Shia always said that curiosity would be the death of her one day. Glancing about the yard, she grabbed a hefty, wind-tossed branch from the ground. As long as her arm, it made a decent weapon if needed.

  Not far ahead, before the edge of the Winding Gardens, something on the ground shuffled toward her. She stopped, shoulders hunched against the wind, hair whipping her face as two yellow eyes glowed at her. They blinked slowly.

  She must be seeing things. Yet the branch in her hand anchored her to the fact that this was reality. It was there, inching toward her with its claws outstretched, mouth sewn shut, nostrils flaring. She backed up a step, gripping the branch, heart pounding. The curiosity was now replaced with rising fear.

  This had been a stupid thing to do.

  With the fog of sleep and the darkness of the Dreadwood long passed, she tried to make sense of what she was seeing. Illuminated by the moonlight, she took in the short ears, flat snout, and large nostrils. Brown fur speckled with black spots seemed perfect for hiding unseen in the trees. The burly creature stopped shuffling low and rose on its hind legs, at least as tall as Graissa’s waist, although she was short by most standards. It looked directly in her eyes. Its gaze conveyed a conscience intelligence. If its mouth had been free, surely it would have spoken.

  The creature blinked then walked forward on hesitant paws. Flaps of skin hung from the side of its body and attached to its arms. Was that how it somehow flew? She instinctively backed up. Why had she ever left the safety of her bed?

  The creature stopped, lowering itself down to four legs, drawing its claws into its arm in an unthreatening gesture. The claws shrank from a foot long to about two inches, and its forearm bulged inwards. The urge to run or fight warred within her. But she stalled. Why had it not attacked? Her pounding heart pulsed in her ears, and her curiosity resurfaced and surged through the fear in her mind.

  “Who are you?” she asked in Common. Its eyes held her gaze. If it was sentient, maybe she could somehow communicate with it.

  The thing looked hard at her, a gurgling sound coming deep from its throat. Its pleading expression made it seem like it wanted to ask her a question.

  “Are you in trouble?” she asked.

  It crept toward her. Graissa stood her ground, stomach in her throat. The wind pounded her face and lightning flashed across the sky, illuminating the Winding Gardens behind the creature. Maybe if she concentrated hard enough on its face she could sense the unspoken question...

  Darkness shrouded her vision, and suddenly, she saw herself through the creature’s eyes. The feeling was startling, alien. She felt its thoughts in impressions and smells, yet it had understood her when she spoke in Common. The sphere was illuminated by its wide eyes and irises that could pierce through the shadows of night. She blinked, and double layers of thin skin slid over dry eyes. The surprise of the vision hurtled her out of the creature’s mind, back to herself staring in shock into its unfathomable gaze.

  He was called a Watcher.

  She gripped her head in her hands, tunnel vision making her dizzy. It blinked, and then dashed off. Before it disappeared, the Watcher turned back one last time with a pleading look then vanished into the night.

  Graissa stood rooted, stomach twisting in knots, disoriented as the sphere spun in dizzying circles. Despite the Watcher’s disappearance, the imprinting of its thoughts was overwhelming. Her legs collapsed just as rain started to pelt her head. She caught herself on the ground with her hand, fighting to maintain consciousness.

  It was a losing battle. The storm’s unseen fury thundered in the angry skies as she pitched forward, succumbing to the darkness.

  Chapter Two

  Priva Car’abel

  Priva awoke, and as gradual consciousness returned, he blinked several times and rubbed his eyes with his left hand. He couldn’t see anything.

  What in the Creator’s bosom was going on? First almost deaf, now blind?

  The shortblade remained clenched in his right hand just as when he drifted off to sleep.

  A steady unease began to rise, and he waved his left hand in front of his face. Still nothing. Everything was completely black. Priva willed his fear aside as he sat against the tree, trying not to shake. He gripped the shortblade tighter, hilt hard and unyielding. What type of enchantment was this, taking his senses one by one?

  The last thing he recalled was plopping against a large tree trunk in exhaustion. Despite his fear, sleep had overtaken him while he clenched his shortblade.

  He couldn’t see the sun or moon. How long had he slept? In his whole life, he had never experienced the sensory deprivation as he had within the last few hours. Surely the wood was indeed haunted, just like the rumors had said.

  Abruptly his vision returned, crystal clear and without warning. He looked about him, searching to see if anything was near. Endless forest pressed in around him, tree branches overhead, blade in his hand. Standing to his feet, he searched through the tree boughs for the sun. The rays trickled through as if desperate to pierce the dark. Yet the woodland was ominous. There was a heaviness to the air that he couldn’t comprehend, as if the forest was sucking the life out of anything that it touched.

  Priva headed south, traipsing through the forested landscape. Alert for any sign of the creatures from behind, he kept a wary eye out for the mist or the Dreads. If lore could be believed, the further south you went, the better the chance you would awaken them from their slumber. Priva had no choice. His payment for the Dreads was back at the edge of the wood, the way barred by the mist and the creatures. Besides, he had a mission to complete. Th
e only recourse was to trudge forward and hope he could convince them to release their prisoner.

  His stomach grumbled and twisted with sharp pangs as he pushed through the weaving vines that tried to stop his advancement. When had he last eaten? If only he could remember what had happened and why he had left his horse and pack behind. Surely it had to do with the cursed Deep.

  Or the Rift. Creator knew that was unpredictable. The thought caused him no small amount of anxiety. He had faced many hard battles in his lifetime, yet the thought of being at the mercy of something he couldn’t control was worse than anything else. Even the Covenwitches couldn’t use the Deep in those ways. Which left the Rift.

  His homeland, the Bright Lands, certainly was steeped with its own type of lore, but the Green Lands were unfamiliar. He now found himself deep within its border, searching for the Princess Callum. Far and wide he had traversed, but she remained elusive, for almost a full passing of the four seasons. The Flatland King had been firm: Priva was not to return without his daughter. How often he had cursed such a mission! The Princess, if she was still alive, was dealing in things that went far above her understanding. She had been foolish to seek the help of the Dreads, endangering her life and the life of whoever the King sent after her. Would she have still done it if she had known it would be Priva who followed her path?

  As his thoughts tumbled in his head, Priva faltered into a clearing. Before him was a stone well. Glancing about, he saw nothing else in the open glade but grass and the reflection of light. A shaft of surprise made him raise his eyebrows. Based upon the position of the sun, he must have slept longer than he thought. As he cautiously approached the well, blade outstretched, he kept a wary eye on the woods surrounding him. Anything could be watching from the trees. And what was a well doing here, in the middle of the Dreadwood? Who had put it there?

  Approaching it slowly, he looked over the side. Glimmering water reflected off the bottom, and the thirst that had been building all morning struck him full force. He hadn’t drunk in... well, he couldn’t remember how long, but his throat only grew drier as he looked down at the water below. With one last surreptitious glance around, he set his blade down and lowered the bucket that was waiting for him. The splash echoed up the stones. Heaving it back toward him, he worked his hands over the rope until he had the bucket. The water was more refreshing than anything in recent memory. He gulped it down, liquid spilling over the sides and down his shirt.

  As soon as his thirst was quenched, he washed his neck and face, resisting the urge to dump the rest of the water over his head.

  “Where is your payment?”

  Priva whirled around, drawing his blade and pointing it toward the voice behind him. No one was there, and he moved in a circle, searching the clearing.

  “Show yourself!” His gruff voice was loud, disturbing the near silence of the glade. But there was no response. Had he imagined it?

  No. He had heard the voice plain, at this very moment. He kept the well at his back, blade gripped tight, waiting. Something grabbed him from behind, and Priva found himself tossed into the well before he could say another word.

  He hit the water quicker than he expected. As he plunged below the surface he kept a firm hold on his blade. Splashing into the depths, he frantically kicked. His head broke through the water, and he shook the hair from his eyes as he looked upward. Something was staring down at him. Shock jolted through his chest. It was nothing he had ever seen before, and because of the brightness of the sun, all he could discern was the silhouette of some creature that resembled the shape of a human.

  “Let me up!” he called.

  The thing merely looked down at him. “Where is your payment?” Its voice was devoid of any emotion.

  “I left it behind me. It’s at the edge of the wood, north of here.”

  “Then why have you come without payment?” Again, no emotion from its voice.

  “Look, get me out and I will take you back to retrieve it.”

  The thing seemed to consider his words, and finally a rope came tumbling down. Priva grabbed it and sheathed his blade. Using the rope, he placed his feet on the side of the well, and with great difficulty, he hauled himself up. The heaviness of his cloak threatened to drag him back down to the water. It wasn’t easy to fight against the extra weight on his shoulders. When he reached the upper edge, he took hold of the side and scrambled out. The thing made no move to help him, and Priva could finally get a good look at it.

  It was his height, maybe a little taller, with a long face and nose, pointed at the end. Its eyes were large yet empty of anything; no curiosity, no anger, no animosity, no joy... nothing. Its build was slender, its fingers long, and it was dressed in a long tunic that was cinched at the waist with a rope. It held no weapons of any kind, and appeared to be a male judging by the tone of its voice and masculine looks. An eerie, bright green glow enveloped its skin, so that it appeared to be translucent.

  “Who are you?” Priva asked, standing still, water dripping off him.

  It cocked its head as if it didn’t understand his question. “Take me to the payment.”

  “Wait, I have some questions,” Priva replied. “I need to know if you have seen the Princess of the Bright Lands. I am searching for her.”

  “The Princess needs payment.”

  “So you have seen her?” He resisted the urge to grab the thing by its shoulders and shake it. “She is here?”

  “The payment—”

  “Enough with the payment!” Priva snapped, anger replacing the trepidation in his mind. The thing’s eyes showed nothing, yet then it shifted and disappeared from view, as if melting into the shadows of the trees. Priva sighed, searching the clearing. It was gone.

  “Now what?” Priva said out loud, throwing his hands up in frustration.

  “Now we will all get the payment.”

  He jumped and looked behind him. His heart fell, and he sighed in resignation. More of the creatures had appeared, at least fifty, staring at him with their large eyes.

  There was no use fighting so many. Priva shook his head, cursing the Princess. And the Flatland King.

  GRAISSA DEL’BLYTH

  “Graissa! Wake up!” a voice called from the distance. Graissa raised her head, opening her eyes. She had dreamed again, and this time, it was just as real as it had been before. Priva Car’abel was not a figment of her imagination, she was sure of it.

  Looking about, she was still laying in the yard, damp and covered in grass. Natashia sat beside her, frowning.

  “What are you doing?” her sister asked, brown hair still a mess from her sleep. Shia’s olive skin was in direct contrast to Graissa’s light complexion. They were opposite in almost every way; where Graissa was short, Natashia was tall. Where Graissa had light blue eyes, Natashia had dark brown, almost black eyes. Graissa had always been jealous of her sister’s beauty compared to her own pasty looks. Shia was voluptuous, whereas Graissa resembled a figure made from a lump of dough.

  “I was dreaming,” she said, struggling to stand.

  “Again?” Shia’s tone was irritated. “You must have walked in your sleep.”

  “No.” Graissa took Shia’s arm. “I came out here on purpose.”

  “Whatever for?” Shia raised an eyebrow, turning to look at Graissa with something close to annoyance.

  Graissa hesitated to answer. She usually told Shia everything, yet for some reason the events of last night stalled on her tongue. Instead, she said, “I was trying to see the storm.”

  “And you fell asleep in the middle of it? What a foolish thing to do.”

  Dragged along behind her sister, Graissa removed her wet robe and entered through the way she had come the night before.

  “Don’t let Mother and Father see you. Mother will complain that no one will want a crazy wife who wanders in her sleep.” Humor tinged Shia’s voice.

  She was right. Mother was hard-nosed, and the thought spurred Graissa to rush up the steps. Although, it was fool
ish at her age to still be slightly afraid of her Mother. Gasping, she almost tripped over the upstairs Mool whose hands were full of sheets to be washed.

  “Sorry, Mistress,” the Mool muttered, stepping to the side as they rushed past. Its large eyes gazed at the floor, small ears slumped as if it was afraid. It was human in shape and form, save for the sagging skin on its face and bat-like ears. Graissa considered stopping to assure the Mool it was quite all right, but thought better of it. If her Mother caught her speaking to the servant, she wouldn’t hear the end of it. It was hard enough to get any of them to interact with her. The Mools were melancholy as it was without Graissa adding to it. They probably would have felt it was their fault she was being treated poorly. The Mool’s faces were perpetually sad, their luminous eyes avoiding all contact with their masters. Even this short interaction with it reminded Graissa of their unjust treatment, and her blood boiled.

  As soon as she entered her room she stripped off her nightwear and let Shia pick out her dress. As usual, she waved away the dressing Mool. After she was through, she glanced in the mirror and blanched. Her hair was a mess, leaves and grass sticking out of it. She ran her fingers through the strands, only to sigh and pick up a bristled brush. Shia watched with an amused expression.

  “Don’t take your vengeance out on your hair,” she said with a smirk. The breakfast bell rang downstairs, and Graissa increased her efforts to try and untangle the mess without ripping her hair out by the roots.

  “What should I tell them?” Creator, she wouldn’t hear the end of it!

  The door swung open, and none other than her mother stood in the doorway.

  “Tell who what?” Mother asked, her tall frame imposing in the doorway. Of course her graying blonde hair would be perfectly in place! A change came into her eyes when she noticed Graissa’s disheveled mop. “What is going on?”

  “I—”

  “It was my fault,” Shia interrupted. “I thought to play a prank, and well, it didn’t turn out as I had planned.”