Hands of Flame n-3

by C. E. Mutphy

  “We thought you might tell us that yourself.” Alban, voice dry to hide concern.

  Margrit turned to him helplessly, then back to the others. “I take it I’m not supposed to come back soaking wet.”

  “It has never happened before,” Eldred allowed. “What memory did you follow? What words were you given?”

  “Words? I—Ah, crap, I forgot all about that part of it. He—it, whatever—didn’t say anything. I don’t even know if it could talk. It probably would’ve vibrated me to pieces if it had.” Margrit closed her mouth abruptly, stemming her babble, then said more carefully, “I had a serpent in my hand. What was I supposed to see?”

  “One of my long-lost brethren, presumably.” Janx opened his hands expansively, as if inviting the whole of the room to fall into that category. “One who might perhaps share some salty bit of sea wisdom to guide us all with. One who might tell you if any of his kind still live,” he said more quietly, and more sharply. Margrit’s face crumpled.

  “No, sorry. None of that. What about you?” She turned to Biali, water droplets flying with the vigor of her motion. He passed a hand over his shoulder as if he’d brush water away, though she didn’t think she’d sprayed him. Then he opened that same hand, revealing one of the gargoyle rooks.

  “I saw Hajnal, who reminds me that there is no greater force than the beating heart. Love conquers all,” he said, bitter growl to the words.

  “Or life does.” Margrit dropped into her chair again, squelching, and curled a lip at the coldness of her leathers. “Sounds pretty sage to me.”

  “And so it is,” Eldred said. “But your journey must be more fully explained, Margrit Knight. No one has ever come back wet. Where did you go?”

  “The heart of the world.” Margrit repeated what she’d said to the siryn male, feeling as absurd to voice it now as she had then. She wanted flippancy in her voice, but instead she sounded as she felt: awed and very, very small. “I met an oroborus who’d let go of its tail, and gave it my chess piece.” She turned her empty palm up again, then let her hand fall. “It didn’t say anything, just ate the carving and sent me back home.”

  With her last words she realized the profundity of silence that had fallen over the room, and twisted to look at the tribunal and its audience. To a being, they had the stillness that only the Old Races could accommodate, and of all of them, only Chelsea Huo watched Margrit.

  The rest watched Chelsea.

  She had risen at some point, perhaps while Margrit spoke, and now stood as if rooted deep in the earth, unmovable, unswayable, her apple-wizened face so neutral as to be terrible. Under that gaze Margrit felt as small as she had beside the oroborus, pinned in place by great weight and age and strength.

  Chelsea did not, in actuality, shake herself, though some infinitesimal shudder ran through her and broke the stillness that held her captive. “You saw the serpent at the heart of the world? You offered him a gift?”

  “Was that bad?” Margrit’s voice quavered and she cleared her throat, trying to embolden herself. “It seemed like the right thing to do at the time. He—he? He seemed pleased. What—who—is he?” Her palms were damp with sweat, but wiping them on her leather pants would’ve done no good even if the pants were dry. Margrit tried anyway, then hugged her arms around herself, feeling as though Chelsea’s answer might be a headman’s ax.

  “He is the Serpent.” Daisani answered when Chelsea’s silence had gone on too long, and drew all eyes to himself by doing so. To Margrit’s astonishment, the vampire sounded very nearly reverent as he spoke, but recalling her own emotional reaction, she understood. “The same who litters your holy books and the same who entwines your healing staves. He is more than one of us, more than one of anything you might quantify. He is the beginning and the end of time, eternal in a way no other thing is. And he never lets go of his tail,” he added more prosaically, which earned a snort from Chelsea.

  “He’s never had hold of his tail,” she said briskly, then shot a sharp-edged smile toward Daisani. “But they do say he knows the truth about where the vampires came from.”

  Daisani’s gaze narrowed. Chelsea huffed an unimpressed breath, but Janx took attention from them with a murmur as soft and awestricken as Daisani’s own.

  “They say he’s the counterpart to the mother of us all. That one can’t exist without the other, and neither of them can die until the end of the universe. No one in the history of the world has ever spoken with him.”

  “The mother of us all? There’s a mother of us all?” Margrit came to her feet, her boots and clothes squishing.

  “You would call her Gaia. Mother Earth,” Chelsea said with a degree of impatience. “A legend from which everything is born.”

  “Her—mother—but—!” Margrit reined in her spluttering and lifted her hands to her head. “And this serpent is her counterpart? What, the death of us all? And I found him in the gargoyle memories? How’s that possible if nobody’s ever talked to him?”

  Chelsea rolled her eyes. “Dramatics. First, he’s touched many people through the aeons. Your mythologies come from somewhere, after all. Second, I think it’s clear you went well beyond the gargoyle memories, Margrit. No one returns from those adventures drenched in seawater or missing items they took with them into memory. It’s a psychic journey, not a physical one. However.” Her voice sharpened and Margrit came to attention, feeling young and small all over again. Chelsea repeated, “However,” more gently, and smiled. “Insomuch as anything can be, the serpent is the truth at the heart of everything, and if he accepted a gift from you, you’ve been honored beyond any other living being in this world.”

  “Oh,” Margrit said faintly, and all the other questions that had been raised fell away. “Does that mean I win?”

  Even Biali conceded, grudgingly, that it did, and Margrit left the tribunal chambers to the argument of what wisdom was meant to be derived from her experience. Grace led her back to Alban’s room, where Margrit dried herself and changed into her own clothes, now that the protective leathers were no longer needed for fighting.

  Grace was still waiting when Margrit emerged, toweling her hair dry. The tall vigilante was more swollen and bruised than Margrit: she’d caught a glimpse of herself in a mirror, and Daisani’s gift was doing its work. By morning she doubted she’d see any marks left from their battle. Grace noticed it, as well, and looked sour. “Vampires.”

  Caught off guard, Margrit laughed. “The worst thing about living in Santa Barbara.”

  Grace’s bruises creased with confusion and Margrit waved it off. “Never mind. I’d think you were the right demographic to have seen—Well, never mind. Are you okay?”

  “I’ll heal. Didn’t know you had that much fight in you.” Grace gestured toward the hall and took the lead, much to Margrit’s relief. She still hadn’t spent anything like enough time in Grace’s domain to know where she was going, though at least a few hallways were beginning to look familiar.

  “I didn’t know I had that much fistfight in me, anyway. I kind of wish I still didn’t know.”

  “Sometimes it’s good to know how far you’ll go.”

  “Yeah? How far will you go?”

  Grace paused outside the chamber door, leaning on the handle as she gave Margrit a light smile. “To the edge of heaven, so I can earn the kiss of angels, love. And yourself?” She pushed the door open, ushering Margrit in before she could reply.

  The air within the meeting room felt like Janx’s alcove often did, as if it had a personal grudge and intended to hold Margrit back. Margrit caught a quick sharp breath, gaze skittering from one face to another as she tried to ascertain what she’d missed. Biali scowled furiously, arms folded against his thick chest; Alban looked poleaxed, his own gaze roving from one member of the tribunal to another. The selkies and djinn whispered amongst themselves, while Janx and Daisani eyed each other as if one had done something unspeakable, and the other didn’t wish to speak of it, but couldn’t let it go. Behind Margrit, Grace le
t go a soft whistle. “Wonder what we missed.”

  “Enter, Margrit Knight.” Eldred’s dark, chocolate voice rolled over her and Margrit scurried forward, feeling as though she’d turned up late for an important test. She bobbed her head, nearly cutting a clumsy curtsy when she came in front of the tribunal, then bit back a laugh at her own nerves.

  “Sorry if I—”

  “Silence.”

  Margrit swallowed hard enough to hurt her throat trying not to repeat her apology. She still had the towel clutched in both hands, giving her the silly but reassuring idea that everything would be all right. Eldred waited on her for long moments, clearly expecting his edict to be broken, but Margrit remained quiet, and the djinn and selkie whispers died away. Margrit regained some measure of composure, familiar enough with gimlet-eyed judges to be comfortable in Eldred’s imposed hush. Finally the silence grew sufficiently profound that even Janx and Daisani broke off their wordless exchange to pay heed.

  Eldred, with the art of a showman, held his place and the quiet to the breaking point, waiting until Margrit, at least, fidgeted internally, though she didn’t let it seep through physically. Then, sonorous and deep, he announced, “The trial is ended—”

  “What?” Despite her best intentions, Margrit’s voice shot up. “I only went to change clothes! I haven’t stood the third—”

  “Margrit.” Alban spoke from behind her, soft and calming. Margrit knotted her hands in the towel and set her teeth together, forbidding any more words from escaping. Eldred glowered at her until satisfied she wouldn’t interrupt again, then started over.

  “The trial is ended. We demand tests of strength, of wisdom and of compassion. Of these tests two are decided at the heart of the tribunal, and we name those two as strength, gone to Biali’s champion, and wisdom, gone to Alban’s. But for the third, the trial of compassion, we must look beyond our trials and determine the larger actions of our combatants.

  “Margrit Knight has, at great risk to herself, taken Alban Korund’s place in this trial. Why have you done this?”

  “Because it’s wrong not to fight for what’s right,” Margrit replied, then winced at the rhymed phrasing. Eldred, though, nodded acceptance, so she pressed her lips shut against trying for more eloquence.

  “Biali’s champion should not have won the battle of strength. Why did she?”

  Margrit shot a guilty look toward Grace, whose expression remained neutral beneath the bruises. “Because I threw the fight, Your Honor. Eliseo Daisani gave me a sip of his blood a while ago, and I heal faster than any human should. Grace couldn’t hurt me enough to win, but she wasn’t going to betray Biali’s honor by not trying. I wasn’t going to let her kill herself on the moral high ground.”

  Eldred nodded a second time. “And why are you part of these proceedings at all?”

  “What, beyond Alban throwing himself on his sword? Because he needed help a few months ago, I guess. Because he asked me to help clear him of the suspicion of murder.” Her answers had none of the polish of a prepared ending argument, and the lawyer in her cringed at how raw and inexperienced she sounded. But once more, Eldred nodded.

  “And are you willing to have these answers, these memories, recorded for our histories, so that we might all feel and see their truth?”

  Margrit blinked. “Sure. What do I have to do?”

  “You’ve joined our memories. The process of us entering yours is somewhat different.” Eldred broke off, glancing at Alban. “Unless the exchanges have gone both ways?”

  “No.” Alban shook his head, as though the deep, rumbled word was insufficient. “She’s been an inactive participant in our joinings.”

  Scarlet leapt up Margrit’s neck to burn her cheeks, tears of laughter and embarrassment and half-real offense carried on the heat. She knew what Alban meant, but couldn’t help taking it wrong. Beneath blood rushing in her ears she heard Janx chuckle. “What a dreadful thing to say to a lady, Stoneheart.”

  The weight of two dozen Old Races’ gazes landed on her. Margrit’s blush grew hotter and she clapped her hands over her cheeks, wishing she had the skin tones to hide such furious color. Unable to command a full voice, she croaked, “You’re not helping!” to the dragonlord, who laughed aloud.

  “Do forgive me, my dear. I only thought to chide our friend for his careless words. Pray continue,” he added brightly to the silent onlookers, and after shooting Margrit a pained look of apology, Alban did.

  “It’s been much as any sharing of memory with one who is not a gargoyle, save that Margrit seems to be susceptible to my unguarded thoughts. That, I think, is unprecedented among the Old Races.” He hesitated, waiting for correction, but Eldred urged him to continue. “Her memories have been closed to me, as would be any of theirs,” and with the word he gestured, including the other Old Races with a circle of his hand, “if I wasn’t invited to explore them.”

  “Then the ritual of request will suffice to allow us access to her memories?” Eldred’s rich voice held a mix of fascination and dismay.

  Alban shrugged. “It’s entirely possible her memories will be cut off from us entirely. We haven’t tried.”

  Margrit said, “Um,” and her voice cracked on the syllable. Another blush rose as the gathered Old Races turned to her again. “There was that one dream…”

  Alban blinked at her slowly, and then to her delight, color flushed his pale face, the first time she’d ever seen him blush. “I assume that contact was initiated by my thoughts of you,” he said quite formally.

  Suddenly cheerful with camaraderie, Margrit flashed him a bright smile that helped beat down the heat in her face, then turned to the gargoyle council with open hands. “So let’s try your request ritual. What do I do?”

  “You may wish to sit comfortably.” Eldred gestured to the chess-table chair, and Margrit, relieved she’d dried off and changed clothes, set her towel aside and sat.

  “Who’ll be in my head?”

  Eldred’s hesitation was barely perceptible. “I will. But in such cases it’s traditional for the entire tribunal to follow, so we can all experience the events as clearly as possible.”

  Goose bumps shot over Margrit’s arms as she looked from stranger to stranger, finally bringing her eyes to Alban’s. He inclined his head, small movement of reassurance. She dragged a deep breath and nodded, looking back at Eldred. “What about—” She tilted her head at the gathered selkies and djinn. “Will everyone be watching, or just the gargoyles?”

  “Only the gargoyles. Sharing thoughts with the others requires repeating the welcoming ritual with each of them. I see no need to risk a greater link, particularly when we’ve never shared with a human before.”

  “Did you have to say risk?” Margrit made a face, then brushed concern away: she’d ridden Alban’s memories with no ill effects. “How do I guide you?”

  “By focusing on the events in question. We will not sift your memories, searching for things you don’t wish to share, but you should know that this is not a…” Humor curled the corner of the elder gargoyle’s mouth. “Not a surgical procedure. I can’t promise you your privacy.”

  Janx, just within Margrit’s peripheral vision, shifted enough to be seen, making himself a deliberate reminder of things that should remain hidden. As though she could forget. Margrit quelled the urge to scowl at him and only nodded to Eldred. “I understand. You said there’s a ritual?”

  Eldred sat across from her, moving chess pieces out of the way so he could place his elbows on the table and put his hands palms up, like an offering. “Your hands over mine, please, but not touching. And, perhaps, the name you go by.”

  Margrit put her hands above the gargoyle’s, laughing softly at their comparative dark daintiness. With her fingertips above the heels of his hands, his fingers extended well past her wrists, talons making a thick and dangerous-looking cage. “My full name is Margrit Elizabeth Knight. My friends call me Grit.”

  Another smile curved Eldred’s mouth. “Very well. Margrit
Elizabeth, called Grit, the gargoyles ask to share memory with you, so that it might be recorded in the history of our peoples for all time.” His voice deepened, becoming more sonorous as he spoke. Prickles waved over Margrit’s nape, then soothed again as she relaxed into his words. “I am Eldred of Casmir. If you grant us this sharing, I will be your conduit into our memories, my eyes to yours, my hands to yours, my heart to yours, your eyes to us, your hands to us, your heart to us. Do you consent?”

  Margrit, too aware of another ceremony, answered with the same words, heard herself say, “I do.”

  Eldred closed his hands around hers.

  Impossible noise took off the top of Margrit’s skull.

  CHAPTER 18

  At eight, a stick of a thing with corkscrew curls lightened by the summer sun, she could outrun her best friend, a boy of the same age, with laughing ease. By eleven, he’d outgrown her by several inches, his legs seeming to go on forever while hers were stubby and short by comparison.

  She could still outrun him.

  She could at fourteen, too, though by then she was resigned to a diminutive height and beginning to grow into curves that most professional female athletes never saw. It didn’t matter: she ran as fast as she could, losing herself in the rhythms and challenges of speed.

  One day she ran so fast she began to fly.

  Winter nights slammed into her as she spread her hands and soared through the city sky. She was made of wind, or maybe ice, and then of glass, thin and fragile in the sky, but full of vibrancy and color. Her vision bent and telescoped, glass shaping to show her all the moments of her life.

  A fraction of her that stood outside the colored glass whispered concern: there were connotations to your life flashing before your eyes, and with the pounding white static filling her mind, the idea that she was dying felt too close to possibility.