by T. A. Miles
Dacia drew in a breath and couldn’t hold onto it. She swallowed more air and panted it away as the fire ravaged her internally. Tears streaked in hot paths from her eyes and though she wanted to sob, she couldn’t. There simply wasn’t enough air to be had that would allow her any voice. The sensation of something else near terrified her, but she reached out for it anyway, and clutched it desperately, as if it might have air to transfer to her through her very skin, which was going numb now, but still burning at the surface. Whatever had come to her seemed willing to try helping, returning her tight grip, but to no avail.
“I … can’t breathe….” she said between abbreviated breaths.
“Hush now,” a voice replied, and she felt something supporting her back as well … and a firm grip on her shoulder. “Help is on the way. Just hold still.”
Dacia squeezed tighter, a moan of pain escaping with what felt like the last of her breath. “I … can’t….”
“Yes, you can,” the stranger insisted gently. “You’re going to be fine. Hush now.”
Dacia’s eyes fluttered open. She glimpsed stars in a sky draped with curling tendrils of crimson. A face—perhaps the face of a man, though it was too beautiful to tell—slowly shaped in that sky. She saw him looking down at her, dark eyes glinting in the moonlight, like starlight … and then she saw nothing, though the deep color of his hair stayed impressed upon her mind.
The voice remained with the pain in her absence of vision, urging her still, and somehow enfolding her through an episode of darkness that was not death, but purely terrifying in its taunting nearness to it. It would have been unbearable without the voice. It would have been impossible not to succumb wholly to the presence wrapped around her heart without the whispered song of her attendant, who had hair the color of blood.
Some things were difficult to describe, like the way he fell in his dream, and woke up on the floor beside his bed. But he hadn’t fallen; he was pushed. Still, he should not have fallen at all. He felt as if when it happened, he should have been flying, but he was bound somehow; by rope or chain, or injury … he couldn’t be certain. He had something in his hand, something he wouldn’t let go. Someone tried to catch him. Maybe they didn’t want him to die, but the look in their eyes was more of hatred than of fear. It was passion….so intense. He felt as if he had betrayed them, and somehow he was satisfied with that.
The dream was slow separating from wakefulness. Eyes were transfixed on the featureless ceiling overhead as Korsten lay on the floor, one leg still half upon the bed. In his peripheral vision his deep red hair spilled onto the floor and sat as a stain over a swath of white bedding beneath his head. His bare form nearly matched the linen and its current arrangement, draping the floor and bed in a long, slender entanglement. In body he was said to be graceful, though at times he found himself in the most awkward of positions.
Overhead, a crimson butterfly clung to the ceiling, as misplaced against the white and timbered expanse overhead as Korsten’s hair. Beside the brilliant insect what appeared a tiny fragment of the ceiling, like a slice of plaster falling from it, shifted then lifted away and fluttered downward, revealing itself to be a moth. The gentle tumbling motion drew the red butterfly as well, as if the pair were connected by an invisible strand. Both the butterfly and the moth that had begun the descent performed a casual dance that fairly mirrored what had gone on in the bed the night before, at least in regards to its light form and decided lack of urgency.
The two insects kissed the edge of the mattress and fluttered out of view to new perches, preceding the show of an exceedingly dark brown head of hair, miraculously blue eyes, and a smile that existed only at the proper angle. Half turned upside down on the floor seemed the proper angle.
“What are you doing down there?” Merran asked in a steady voice that constantly mirrored his stoic features. No amount of years could change Merran. Korsten was decided.
“My deduction is that I’ve fallen,” Korsten replied, and accepted the hand his fellow mage reached down to him.
“It was a narrow space to share,” Merran admitted, pulling him back onto the bed, where conveniently, Korsten found himself in that same narrow space and within his friend’s arms once again.
“It could be much worse.” Korsten traced the very corner of Merran’s quirked lips, and then brushed his own over them. Inspired by that small gesture, Merran drew him closer and rolled onto his back. Korsten noticed the two slight, winged beings alight from the bedding in that moment, gliding across Merran’s shoulders, just before Korsten’s fingers retraced the same path. He settled on top of his friend and they took their morning exchange without words, Merran’s touch negating any lingering worries about the dream for now.
And so it went, and so it had gone for more than a few decades by now. Korsten found himself impossibly verging on sixty, rendered ageless by his occupation. Rather, by the side benefits of his occupation; the taking in of a flower that provided vitality to its takers. It kept he and others of his peers on a level field with their adversaries, creatures who acquired unnatural amounts of life essence as well, through the blood and thereby souls of their victims. A young woman had nearly been one such victim last night in the streets of a city one might have considered a refuge from the war not too many years ago. Indhovan lay at the coast, the natural border of Edrinor along its eastern edge. It was once safely distanced from the borders war had made to the north and west, which were now wrapping to the south as well. They were being choked out by Morenne, a nation empowered by demons.
How could it have come to this?
The thought wove between each moment, neglected in their passing by the state of healing which intimacy with Merran created. It was a screen, Korsten realized; not truly healing. This pleasant escape would become heavy reality again, and if all Korsten had been seeking was escape, he would have stopped this by now. The intimacy was what he wanted, the guiltless closeness and warmth of contact Merran offered through their unique friendship. It was a surrogate passion, a replacement for the love he thought he’d had with a man who turned out to be the enemy; conspiring with demons and capable of so many grievous deeds. It was a discovery that had nearly killed Korsten, literally. He had Merran and the Seminary of Magecraft to thank for being alive as well as for the will and ability to fight Morenne … and Renmyr.
Korsten tried not to think about Renmyr Camirey during these moments, but in spite of his trying, he realized that they were moments when he could think about his former lover with a straight head on. His tendency otherwise was overly emotional, and foolish. Only a fool would have held out hope for this long. Only a fool would allow something lost to carry on tormenting them. But he had been that. He had been a demon’s fool.
“Some demons even provide themselves with the illusion of love and become romantically obsessed with an individual.” Merran had once described it so well, and cuttingly. “The Vadryn torment the subject of their infatuation. They lie to them and hurt them, willfully, making them little more than their own mindless doll before they are done.”
Korsten felt like he was beginning to pull away, to see clearly. He knew what needed to be done to free them both from the binding Renmyr had so carefully crafted. It’s unraveling, Ren. What will remain between you and me once it’s gone?
A golden wash of moRning light illuminated high walls of books. An entire lower floor boasted shelving end to end. A half floor above it, accessible by twin curving staircases near the center of the room, several more racks of shelves were housed. Those on the balcony floor were interspersed with side tables or decorative stands, and also with two tall doors—one on either end of the back wall—providing access from the second story corridor. The first floor consisted of highly polished, patterned stone, a long table at the center and a series of floor to ceiling windows of beveled glass. Bookcases lined the side and back walls along the main floor, interrupted only by the double doors centered be
neath the room’s twin stairs.
Irslan Treir stood at the central table, over a short stack of books he’d lately brought down from the room’s higher shelves. With one hand loosely folded behind his back, he opened the topmost book with the other, inspecting the table of contents beneath the cover.
Demonic Horde of the North … Battle of Fleiglen … Morennish Alliance….
Irslan’s finger moved down the list of topics. It seemed evident where this volume ought to be catalogued—a task he’d taken up only recently, in spite having inherited the library nearly two decades ago. Still he was always tempted to investigate the text further.
“Master Treir,” someone beckoned.
“Good morning,” he replied, his head lifting before his eyes left the reading in front of him. A smile eventually crossed his lips at the sight of his guests. A distinct pair; one long and thin, white all over with a flowing hood of red curls and dark eyes that sucked the world in … the other matched in height, but thicker, adorned in black, including his short hair, with bright blue eyes surveying constantly. They were mages, and aptly titled. Irslan had hosted many in his day, so now they no longer appeared shocking in their strangeness, but simply notably unique. “I trust that both of you slept well.”
The dark one, Merran, nodded in reply while the redhead selected words for them. “Very well, thank you.”
“I’m happy to oblige,” Irslan said. He closed the book on the table. “Any word on—or from—the young lady?”
“I’ll look in on her shortly,” Merran answered. “I’m allowing her to sleep.”
“Good enough.” Irslan’s gaze went from one mage to the other. “Breakfast, for the both of you. What do you think?” He knew that their kind were not prone to feasting at any time of the day as others did, but surely when away from whatever their source of sustenance may have been, they had to eat something. It may have been an unconscious endeavor on Irslan’s part to be one day made privy to some of their secrets by continuing to offer his mage guests meals they would consistently turn down. Either that or his aim was to have them cast an eternal spell of Binding on his mouth.
“Perhaps something light,” Korsten agreed, in his consistently proper manner.
Irslan conceded with a smile and a nod. He gestured toward the library doors. “After you, sirs.”
The pair turned and made their way out of the library. Irslan lingered only long enough to glance over the book he’d had open before. He patted the cover as he stepped away from the table and followed his guests to the dining room, where a small meal had been set out.
“Eat as you’re inclined to,” Irslan said, directing his guests to the ornately carved table with matched chairs enough for eight guests. Four tall windows comprised partially of patterned stained glass lined the room on the side opposite the entrance. Morning light cast the room in a faintly blushed gold as it soaked through the colored windows and illuminated the predominantly red and gold décor of the room.
The two mages paid each other a brief glance and saw themselves to chairs opposite one another. While Merran took a disinterested, brooder’s position in his seat, Korsten perched himself in quiet elegance that might have been louder in a room where his hair stood alone in its crimson cast. Here the white of him contrasted more than his hair, however, reminding Irslan of the mage habits. Each mage paired themselves with a color, one that represented their area of focus and that they would wear solely and consistently throughout their career. It was a detail that typically passed Irslan by, but he was freshly reminded in this instance. Perhaps it was the stark white attire of one mage versus the perfect black layers of the other. In other examples, such as blue or green, Irslan had seen them coordinate in shades of that color, but here there was white and there was black, devoid of any variation.
Irslan took a seat at the head of the table and poured himself a glass of wine. He offered to his guests, both of whom passed, before stopping the decanter and placing it down. “Dare I ask what our situation is?” he began as conversationally as the occasion allowed for.
Another glance—a silent passing of dialogue between the mages—facilitated a verbal response, provided by Merran. “The Vadryn we tracked last night was stopped in the midst of possession.”
“Of the girl, yes,” Irslan recalled. He settled back into his seat with his glass in hand.
Merran nodded. “That more than likely means it was looking to settle. Why it chose the girl, I cannot say. Not until I’ve learned more about her.”
“The demon was destroyed,” Irslan said, to be clear on his understanding of the event, one that came abruptly after the mages’ arrival only a day before.
Merran nodded again.
And Korsten said, “There may be another.”
The statement drew Irslan’s gaze. “Another,” he said, inviting explanation.
“The Vadryn are instinctive and territorial,” Korsten indulged. “They will settle and draw slowly from their victims when they don’t feel threatened. The amount of murders, if connected to the Vadryn, would suggest the presence of another and that there is a vying for territory underway.”
“But it attempted to possess the girl,” Irslan said, glancing between the two mages. “Would that suggest that the threat which inspired such a conflict has left or been abated somehow?”
“Not necessarily,” the redhead answered. “It could mean that both demons found cause to hide.”
“From the pair of you, perhaps,” Irslan suggested.
“Or from a more powerful one of their own,” Korsten replied and looked across the table at his colleague, who returned the gaze.
The severity in both their expressions was enough to refer Irslan to the drink in his hand, which he brought slowly to his lips. He hesitated in a moment of contemplation, but let the topic rest for now and swallowed the mellow, sweet variation of a traditional Indhovan concoction. One day he might have far-travelled guests who he could impress with it, but it seemed that once again emissaries of Vassenleigh would prefer to impress upon him the dire state their country had gotten to. Three demons at large in the city sounded particularly dire this morning.
When Dacia opened her eyes, she was alone in fresh, soft bedding. She had slept, she knew, but her dreams went unremembered. She recalled more of color than of content. Red especially stood out from the darkness. Rolling over on a bed not her own, she was faced with a brilliant gathering of red on the crown of a narrow-framed man perched in the nearby window sill. One long leg was folded into the shallow box of the window frame, while the other draped to a dark wood floor partially carpeted to match red and gold drapes. Dacia started, and began to sit up, finding herself not quite properly covered, which had her pulling up the bedding around her and her undergarments.
The redhead scarcely looked over, and in so doing his gaze stepped around her, causing her to turn her head and notice the black-clad man sat on the other side of the bed—on the edge of the mattress, to be exact. Dacia gave another mild start, holding the bedding tighter.
“You’re all right,” the man in black told her, calmly and impersonally. His hand came to her brow in the following moment and she let him do what was evidently a physician’s business. His cool touch moved to her cheek with the backs of his fingers. “No fever.”
Dacia didn’t really know what to say, so she said nothing. Had she had an accident?
“She seems alert enough,” came a soft, almost silken voice from the window.
“Hush now.”
The words dashed forward from memory. Dacia’s eyes moved toward the man in the window first, before she could bring herself to turn her head and look upon him fully again. Beautiful, she remembered now. Dark eyes and blood red hair … yes, she recalled. She had been running for home.
“She’s remarkably alert,” said the darkly dressed man.
“There’s no evidence for….” the sweet
voice of the redhead drifted off thoughtfully.
The cool monotone of the other picked the thought up with a simple, “None.”
“Very lucky, then.”
“Very.”
Dacia’s gaze had been stuck on the mouth forming the words of the redhead; a very soft line across a narrow, smooth jaw. Her mind was gliding sluggishly between the two speakers and their words that pieced together haphazardly in her current state, fixing around staggered memories of the night before. She assumed it was the night before. She could recall running through the streets. For a moment she entertained notions of a fire, and then a vision of the redhead. He had been helping her somehow. She must have been in an accident … caught in a fire? She blinked and took her gaze slowly from the man in the window, fixing her gaze now on the carefully patterned quilt lain across her and the bed; deep brown with gold and copper leaves embroidered densely over it. It was quite lovely and appeared expensive. This was not home.
“What is your name?”
The man in black. She had quickly differentiated their voices in her mind and assigned them to each man. Granted, the redhead’s voice held a singular quality. And the man in black practiced minimal inflection, almost none at all.
“My name is Dacia.” The words formed easily enough, but awakened a rawness in her throat. She swallowed dryly. “Dacia Cambir.”
A glass of water was offered by the darker man and she accepted, sampling a swallow against the ache in her throat, then drinking down more as it soothed.
“Our names are Korsten,” the redhead offered. “And Merran.”
She put their names in what she assumed to be the proper places without further direction, handing the glass back to the black clad man. “Thank you, Master Merran.” When he did not correct her, she settled the matter in her mind.
