Missing Piece

by Robert Priest

  She knew it had been a dream, but the terror stayed in her body so long she began to be afraid that it would never go away. Coward. She tried to tell herself she had nothing to fear, but then she reminded herself that there was a Cyclopean armada poised to invade the city and its main objective was to capture her and skin her and disembowel her. This wasn’t a comforting thought. She wanted to roll up into a ball and pull the blankets over her head and disappear. Her skin felt so thin and the whole world seemed so dark and hostile. But she wasn’t going to let fear control her. Face your fear. That was what her father had drilled into her. If you fear the light, face the light. If you fear the dark, face the dark. Right now night was falling and she wanted to go out and take the night air, but she felt afraid to go out there. As though the examiner still lurked out there, paddle in hand, waiting to get at her once again.

  “Ridiculous,” she said to herself. “You fool! You idiot!”

  She stood up, hardly noticing that her heel had stopped hurting. She retrieved her sword, her sling, and a bag of stones and quietly went down the stairs of Mr. Stilpkin’s infirmary and out into the street. It was nighttime now, but the moon was shining. She hoped she wouldn’t see anyone. Not because she might be afraid of them, but because if anyone called her a coward she feared there might be a murder. And though she had killed in battle righteously, she did not ever want to commit murder.

  She proceeded in whatever direction her fear led her, heading along any stretch of narrow roadway where she dreaded he might lurk. There was not much habitation around here and few of the buildings had been recovered yet. There were plenty of places in which to hide and wait but she went there anyway. It didn’t stop the fear, but it didn’t stop her from challenging the fear either, and anyway the fresh air was doing her spirits good. Not far from the Great Kone she saw something glinting at her from the ground, star-like. She bent to examine it and saw that it was indeed a small silver star hardly bigger than a grain of sand. She had seen a green luminous glow like this before. Certain species of urchin she had seen on the seashore glowed like this at night. And there was another a few feet away. She bent to look at this one, too. There was some other association she had with this luminous greenness. She saw another one a little farther on. Following the little stars this way she soon came to the wall between the two halves of the city. She pulled herself to the top and saw the intermittent star trail continuing on the other side to where it eventually disappeared under the black thorn canopy.

  There was very little reason to do what she did next. It might possibly even be foolhardy to go where her fear wanted her to go now. She just had a feeling about those green glowing stars. She jumped down from the wall and followed the trail into the thorns. Under the canopy, the specks of luminescence lit up the interior ever so faintly as she proceeded through twists and turns. She had her sword drawn by now and she was definitely frightened. She kept telling herself that if the trail didn’t end soon she would turn back. But always when she got to the farthest star she saw another in the distance and went on. Occasionally she heard rustlings off to the side in the thorns, but when this happened she would take her sword and rattle it along the stalks of the thorn trees loudly, scaring off who or whatever it might have been. The farther she went, the closer together were the thick stalks. Eventually she had to squeeze her way in between the stalks, sometimes having to duck her head down under a low-lying black thorn. Some of these were at least a foot long with points sharp and deadly. Suddenly there were breaks in the canopy overhead. Through one of these she saw that she was close to a tall black tower at least five storeys high with a curved cupola-style roof. Whoever had left this trail of stars must live here. There was a curious, acrid smell that she vaguely recognized and didn’t like, but still she cautiously edged her way forward. She squeezed through two particularly close together trunks, and when they sprang back together she turned and found herself face to face with a dragon whose head was larger than her whole body. The huge orange eyes with their long, black, malevolent irises locked onto hers. One breath and the beast could sear away her flesh. She froze as though impaled, not breathing, not wanting to even suggest breathing to that giant brain. She’d seen these eyes before. This was the very she-dragon Xemion had called down to the beach five years ago, but she was much bigger now. He had called her Poltorir.

  The great circles of the nostrils widened and the beast took twin columns of lateral air spinning down into her lungs. Such a long, long intake. Tharfen felt the wind of it rush past her.

  “Poltorir!” she shouted. The beast’s irises contracted to razor-sharp slits. Tharfen’s terror doubled. Her sword was sharp and up, but how puny it looked against the scaly mass of this she-dragon. In her panic everything that had tried to hide the presence of the Xemion-bit in her now reversed and scrambled to find it, to be open to it, to display it, to let it be larger than it really was, to sink into it and disappear, to let the dragon see this piece of its mage that was in her. “Poltorir,” she said again, deepening her voice to sound as much like Xemion’s as possible. The dragon exhaled, the steam of its breath lifting the duff at her feet and swirling it into little cyclones about her. The heat was so intense she could hardly restrain herself from turning and running, but she knew she could never outrun the blast of a dragon. The creature took in another long breath. For a second Tharfen considered darting around the huge face and leaping onto the dragon’s back, and …

  As if it read her thoughts, the giant head leaned away to the side. Beyond it she saw the immensity of the rest of the dragon curling about the dark tower. She intoned the name again. “Poltorir.” She said it with all the authority of an admiral of the fleet, but also with great pity, now seeing the terrible scars on its flanks. “Rest.” The dragon breathed out, the steam this time aimed away from Tharfen. It was a long, slow exhale accompanied by an equally slow lowering of the finely scaled eyelids. Tharfen just as slowly backed away. Making no sound, she entered the sanctuary of the dark thorn canopy in reverse. She was still close enough that if the dragon wanted to she could suddenly lift that mighty head and let out a blast that would completely incinerate her. Tharfen continued to edge her way back, and only when she was out of sight of the dragon did she dare to turn her back on it and run.

  38

  Such Selfishness

  Lirodello’s honour had been slipping lately. He’d already gone from saying nothing about the business of the Phaer Council to talking about it in general terms. Now he had to go further. He hadn’t brought her a nightingale in ages, so she had stopped kissing him and he felt as if he would die without another kiss. Until this evening, because it had been strictly council business, he had not told her what Tharfen had said about the spell Xemion had cast on Saheli as she lay dying. But tonight he had an excuse for telling her. Others had heard Tharfen tell that story and they must not have been so circumspect, because it was a tale that had become known through the rumour mills of Ulde. And as is often the case with the Phaer people, the more it was told the more it was changed to become a more satisfying story. At first only little nuances were added to it, but over time these all seemed to cascade toward what would become the most suitable ending to the tale. This was not the ending where the spell worked and the enchanted girl arose from her death and he and she were living happily together. It was too happy, and besides, where was she? If she’d returned to life, surely she would have shown her face by now.

  The saddest version, the version where Xemion was not a spellbinder at all but a fool, meant she had to die at the end. But this fell flat. It was a bad tale. No one liked it that way, so people stopped repeating it that way. In fact, they settled on the version where both outcomes were still possible — the spell would not work until the full turn of the Great Kone. Meanwhile he kept her somewhere neither dead nor alive, neither hot nor cold, neither breathing nor not breathing, everything in his life, all his dreams and powers, frozen about her. It was this version of the s
tory that had finally earlier this evening come back to Lirodello’s ears, and so, since it was no longer a direct product of council business, he reasoned that had no further reason not to tell Zila. Her response was instant and, though whispered, explosive.

  “He has a beloved?”

  “That is the story.”

  “And she lives still?”

  “I’m not saying that’s been confirmed.”

  “And this is the maid he loves?”

  “If this story is true, he believes this maid is his warrior beloved.”

  “And did the spell work?”

  “It may have,” Lirodello said. “No one knows. Many say it brought her back only from the brink of death, but not all the way into life.”

  “But these are mere stories, surely?”

  “I know for sure he said words over the girl because that comes straight from Tharfen.”

  “And she is still not dead to this day?”

  “Perhaps.”

  “But didn’t you also have a beloved there who died that day?”

  When Lirodello breathed out and spoke there was a little tremble in his voice. “It is so.”

  “You told me her name was Imalgha, am I right?”

  “Only you would I allow to even say her precious name.”

  “And yet he did not offer to speak the same spell over your beloved?”

  Lirodello gulped down his sorrow.

  “Oh, Lirodello, you don’t have to hide the injustice of that pain. You have borne it so long. I hate injustice,” she said, stroking his cheek with the back of her hand. She kissed him tenderly.

  “So do I,” he said.

  “It eats away at the heart, right through to the other side, if you don’t rectify it.”

  “What could ever rectify such a thing?” he asked.

  She ran her fingertips along the edge of his upper lip in a flourish like a painter finishing off a portrait, and said, “If not the return of your beloved, then why the return of his?”

  “It is far too late to resurrect my beautiful Imalgha,” he replied, a little puzzled.

  “Then why should it be far too late for his beloved to die?” she asked, getting incensed at the thought of it. “Don’t you see he is your rightful mage? He ought to be defending this city now, but he is under a spell himself. I can feel it. It is very clear to me. She holds him in thrall, all his power tied up in her hanging on to him. And for that little thread of unrighteous life, all else is depraved and deprived. Don’t you see? Someone has to have the courage to undo this imbalance, otherwise we are all doomed. Don’t you see? The Cyclopes are coming. That girl, Tharfen, has come. You have your kwisling rebels to the east. It won’t be easy, but she must be amputated from the vine. That thread must be cut and she must be allowed to die. Then I assure you he will spring back un-enthralled. Death will have her one maid, and a thousand other maids will be saved. She must die.” She chose this moment to finally kiss him again.

  He nodded.

  “Don’t you see what he is doing? Everything is out of balance because of his spell. Your people have this rich bounty of magic. It costs you no bleeding and it should be serving everyone, but he is holding it back just so that it can all go to her. And they call your people Thralls. Tell me if you’ve ever heard of such selfishness.”

  Lirodello shrugged.

  “Find the mage,” she railed on. “Do what you must to make him work for you. Let the girl finally die. Nothing will be in balance while she lives.”

  Lirodello kept quiet, hoping he hadn’t inadvertently told her more than he needed to. He watched her anxiously, almost hearing the wheels turning in her mind. Finally, she said, “When you said the story came from Tharfen herself, how do you know it came from her?”

  Lirodello gulped again. He could withhold information from her, but he couldn’t outright lie to her. “It was me she told.”

  There followed a brittle silence in the room. Finally she broke it. “How long have you known that about this beloved of his?”

  “Since … since the day when Tharfen first came to Ulde.”

  “And you didn’t tell me?”

  “My love,” he said, softly reaching a hand out to touch her. She moved quickly away from him.

  “NO! Don’t you touch me! Don’t you ever touch me again!”

  39

  Another Collision

  Tharfen had so completely reached the fullest possible extent of her terror when she stood in front of the dragon that her capacity for fear seemed almost worn out. A kind of numb calm settled over her as she followed the fading silver stars through the zigzagging tunnels under the fallen houses back to the other side of the city. Somehow, surviving those terrifying moments, not knowing if she would be scorched to death or not, had made her feel safe. It would be highly unlikely for anything else similarly dangerous to happen to her on the same night, she told herself. Nevertheless, she kept her grip tight on the hilt of her sword.

  By the time the last of the star specks had gone dim, she was almost through the thorn forest. She easily found her way to the exit and emerged under a sky full of actual stars. Once she had climbed over the wall, she picked up the pace a little and began to trot. As she rounded a corner, she collided directly with someone so forcefully they both bounced off each other and fell to the ground. Quickly they were up, swords out, the distant stars glinting off of their nearly touching blades. She came at him the way the master swordsman had taught her, the blade gripped tight in her right hand, the cutting edge forward, the intent to slash his neck. She veered at the last moment. It was Xemion. And the moment she stopped, he struck at her. But she ducked and then the two of them were going at it in the near-dark, the arcing of their blades constrained by the narrowness of the street. She knew right away she could beat him. He was nothing. She could dash his sword away with one easy twist.

  “Xemion!” she said sharply.

  “You!” he replied, outraged. And now he came at her harder. “You!”

  He thought he had her. He was just reaching out to grab her when she smacked him hard on the side of his face with the back of the hilt of her sword. She was being merciful; she could have skewered him easily. As he staggered with the blow, she tripped him, and he fell forward over her left foot. She sped his way down with another quick poke of her elbow into his lower back. He hit the ground hard and it knocked the air out of him. Before he could get up she jabbed her knee into his back and the point of her blade into the crook of his unarmoured shoulder, right by his neck.

  “Stop struggling,” she warned him. She was slightly enjoying this. “I’m going to let you up. I’m a much, much better swordsman than you, Xemion. If you try to attack me, I might have to really hurt you. Now, do you want me to let you up?”

  Saying nothing, he gave a sudden push upward with his arms. But her knee was firmly planted in the middle of his back and his chin was once again banged down against the ground for his troubles. After a while she asked him again, “Now can I let you up, Xemion?”

  “Let me up,” he said gruffly.

  He stood up, one hand rubbing his chin. The next instant the point of her blade was at his throat.

  “What do you want?” he asked her angrily. He was acting bravely, but she suddenly became acutely aware of something — his piece in her. His panic, his alarm, his dread was exposed in her. Everything laid so bare that for a second she felt sorry for him.

  The first thing she demanded of him surprised her. “What have you done with Saheli?” A look of rage passed over his face as though it were a transgression for her to bring it up with him. As though it hurt him more than it hurt her. “I know you did some kind of spell on her before she died.” She said it like she was thirteen years old again. Or more like eleven. She said it accusingly, but at the edge of tears. She could feel him freezing himself, a wave going through the piece, making
it quiet. He was hardly breathing as he watched her. “How dare you take her away from us like that when she was our friend, too?”

  “It was you who took her away from me.” He spat.

  “This is sickening,” she said.

  “More for me,” he shot back.

  “Why would that be?”

  “Because I’m not the one who caused all this. If you had not betrayed me to that old man, I’d be with Saheli now and none of this would’ve happened.”

  “You think she was yours alone? But she’s Torgee’s, too,” she growled in anger. She wanted to hurt him. But she could feel him hiding himself.

  “She’s gone for all of us.”

  She couldn’t tell if he was lying. The two of them stood there face-to-face, her point still at his neck.

  “What do you want from me?” he said.

  “You have something of mine and I want it back.”

  “What?”

  “You know exactly what. You have a piece of me from Shissillil.”

  Xemion’s face twitched with revulsion.

  “Mr. Stilpkin says that he can help us….” She paused.

  “Help us what?”

  “He says there is a cross-spell working on us. He says if we satisfy the conditions of the Spell of Return and return our pieces to each other, then we will be unblocked and—”

  Xemion laughed in her face. “He doesn’t know what he’s talking about.”

  “Well, I want my piece back. And I’d hate to have to cut it out of you.”

  “You make me sick.”