Bargest, or at least that ragged rack of bones that had once been Bargest, rose from his perpetual corner and slowly shambled across the floor. “Loceklis,” he barked. He hardly knew he had such strength. He lifted his heavy front paws up against the enthralled Xemion and pushed him so hard he fell over. While Xemion curled on the floor with his hands over his eyes waiting for the bright text searing itself into his brain to fade, the dog took the spell scroll between his aged jaws and deposited it in the fireplace, where the last few embers of today’s fire quickly ignited it, unleashing sparks and flashes of strange green flames.
By the time Xemion realized what was going on it was too late. He ran to the fire. He even reached into the flames but the old spell staff, now that the safety spell had nearly run its course, was almost gone. The last fragment of it had just enough fire left to singe his fingers.
“No!”
Now he had nothing between him and the text of the Great Kone. What could he do? This was the worst time to leave Saheli here alone.
“No!” he shouted, his voice full of desperation. “No!” he cried out again, but he couldn’t stop himself. He ran out of the door and down the steps.
42
A Strange Sense of Normalcy
It was the day before the equinox and a strange sense of normalcy had taken over Ulde. It was as though there had always been an armada poised to strike the city, as though the wind had always been still. There was only today and no thought of tomorrow. This had been vastly enabled by Lirodello’s release of the spell kones. When people weren’t working at the armaments sharpening swords, cutting wood for arrows, gathering stones, strengthening defences, learning how to handle a sword or an axe, they gathered at the mead and ale tents and drank spell-made beverages from golden goblets bejewelled and ornate. There they caroused and raised great toasts to one another. They sang songs that at first no one of them knew all the words to, but by singing the parts they did know back and forth they were able to piece together from their shattered cultural memories entire lost lyrics of jubilation and friendship. And how quickly they took back to dance. How effortlessly they took to beating the long wooden tables with copper spoons and shouting out the rollicking choruses.
No one knew what lay ahead. Some of them planned to end their lives jumping off cliffs rather than submit again to any kind of slavery. Others believed the new version of the tale about the maid rising from the dead in the tower and the mage taking up his magical sword again to rescue them. Most had lived in utter deprivation, without rights or appeal. Some of them were recent escapees from the underearth, where they had stared up at the magma sun in the centre of the globe and known the feeling in the flesh of craving golden sunlight. Here, no matter for how long, there was golden sunlight. And they let their flesh drink it in like they drank in the ale and the mead and the sparkling wines and each other. So that never in all the tempestuous history of this ancient city had there been such abandonment and merriment.
The men and women of the Phaer Academy had always been lovers of love as they say. Other than those who believed themselves to be warrior beloveds there had always been frequent changes of partners and orientations among them. But the rate of these exchanges was vastly accelerated. Any love that had left itself unexpressed had to take its chances now. Any chance left untaken would stay forever so. And as always this brought about high drama. The screams at midnight. The public professions of devotion or abjection. For most of them though this was far and away the best time of their lives. They passed each other from hand-to-hand as though in some kind of enthralled dance.
Some claimed they had found spell kones to slow down time and that these last few days had passed in such slow ecstatic increments they might as well be eternal. Others had somehow obtained beauty kones and even if such people were already beautiful spinning the kone made them even more so. There were gender kones, dream kones, and kones that made you laugh incessantly. And none of this was done in the rags of the old normalcy, because Lirodello had also chosen to release the fashion kones. As a result, many were dressed in pantaloons and long-armed silk shirts that gathered at the wrists and looked like sails. There were custom curved waistcoats, jackets with long tails, floor-length taffeta dresses, aubergine blouses, and black net stockings covered with intricate jewel work that glittered in the sun. Never had there been such a variety of headwear — top hats, turbans, capotaines, bonnets, conies, flats, barretinas, pinners, gabriolets, hoods, scarves, snoods, coronets, diadems, tiaras, henins, and wimples. All of which they doffed or politely touched in amused greeting a hundred times an hour as they passed to and fro, chatting and toasting.
At some point, of course, the power of a spell kone would wear out and someone dressed like a dandy would suddenly find themselves utterly naked. This was embarrassing for some, but most had been raised without a sense of modesty and took the opportunity to jump or spin, thereby inducing applause and hoots from all about them before they dashed off to find another kone, another sumptuous outfit. And all the while those who had turned music kones serenaded them with lutes and drums and voices made magically beautiful. Everywhere everyone jigged and twirled, in perfectly fitting pointy shoes, their stomachs filled to bursting with what had started out as just a mouldy salt biscuit. It didn’t matter whether forever or for a day, they had one another in the world and they weren’t going to miss it.
For those in the armada out at sea it was not so merry. They were hirelings for the most part and they had not signed up for time in the doldrums. They didn’t like stillness. No matter how much they were assured such stillness was ordinary and typical of this time of year, they couldn’t help thinking otherwise. Seeing one’s face in the glassy surface without a ripple; seeing the tops of underwater trees a thousand feet down beckoning to you; this was not merriment. And so there were more quarrels and their gambles and their sorrows and their love affairs grew more and more bitter and violent and there were many who deeply regretted ever signing up for this voyage.
43
A Couple of Clams Under a Rock
On the eve of the equinox the Great Kone was definitely drawing long-dispersed forces into close proximity. It was as though there were magical strings wound about it, one end affixed to the Great Kone, the other ends attached to Montither and Torgee in the west, Prince Icrix in the eastern ocean, Xemion in his tower with Saheli, and, central to all this, Tharfen, alone in her new quarters, practising with her blade. Shorter and shorter grew those strings as the Great Kone revolved, drawing them all closer and closer to one another like different threads all on one spool. Some would cross here, some would cross there, but Xemion and Tharfen would cross again much sooner than she knew.
Putting aside her sword, she returned to the table where she was making lists of various strategies that might be used if and when the invasion came. At the bottom of her list, just below her crossed-out entry entitled “trickery,” she was just finishing writing the phrase “surrender myself to them,” when there was a loud knock at the door. For a long time she ignored it. But then she heard Mr. Stilpkin calling up to her.
At first she refused to answer. But when he told her that Xemion had come to him for help, she reconsidered.
“He is in desperate straits himself,” Mr. Stilpkin told her. “He came to me begging for the return of the book you gave me. I had no choice but to surrender it to him. He is in thrall of the Great Kone and it is the only thing that can mollify him. More important than that, Tharfen, he has considered what you told him about the exchange of pieces between you, and he realizes now that he has to try to get his piece back.”
“What!?”
“Yes, I’m serious.”
“You’re sure?”
“I’m sure.”
Confusing as this turn of events was, it couldn’t help but lift Tharfen spirits. There were certain conditions, though, that Mr. Stilpkin insisted on establishing. There should be no talk of Saheli.
“You are right that he did, indeed, cast a spell to bring her back and there was some power in the spell he cast, but not sufficient to raise her. He has assured me, and I believe him. I’m sorry to say, Tharfen, she is dead. She’s been gone for many years, I’m afraid.”
“You’re sure?”
“I have never doubted it. And I have a very good sense of whether someone is lying or not. As I told you, a Spell of General Return requires the participation of several mages. Any talk of this, or indeed any talk of his supposed powers of spellcraft, will only lead us astray.”
“That may be,” she said, “but I don’t trust him. He is a liar and a cheat.”
“Perhaps, but probably the only chance you have of regaining your wholeness.”
“Such lies.”
“But don’t forget. He wants his piece back as well. And I think he’s smart enough to know that he won’t get his back if you don’t get yours back.”
“It’s not as though I have a lot of options,” she said bitterly.
“Then will you come at four of the clock this evening and let us begin with it?”
Tharfen looked tired and angry. “I’m going to get my piece back from him if I have to cut him open, hang him from the yardarm, and pour him through a sieve.”
“Another lovely image. Hopefully it won’t come to that. Perhaps you will feel a little better about him if I share one item of wonderful news with you. I told you what happened to the books from Lyess. Well, Xemion has more books! Thousands of them, he says, and he is willing to give them to us for the library.” Mr. Stilpkin couldn’t resist executing a little dance step as he said this.
They met on the top floor of the infirmary in the lavender room, not far from where Tharfen had recuperated. They sat side by side in two chairs facing Mr. Stilpkin as he began his investigation. There was certainly no good feeling between them. They had not met each other’s eyes, and had barely nodded to each other when they arrived. Seeing Tharfen reminded Xemion how easily she had defeated him, and that angered him. She could feel a little of that anger and it offended her in return.
Mr. Stilpkin began quite formally. “Let’s just agree that we are here today to see if we can do something about this piece switching that has gone on between you.” Xemion barely repressed a look of resentment. “It could be a simple matter to make the pieces migrate back to their original homes. Or it could be very difficult. In large part, I believe it depends on the two of you and what you will or will not allow. But let us be aware that tomorrow the Great Kone comes full circle — one full turn — and if ever there was a time when such an exchange might be affected, this is it. To begin, I want each of you to search your mind to find something true and kind to say to the other.”
Both of them shook their heads as though this were not only repugnant but impossible. “Believe me,” Stilpkin continued, “if you cannot accept a kindness from each other you will never be able to receive those lost parts of yourself back.” He waited. They both emanated reluctance.
“It is very impressive that you have sailed around the world since you were last here,” Xemion said, not looking at Tharfen.
“Look at him, Tharfen. And you look at her, Xemion.”
Tharfen met Xemion’s eyes and he repeated what he had said. Tharfen sighed and thought for a while. “You have a beautiful natural timbre to your voice when you speak,” she said, not entirely sincerely. Mr. Stilpkin sighed and waited, but when nothing further was added he asked “Is what you both said true?”
They both nodded.
“Tharfen, do you accept what Xemion said?”
Tharfen shrugged. “I do,” she acknowledged, not looking at either of them.
“And Xemion, do you accept that what Tharfen has said is the truth?”
“I do,” Xemion answered.
“Well, there you go. That’s a start.” Mr. Stilpkin chuckled. “You have both just successfully exchanged portions of your truth with each other. But now that you have begun, I see that it might be better to go at this a little more mechanistically.”
He led them to another room where two large disks of black stone were mounted in metal frames facing each other about four feet apart. “I’d like you to stand between these two lodestones facing each other.”
They both complied stiffly.
“Do you feel the tug of the magnets?” he asked.
Xemion shrugged. Tharfen frowned and shook her head. Mr. Stilpkin sighed and continued. “Now, ever since this mysterious collision in Shissillil, you’ve both mostly remained apart, am I correct?”
They nodded.
“But now that you are once again in close proximity, tell me this. Tharfen, do you feel the presence of the piece in you strongly at this moment?”
“Barely at all. It feels like it’s hiding inside me.”
Xemion scowled.
“Now set aside the drama, please,” Mr. Stilpkin warned. “Remember, this is ultimately for the good of both of you, so be open to each other. Xemion, be open to the piece of you that is so close to you right now in Tharfen. Tharfen, try not to resist that piece of him that’s in you, because your very resistance helps keep it in you. Both of you breathe. Each feel the presence of the other and in the other both of you must feel the fragment there that is part of your self.” After some time had passed and there had been no visible reaction in either of them, Mr. Stilpkin asked. “Do you feel it?”
Neither answered.
“Tharfen, do you feel it? Can you acknowledge it? Nod your head.” Tharfen nodded slightly. Xemion also nodded. “Now please, please, you must keep your hearts open to each other, that’s the only way you can give back your pieces, the only way you can receive your pieces. Breathe and be open. Feel them lifting through you.”
“Nothing is happening,” Tharfen said matter-of-factly.
“Of course nothing is happening.” Mr. Stilpkin shook his head in disgust. “You two are about as open to each other as a couple of clams under a rock. Step a little closer to one another.” They leaned forward so that their faces were little more than an inch apart. Their knees were almost touching. “Do either of you feel it now?”
“I feel it,” Tharfen said.
“I don’t feel anything,” Xemion said gruffly. “I’ve never felt anything. It’s just like it’s completely turned off.”
“Perhaps you should join hands. Gaze into each other’s eyes. And imagine the piece moving from one to the other. If you feel it in your wrists the most, Tharfen, then touch your wrists to his.”
Tharfen shuddered at the thought of this intimacy. Xemion stared impassively into her eyes. They turned their hands so that the wrists were facing each other. They moved even closer and pressed their wrists together and stood like that, face-to-face, wrist to wrist.
“Stay there,” Mr. Stilpkin insisted. And then he went about looking after his amaranth and echinacea, his fireberry bush and his mushrooms. After a long time, which seemed but a moment to Mr. Stilpkin, Tharfen’s voice arose. “Absolutely nothing is happening.”
“I am trying my best,” Xemion complained, frustrated.
“Well, you will have to do better!” Mr. Stilpkin barked. “Get closer. Put your arms around each other, like two trees that have grown together over a century, so close that they are like one tree. Trust, open up, be receptive, and always, always be intent on rectifying this, on re-establishing wholeness and power.”
With a swallow and a deep breath, Xemion did as he was bid and he felt Tharfen’s body press into his. She kept her eyes fixed to his, but something in them darted away from his perception. He felt for the first time the tremble in her, and he knew that small disturbance he’d been feeling in his own body was Tharfen’s fear inside him.
“Now I want you to open your hearts to each other and say to each other with as much goodwill and acceptance as possible, ‘release the piece.’” Neither of the
m spoke. Both were acutely embarrassed. “Yes, it is difficult. It is deeply frightening to open yourself to another person. So much trust is involved. Now can we try it?”
Almost as a sigh of resignation, they both said “Release the piece.”
“Remember, nothing will happen here without your sympathy. Your empathy.” Mr. Stilpkin punctuated this with a moment of silence before continuing. “Now I know you recently had quite a violent conflict and that harsh words were exchanged between you.”
“Do either of you want to say anything to the other about this? And remember, the whole idea here is to be open — to let what’s hidden inside of you out where it may be received by the other.” Neither of them responded. “Might one of you not want to say sorry to the other?” he prompted, looking urgently at Tharfen.
Tharfen’s face reddened a little, whether with anger or shame, it was hard to tell. For a moment, she remembered again that morning five years earlier when she had vengefully told the teacher that Xemion could read, and she felt the familiar pang of guilt. Her mouth moved as though she might actually apologize. But then it was as though a crack in her being creaked open a little and the piece lunged toward it, toward him, and she had to resist it. It felt like it would crack her wide open and she would fall like two halves of a shell to the ground. She closed herself off and stamped her foot. “No!” she shouted. “No. I have nothing to say.”
Missing Piece Page 17
