by Ross Kitson
***
Emelia.
The familiar voice seemed to be calling from a vast distance, sounding faint and immaterial.
Emelia!
A blissful heaviness enshrouded her, comforted her. It was like a mother’s womb, secure and removed from the terrors outside. Her instincts implored her to stay within this tranquil haze, to keep as far away from the acuteness of reality that awaited her should she strive to emerge.
Emelia. You cannot stay here.
All of her senses jerked back into action at the same instant and she jolted awake, slumped in a filthy alley.
She looked around in disbelief and then at her own arms and legs as if she was a soul who had drifted in error into some giant marionette. What in Blessed Torik’s four winds had happened to her? Her skin was dirty, with cuts and scratches criss-crossing her hands and knees. Her hair was matted with grime, curly ringlets having escaped the bun; her yarkel-wool cloak was ragged and snagged.
Come on, you idiot girl, focus your mind, you are in danger here, Emebaka said. Emelia concentrated, ignoring the sting of the scrapes on her body. Her memory was fragmented. It was as if the last few hours had been painted on one of the Keep’s stained glass windows then shattered with a stone. Shards of recall came back: images of pushing through crowds, running down jostling streets and stumbling past droves of merchants.
The panic that had so driven her was gone now and in its wake she found herself shaking like a leaf in the breeze. Tears welled to her eyes then flowed down her cheeks. Was she losing her mind? She recalled those vivid dreams of being chased by some wild dog and falling towards the shining cobbles of the square, each night the ground getting closer and closer. If you died in your dreams did you die in the world or did some part of you just disappear forever?
Sandila had once said the Azaguntans believed dreams were your spirit leaving your body at night searching for messages from the gods. What messages were the gods trying to convey to her? Nothing made sense any more, everything was changing and it terrified her.
What had got into her at the carnival when she had heard the masque’s voice? How ridiculous that anyone should even care about a housemaid or what she had ever done or ever heard. She had surely misheard it, misinterpreted some comment to some other person of importance in the crowd? A pang of unease still sat in her stomach: was she so certain it wasn’t true?
Emelia wiped her tears on her muddy sleeve and rose to her feet, wincing at the ache in her thighs. The Moon’s malady they called it in the kitchen: the sickness of the mind. Captain Ris had talked about it one evening with Mother. A young soldier had gone insane after some terrible incident in the lower city involving the miners. They had found him stood naked outside the gatehouse wailing like a new widow. Sandila had made some lewd comment about his lack of clothes and the effects of the cold and Gresham had struck her squarely with a spoon.
Moon’s malady or not we need to get from this place, Emelia, Emebaka urged.
You’re the one always nagging me to run away, to escape this little rock pool of a city, she retorted.
This isn’t the right time for you to do this, we must return to the Keep and accept the punishments, Emebaka replied.
The punishments were likely to be painful, she thought, as she emerged from the alley. Runaway servants were made examples of to the others and as far as Gresham was concerned that would mean the birch. Tears sprang to her eyes again. How was this fair? Why was it happening to her?
Emelia had emerged into a winding street, its surface covered by cobbles and patches of browned straw. The houses leaned nosily over the road, producing a gloom that was deepening as dusk approached. Several city folk went about their business, pushing past without a second glance. In a nearby doorway a girl nursed a baby. A pair of old men sat smoking long pipes on a doorstep, their voices croaking like two skinny toads. From twenty yards away she could hear the noise and jubilation of a tavern, its golden light pouring like spilt ale onto the street.
Emelia shuffled down the road, keeping her head low and her cloak tight around her. The state of the buildings spoke to her of Cheapside, the furthermost district of the lower city before the road that descended to the plateau of Minerstown. This was not an area for a young girl to be at night alone, especially a naïve housemaid like her.
A gang of lads emerged from the tavern laughing and hooting. They were well dressed for such a neighbourhood. A flurry of hope arose in her as she saw them. Perhaps she could implore them for assistance and an escort to the upper city. Emelia advanced, fixing her gaze on the tallest boy and trying not to catch the eye of any of the street’s other denizens.
“Uthor, my old mate, this is a splendid jape. Where are we to drink next? There’ll be no taverns left that’ll serve us after your trick with that serving wench!” one of the smaller men said, sloshing ale from a tankard.
Emelia froze at the sight of Uthor Ebon-Farr. Uthor snorted then began to urinate against the wall of the tavern.
“Plenty of places down here, boys. This is how the Thetorians celebrate—they have the right idea—not like our stuffy countrymen. Got to enjoy yourself while you can. Father sends me to the Knights soon enough, then there’ll be no rounds on good old Uthor.”
Emelia retreated and walked straight into a drunken man staggering towards the tavern. He groped at her, chortling loudly, his scabby hands trying to get hold of her shoulders. Emelia moved with surprising speed, side-stepping his fumbling. The oaf fell onto the muddy road and roared in anger, his hand darting back and grasping her ankle.
Uthor and his companions turned to stare at the commotion. One of the lads, a short nobleman with a petulant face, pointed with a swaying arm.
“Look, boys, a harlot in distress. Who’s for saving the day?”
The group erupted into laughter and Uthor looked with recognition at Emelia as she tried to liberate her ankle.
“No rescue needed, chums. She’s a floor scrubber at home. Father can always buy another.”
Fury roared through Emelia’s ears and she kicked out at the drunk who clutched her foot. The kick struck the bridge of his nose and it split like a ripe tomato flecking blood over the cobbles. He screamed and released her; she whirled and ran.
Streets flashed past as her shoes echoed on the stones of Cheapside. Emelia was in many ways a natural athlete, with strong muscular legs and a nimble frame, and the distance she put between her and Uthor’s gang was admirable. After ten minutes, she began to tire. She chanced a glance over her shoulder, then slowed to a more civil pace and walked down a deserted back street.
The buildings were changing in character, the patchwork nature of Cheapside giving way to older structures. It was dark now and the moonlight provided limited visibility as she entered a small square that lay before a large pair of iron gates. The sound of flowing water was near and with relief she realised it must be one of the two rivers in the lower city, the Garnet or the River of Stars. That would give her a chance to get her bearings.
A figure caught her eye as she entered the square and she instinctively stepped back into the shadows of a large house. It was a slender man, with a dark cloak and jet black hair and he was stood at the iron gates. He eased through a narrow gap in the gates and disappeared from view.
She wondered whether this stranger may be implored to help her. It felt a better option than retracing her steps and encountering Uthor. Emelia walked over to the gates and glanced at the sign. It made no sense to her illiterate eyes and she slipped after the man.
Emelia was in a small garden interspersed by engraved stones. The grass had grown over them, like overly long hair. The gravel path crossing the lawn was dotted with little mounds where it had seeded further. There were four small buildings that were difficult to see in the half-light. The closest had an iron door that stood open. The buildings were bland and functional, with few windows and flat slate roofs.
A tingle of excitement and daring arose in Emelia as
she crept forward. Her own breathing seemed to be astonishingly loud in the silence of this curious garden and her breath left a vapour trail behind her as she crept to the door.
Emelia glanced through the open door but the man was nowhere to be seen. If she was so sure about this gentleman then why hadn’t she called out? The corridor beyond the door was decorated with dust and cobwebs. It ran ten feet and was lit only by mediocre light from a window so filthy as to be near opaque.
Emebaka’s voice whispered, tread carefully, Emelia, there is something dark going on here. She paused and considered turning and leaving, but a twist of curiosity gripped her, pulling her forward like a fish on a hook.
In a small hall at the end of the passage the cloaked man stooped. He had slid a stone slab from the floor and Emelia could see that there were about a dozen more placed on the floor. The slab had been covering a dark pit and with horror Emelia saw a skeletal arm lolling out of the hole, its mummified flesh hanging from it like parchment. By Torik, she thought, I am in a cemetery.
The dark man was placing a metal casket into the hole. He paused for a moment and opened the casket as if confirming the contents. A blackness seemed to emanate from the interior, a paradoxical gloom, which shrouded the man’s hands in inky shadows. He snapped the lid shut and then lowered it into the grave. The stone cover grated as he slid it back over the hole.
Emelia was shaking as she snuck back out of the room. She did not have long before he turned towards the passage she had just emerged from. Her heart pounded in her ears and she felt suddenly desperate to pass water even though her mouth was parched. Emelia’s foot scraped against the wall as she exited. The pale man jerked around and his dark eyes met Emelia’s.
He smirked and prowled towards her, his hand reaching for a long knife at his belt. Emelia ran as if Nekra herself was after her, shoes clattering on the dusty stone as she flew from the doorway and into the cold air. Her foot skidded on the gravel as she landed and she stumbled then righted herself, sprinting on towards the gates. The iron frames looked skeletal in the moonlight and ridiculously far away.
This was no masque making phantasmal threats; this was a sinister man with a knife who was intent on her murder.
Emelia reached the gates and began squeezing through the gap, scraping her belly on the flaking post. The bitter scent of rust filled her nostrils as the powder fell on her face—it was like the odour of old blood. She spared a glance back and saw the man emerge from the mausoleum door, brandishing his dagger. A golden funnel was tucked in his belt, its glitter like a coin in the murky depths of the ocean. Terror gave her a burst of energy as she scraped past the gates and into the square. How had she got into this mess?
Please, Torik, do not let me die here in this lonely square. All her dreams, all her hopes would come to naught, bled out on the mucky cobbles of this dingy corner of Coonor.
Two voices startled her as she darted across the square and Emelia nearly ran full tilt into their owners. A pair of the city guard, part of Lord Ebon-Farr’s garrison, were before her, looking with curiosity at her bedraggled figure. Emelia almost cried with relief; she had reached safety at last.
“All right, young one? What’s going on with you, eh? Too late to be out in this part of town I’d say,” the older one said.
Emelia couldn’t speak such was her joy and she turned to gesture at the dark-cloaked man as he emerged through the gap in the gate. His thin lips were sneering at the trio. He held the knife before him and raised one hand to point at Emelia.
“The girl is mine,” he said. His voice was like a sigh from a grave. “Her essence promises to be most… succulent.”
“I don’t think so, pal,” the younger guard said, drawing his sword. “Now why don’t you put down the dagger and we’ll not give you too hard a kicking for scaring this lass.”
A creeping dread arose in Emelia and inside her mind the voice of Emebaka, which had so far been suspiciously reserved, hissed Emelia don’t stop running. These two are but an irritation to him.
There had been many times in her life since she first welcomed the little impish voice that she had ignored it, reprimanded it and even entered into pointless debates with it. This was not one of those times; she had a definite sense that Emebaka was correct.
The two soldiers had forgotten Emelia and were moving towards the dark-cloaked man. His outstretched hand twisted and appeared to scoop a piece of darkness from the shadows of the square. He spoke strange words and then flicked it at the older guard.
The tar like mass struck the guard in the face, enveloping his helmet and he let out a scream of terror. “I cannot see! Torik’s breath, I am blind!”
His companion charged at the man, his sword swinging. The dark man evaded the attack and slid into the shadows. The guard halted, bewildered and looked around for his opponent. Emelia gasped. He had simply disappeared, as if he had been nothing more than a shadow himself.
Then Emelia spotted him, emerging from the darkness at the opposite side of the square to where he had stood just a moment ago. He was about forty feet away from her and, chuckling with a shrill cold laugh, he thrust forward his hand again. His whispering voice muttered arcane words that seemed to scratch the very air with their hateful sound. The blackness of his surrounds flowed from him. The soldier, caught off-guard by the mage’s sudden shift across the square, could not avoid the magical beam. The darkness poured over him like a wave and he whimpered in horror as it consumed him, corroding his flesh like acid.
The guard crumpled dead to the floor, half his body eaten away. Emelia felt nauseous as she saw his ruined chest and the glisten of his exposed organs in the half-light. She backed away from the square and into an alley, whilst the mage strolled towards the blinded guard, dagger raised. His screams of terror ended abruptly as Emelia staggered down the alley.
The passage was narrow, situated between two tall stone buildings, and was littered with fragments of broken barrels and rotted vegetables. Its darkness was thick; the Dark-mage could appear at any time next to her and she may not even know until his knife slipped into her belly.
She stumbled with her arms outstretched and struck the wall without even seeing it was there. A white flash of pain lit her vision for an instant to be replaced by a thumping in her head.
Emelia leant, sobbing against the cold brick of the wall. The chase had ended now, she realised. What had begun with a stupid panic in the market square would now end in lonely death in an alley far from her friends. She would gaze no more on those sunrises as the dawn patrol of knights flew their mighty griffons. She would have no opportunity to say her farewell to Sandila or Abila. There would be no chance to ever look her father in his eyes and ask him ‘why?’ Why did you sell me? Why did you send me away? Why do you cry those tears of gold?
Emelia scraped along the rough surface of the wall. She was like that crab in the rock pool on that beach a lifetime away from here, scurrying sideways yet never getting anywhere.
“I can almost taste your fear, little one,” the terrible voice said, echoing in the darkness of the alleyway.
“Please... please, don’t kill me. I won’t tell anyone... I won’t,” Emelia said with a sob.
“Oh, I know, I know,” the voice said. “But sorcery makes me ravenous and you exude such life force.”
Emelia felt sick and her head was splitting with pain. She could not tell how close the Dark-mage was.
Think quickly, by the gods, think quickly, Emebaka screamed.
“The Arch-mage is soon to be my master. I... I am of great value to him,” Emelia said, trying to keep the desperation out of her tone.
There was a silence in the alleyway and Emelia looked about in the inky darkness. Then she heard the scrape of steel down the brick, mere feet away.
“Inkas-Tarr is an old... acquaintance of mine. Knowing I shall be killing something so valuable to him gives me great delight. Cry more, little one, it adds to the succulence.”
Upset and ange
r rose within her at the injustice. Damn this sadist, she would not beg nor cry, nor give him the satisfaction of a quiet death. She would spit and scream and tear and gouge, dagger or not, until the last drop of blood had drained from her body and her soul would soar to the arms of the Air Father.
“I’ll cry no more for you,” she said, her fists clenched.
She could feel his fetid breath on her face as her headache began to thud like the drums of the carnival. She pressed her back against the wall and readied her legs to kick. The chill of the bricks seeped through her woolen cloak and entered her chest then her head and belly and she had a curious sensation of tumbling backwards in the pitch black, a speckling tide of pins and needles coursing through her.
A recognition struck Emelia that she was falling and her hands flailed out for a hold. The impact on the ground jarred her and she gasped in surprise as she proceeded to roll down a gravely slope, out of control. Her long legs tried to seek some traction and found it on a rock that scraped her legs raw.
Emelia stared up at the night sky, its radiant spatter of stars stretching like a colossal painting before her eyes. She sat up and looked around to gain her bearings. A surge of nausea erupted in her belly and she retched violently.
Emelia observed that she was sat on the stony riverbank. The water of the river was tinted a mercurial colour by the bright light of the Eerian moon. She sought the other moon, which she could just see over the rooftops of the buildings that backed onto the waterside. To her left the river raced towards a cliff edge, about a hundred yards away. Those must be the Falls of the Mists and this the River Garnet, she thought, which put her on the edge of Cheapside at the far end from where the Road of Gems lead down to the Minerstown.
How had she got from the alley to here? Had the Dark-mage had some change of heart and used his powers to move her through the shadows? The idea almost held credence until she saw that there were no shadows where she sat, such was the clarity of the moonlight.
Emotion erupted like a geyser inside her and she began to cry, at first meekly then in large hungry sobs that wracked her body. This day was like a dream and her mind was a turmoil of relief, fear, guilt, hatred, anger, pity and joy.
The figure beside her had probably been there a good minute before she noticed him.
Emelia looked up and towering above her was a Netreptan ranger, his feathers catching the moonlight. The girl gasped as the Netreptan held out its hand and she took it and stood. Its palm was soft, strong and cool to the touch. The Netreptan looked into her eyes with its own dark ones, the metallic disc of the Eerian moon giving the appearance of a white pupil in the twin points of night before her.
The Netreptan stroked her tangled hair from her forehead and then it spoke. Emelia would never forget the first time she had heard a Netreptan voice. The voice was like a thousand birdsongs merged into one melodic sound; a dawn chorus in one syllable.
“Girl of the star eyes, your fear is now retreated. I am Hirk of the Jelez Arc and you are under my wings now until your safe returning.”
Emelia nodded in awe at the alien beauty, a feeling of well-being enveloping her.
“Thank you, umm... Hirk. I’m, I’m a servant. I am so, so sorry. I need to go. To go home.”
Hirk nodded then shrugged. “You are a human girl of great beauty, inside and out. Servitude means little to my people. Torik judges your heart on its weight of good not the weight of another man’s gold that paid for it. Your home is far away in the golden sands not in the craggy peaks of this city so removed even from its own people.”
Emelia looked stunned at how this birdman could know such things of her when she heard a familiar voice.
“Hirk, have you found that blasted girl?”
It was Captain Ris, sliding and stumbling on the pebbles of the riverbank as he walked towards them with four men. His expression was not one of great joy and Emelia’s back twitched at the thought of the caning she would be getting on her safe return to the Keep.
Hirk leant forward one last time and spoke in a low voice. “Your gifts come at a price, one I shall call Star Eyes. Yet even the heaviest burdens become bearable when their value is great. Flee the coup when the time is right—they cannot clip your wings in this blinkered city.”
A hundred questions came to her lips but it was too late. Ris grabbed her arm in fury and dragged her from the water’s edge. For an instant Emelia feared he was about to slap her but she caught a glimmer of pity softening his glare.
Hirk spread his wings and soared into the sky as the five soldiers accompanied Emelia up the river bank, the sound of the Falls in the distance. Unseen to all, the black-cloaked mage observed from the shadows of a roof top and, scowling, he slipped into the inky blackness and was gone.
