The Shattered Sylph

by L. J. McDonald

  It wasn’t fair, he decided. On top of everything else, why was he now getting nightmares?

  Shalatar Misharol walked down the passage in the holding cells, checking the feeders. It was important that their health remain high, and he’d earned the accolades of the emperor by instituting a weekly exercise regimen and change of diet that made them the healthiest feeders possible. This was reflected in the work of the sylphs who lived off their energy.

  It was a good system. Every sylph summoned here had a primary master who gave the orders, but after that, each was bonded to five submasters, men and women who’d had their tongues cut out to prevent them from giving orders. To help ensure that, the sylphs were under strict orders to ignore any attempt to communicate by a feeder, no matter what it was, and to report such to the nearest handler. The feeders learned quickly that any of them who tried were put to death. They existed only to provide energy for their sylphs, and with access to that kind of power, even the youngest, weakest sylph could manage miracles a northern sylph would need twice the age to accomplish with only a single master.

  Shalatar took his responsibility seriously. The sylphs here were the backbone of the empire, and their work was hard. The emperor’s city was entirely airborne, and it took nearly a hundred air sylphs alone to manage that. And of course, there were other elementals who served different functions. Ninety percent of Meridal was city and the remaining ten had to produce the food required to feed the population, no matter how poor the desert soil. Five thousand sylphs in all meant twenty-five thousand feeders. This stable alone serviced two thousand sylphs, and Shalatar was in charge of the health and happiness of each.

  He had been one of the first to recognize that the health of the feeders made a difference. Their happiness was another matter. Each was in his own cell, and the cells were kept scrupulously clean, but other than weekly walks in a guarded courtyard, they never left the prison. These men and women stared at him dully as he passed or, more often, didn’t pay him any attention at all. Their cells were nearly silent as well, save for the shuffling of feet or the sounds of the sylphs coming in at regular intervals to replenish their energy.

  While he could only spot-check the stable for quality, for the most part he found nothing but good results. Clean feeders, clean water, clean cages. He saw one man scratching at lice and made a note for him to be shaved. Another was twitching spastically, drool coming out of his mouth. That wasn’t good. A crazed feeder might pass bad energy on to a sylph. An ensuing note listed the feeder to be destroyed. He was easier to replace than a well-trained sylph.

  Beyond the feeder cells—all located deep underneath the city, where it was easy to keep them cool—were the cells for the sacrifices. Shalatar had nothing to do with that element of the business, not having any truck with battlers beyond feeding them, but his twin sister did. He had come here to find her.

  His tablet tucked under his arm, Shalatar walked down rows of cages holding women. All were beautiful but flawed in some way—they were good enough to lure a battler but not quite right to be assigned to the harem. Either that, or they’d already spent time in the harem and were now being liquidated. This happened when either the battlers ignored them or one took a particular interest. Once any battler started to mate exclusively with a woman, it was time to get her out of there, before he started focusing more on her than his duties. The harems were to keep the sylphs happy, not lazy.

  As Shalatar passed, the women stared at him in fear or pleaded for him to either let them go or return them to the harem. He ignored them all. If the women didn’t end as sacrifices, they would be sold somewhere else in the city—if anyone would actually want to buy a woman who’d been used by battlers—or made into feeders with removed tongues. That was all they were good for and was their most likely fate. Once a woman had been bred to a battler, she couldn’t reliably be used as a sacrifice to draw a new one. Somehow, battlers knew and would rarely come for ex-concubines. And of course no battler was allowed to feed from a woman, only to fuck her. Once, these women had found their throats cut when they were deemed useless for the harems, but that had upset some battlers. Nor could the women be used for sport in the gladiator arena. That drove the battlers mad. No, they could only be used as feeders for the elementals…which meant a loss of revenue for the battler section. It was a logistical headache that he didn’t envy his sister.

  She handled it well, of course, the same as she handled the battlers. While their masters were male, to go into the harems and direct a battler took a very delicate female sensibility, for which Rashala was renowned. She could calm the most outraged battler with a touch and a word.

  Shalatar found his sister in the quarantine section for new women. The cages were kept tremendously clean, but there was always some chance of disease, and the idea of using a healer for slaves was outrageous. They did have access to one, for use in the arena in case a fighter was especially valiant and earned the praise of the emperor, or if a sylph was injured somehow, which happened sometimes, if rarely. Once or twice, Shalatar had used her to deal with his own stomach pain, though it always returned when he became stressed. Still, he couldn’t imagine calling on her when a simple standard quarantine would remove all issues.

  Rashala was standing on a walkway above the pens, looking down. Like him, Shalatar’s sister was shaved hairless to show her status as a bonded serf, risen from the status of slave due to the excellence of her work. Her quality had given Shalatar the chance to show his own, as her brother, which was a boon he’d never been able to repay. She wore berry juice on her lips, staining them a harsh purple, and her robes were a similar color to his own.

  Shalatar walked up beside her and put a hand on her shoulder. “What are you doing, my sister?” he asked. “We were supposed to have lunch.”

  “Bakl bought a new slave,” she said, and pointed. Shalatar looked down at a skinny, dirty girl with hair like straw and raised an eyebrow. “I’m trying to decide if she’s worth putting in the harem.”

  He made a face. The girl was nearly white, with no golden tone to her skin at all. “Eighty-nine might like her. You told me he goes for the unique ones.”

  “True, but then he obsesses over them. That girl with the tattoos over her entire body…?” Rashala shook her head ruefully. “We barely got him off her, and then we had to sell her to another kingdom when he kept trying to get to her. He killed the previous three. I don’t want a repeat of that.”

  “So sacrifice her.”

  “I’ll have to. But Bakl paid twelve gold for her. The idiot thought he made a good deal because of her yellow hair. The sellers wanted ten times as much.”

  “The sellers always do.” Shalatar turned away. “Leave it for now. I’m hungry. You can tell me about it over lunch.”

  His sister was reasonable, and so they left, but not before Rashala made a note on her tablet: the yellow-haired girl would be killed on the altar at the next sacrifice. Better that than putting her in the harem and having Eighty-nine decide she was the love of his life. That was far more trouble than it was worth.

  Exiting the pens beneath the floating city, they took a shortcut through the cells holding the slaves and criminals intended for the gladiatorial arena. Most of these seemed glum, though they all still had their tongues and at least some chance at glory. Not that any of them had ever found it. Not when their opponent in the arena would be a battler.

  Chapter Nine

  Propelled by its trio of water sylphs, Southern Dancer made its way down the coast, stopping at seven progres-sively warmer cities before turning at last into deeper waters, pushing against the current toward a far more distant shore. Just to be sure they were right to continue, at each stop Ril stood at the front of the ship, focusing, and each time he shook his head no. When the ship lost sight of land completely, Justin was afraid they were heading away from her entirely, but the battler was not. Wherever Lizzy was, he swore they were headed in the right direction.

  “How does he know?” Ju
stin asked Leon one day. They were all gathered at the above-deck passenger tables for lunch, Ril there simply to maintain the illusion. He stood at the prow of the ship, ostensibly eating while he watched waves break against the ship, but he was really throwing spoonfuls of food down to the fish below.

  “Know what?” Leon asked.

  “Where Lizzy is.”

  Leon shrugged and took a swallow of wine. “I don’t know.”

  “Why don’t you ask him?” Justin asked, a little bemused. If it were him, he’d have demanded the answer right away.

  “Because if he’d wanted me to know, he would have told me.”

  “But he’s your b—” Justin broke off and flushed at the older man’s expression. “He’s yours. Doesn’t he have to tell you?”

  “No. He’s not a slave. If he can find my daughter, I don’t care how he does it.”

  Justin sighed, returning to his meal. He wanted to know everything the battler did, but Ril frightened him. So did all battlers, but he could avoid the rest. Not Ril. Every time he came to Lizzy’s house, the sylph seemed to be there, watching. He didn’t say anything—Justin didn’t even think he’d ever exchanged a greeting with the battler—but he knew the creature didn’t like him. Sometimes that made Justin mad. He was tired of dealing with someone who could make him want to wet himself with just a look, and he’d always wished Ril would just go away. He’d even had a few daydreams about challenging the battler to a fight and beating him, with Lizzy watching in adoration. Such thoughts would be suicide with most battlers, but Ril was a cripple. A good fighter could beat him, which Leon had proven by knocking him right on his ass. Justin had needed to bite his tongue to keep from cheering about that.

  Leon was staring at him, and Justin flushed, staring down at his plate. He wanted this man to be his father-in-law. It would be mortifying for him to learn how Justin wanted to humiliate his battler.

  The older man regarded him and then Ril, who had finished emptying his plate and now leaned against the railing, staring out at the empty horizon. He turned back to Justin. “Leave him alone.”

  “Sir?”

  “Just leave him alone.” Leon finished his wine. “Don’t make the mistake of thinking he’s weak.”

  Justin went red. “I’d never—”

  “You were. I can tell. So can he. You say you want to marry my daughter? Before I give you any blessing, you better prove yourself man enough for her.” Then Leon stood and walked away, carrying his plate and glass.

  Ril turned, watching Justin, but he finally followed his master. When he passed the table, he gazed down at Justin and his lip curled up in a silent snarl. Justin’s cheeks burned. He’d do what Leon said. He’d try. But that wouldn’t stop him from hating the battler as much as he feared him.

  Leon had registered both Justin and Ril as his sons in the ship’s books. Justin was young enough and Ril certainly looked young enough, even if he was actually centuries old. None of them really resembled the others, but at least Ril had Leon’s sandy blond hair and Justin a somewhat similar nose. Nonetheless, twice a day Leon took Ril to his room, and he wondered how much of the lie the passengers believed and what they really thought was going on. He doubted they had any idea of the truth.

  He now stood in his cabin, his back against the door. Ril fronted him, one arm braced against the wall behind Leon’s head, his other hand resting against the side of his master’s neck. It wasn’t often that the battler touched him. He didn’t touch anyone if he could avoid it, save Leon’s girls, but his hand was warm and relaxed now. His eyes were half-closed and unfocused, his breathing slow, and he fed, drawing in the energy Leon released just as a natural by-product of living. Leon had never really asked, but Ril once remarked that his energy felt like a thick warm mist coming off his master’s skin. After twenty-one years, Leon could feel the drain. Most masters couldn’t—not even Solie—but Leon had always been fascinated by the intimacy he shared with Ril, this proof that there was one being in the world who would always need him.

  Standing there, Leon let himself relax. Ril’s feeding felt like a light brush against the hair on his arm, barely there but undeniable. Except for Solie’s, it was the only energy Ril could digest, or absorb, or whatever term it was he wanted to use. The rest of the world was poison to him unless he took the pattern of another human within himself. That was why before they left the Valley, Leon had suggested Ril be impressed with Justin’s pattern as a precaution. Mace could have arranged it through the queen easily enough; even Petr’s priests could do it. If Leon died—and he didn’t discount that possibility—Ril would quickly die of starvation. Ril had simply growled. It wasn’t just the energy, Leon knew. Easy though the bond was to make, it was also permanent and sylphs obeyed the humans to whom they were patterned. They had no choice. Ril despised Justin, and from the look the boy had just given him on deck, granting him the power to command the battler would be a mistake.

  Leon assessed his seemingly human battler. Even if he were killed, he suspected Ril wouldn’t take a new master. He’d let himself die first. Which was just another reason to stay alive, he told himself—for his daughter and for his pretend son. And for Justin as well, whom he’d only brought out of guilt. Was his daughter in love with the boy? He hoped so. For her happiness, he truly hoped so.

  Ril took a deep breath, draining one last draft that tingled along the length of Leon’s arms. A moment later the sylph fully opened his eyes, gazing at his master. His irises were pale gray, like ice chips under a cloudy sky, and they were unguarded, as they always were right after he fed. Leon had seen his battler’s soul this way even when Ril was trapped in the body of a bird and hating him for it. He’d never told Ril, though, for fear the sylph would never look at him during that moment again.

  His battler’s eyes were troubled, even frightened, and he was desperate to act, though this was all covered by helplessness. There was despair there, deep and nearly overwhelming. It was heartbreaking to see.

  “What’s wrong?” Leon whispered.

  Despite himself, Ril was most likely to answer him when he’d just fed. Now was no different. “Lizzy. I could feel her. She was so terrified, I could sense her even from here. She thought she was going to die.”

  Leon went cold. “She’s not…”

  “No.” Ril pushed away from the wall and went to sit on his bed, staring at the hard pillow. “Her fear is less. At least, I can’t feel it anymore. Whatever happened, she survived.”

  Leon felt his terror ease, replaced by both relief and curiosity. Justin had already asked the question, how was it that Ril could track her? He shouldn’t be able to. None of the other battlers could, but Ril had pinpointed her immediately. If anything, given his injury, he should have been even less able to find her. Unless…

  Lizzy couldn’t be his master, could she? She couldn’t. He’d know, wouldn’t he? Ril didn’t treat Lizzy any different from any of Leon’s other daughters. In fact, he focused more on the younger ones. Lizzy was the last one he paid attention to. That wouldn’t happen if Lizzy were his master. In fact, given how every other battler reacted to a female master…

  Leon narrowed his eyes, thinking. One thing he could be sure of was that Ril wasn’t sleeping with his daughter, or with anyone else. He’d heard the jokes, and he knew they were true: Ril had lost all interest in women after he was hurt. Leon ached for him, but that didn’t mean he wanted his Lizzy involved with the battle sylph. She deserved children, a family, and a husband who could think and feel the way she did. Much as Leon personally loved Ril, his sylph couldn’t provide any of those things. She deserved a human.

  So his ability to track her had to have something to do with how Lizzy was Leon’s daughter. Perhaps Ril could track all of his children through his bloodline.

  The sylph jerked and looked up at him, his eyes again guarded. Leon nodded. That’s what it was: a link through the blood. There was still so little he and the others knew about sylphs. Even the sylphs themselves didn’t seem
to know. They just accepted and acted on instinct. Humans needed a reason.

  “You don’t know what happened to her?” he asked.

  “No,” Ril said. “Just that she expected to die and didn’t.”

  Leon sighed. “At least she’s alive. Can you feel what’s happening now?”

  “No.”

  Leon stepped close, reaching out to run a hand through his battler’s soft hair. Ril gazed up, silent. “Try,” Leon said, his emotions roiling. He meant to comfort and encourage, so he didn’t realize that he’d inadvertently given an order instead.

  Lizzy’s terror had been real—real and overwhelming. She’d lain nude and spread-eagled on a stone table dark with blood, a gag in her mouth and her limbs tied down. A man had towered over her with a hand sickle sharp enough to cleave off her head. A gate shone above.

  They’d known there was a battler sniffing around on the other side, were told so by a healer sylph who didn’t look the slightest bit inclined to save Lizzy even if her head did come off. She’d been so terrified, she’d been screaming inside her mind, wailing for her mother, for her father, for Ril, for Justin, for anyone. She’d soiled herself as well, and her heart pounded until she thought it would just burst and spare her all of this.

  Despite that, nothing had happened. The battler circled the gate and she felt him looking at her, but he didn’t come through. He watched her for a while and finally vanished, leaving the man who was supposed to bind him screaming at the priests who’d set up the ceremony. Apparently, this wasn’t supposed to happen.

  Eventually, the man left, still swearing, as did the priests. Finally Lizzy was untied and returned to a cell, tossed a simple cotton shift to wear, and left alone. There she’d collapsed in a daze, shaking. She might have fainted for a while, as she lost track of time, and when she woke, a woman with neither head hair nor eyebrows was standing outside her cell, staring in and talking to a muscular woman at her side.