by Brindi Quinn
More.
Techton reads it and wrinkles his nose. “You know, I admit I took particular interest in those stories. I mean, wow! Beautiful invisible women? But that’s kind of the extent of my faerie knowledge. When we reach Fetra’s Nerve, I’ll hook you up with someone that can tell you more. Deal?”
Yes, it is a deal. And the Azurian has been surprisingly helpful. More helpful than the cryptic necromancer, at least. Even now, she is cocking her head and humming to herself and looking annoyed while Pedj fights to cater to her.
I have learned things, but I cannot say I have reached clarity; and Awyer has yet to return to camp. But I know where I will find him. It is the reason I did not follow him immediately when he left. I know him well enough to know the sorts of tranquil places he chooses to undergo thought. And one such place is not far.
Back again to the hill I go.
Now lit only by moonlight filtered through the trees, Awyer sits in a boyish stoop with his elbows resting upon his knees. He is brooding.
“My sphinx?” I call out to him lightly. “I am sorry for what transpired before. I did not mean to be foul.”
Awyer shakes his head. “I am sorry.”
It is a thing I did not expect. “You?” I say, startled.
“Mm. I saw you unsatisfied and I could not do anything. I did not want to see you that way. It made me feel weak.”
I glide to him, body glowed silver in the moonlight. “I believed you were angry with me.”
He says nothing, and I am relieved. I settle into a hover just next to him. That moon, so obtrusive and bold, finds its way to my sphinx’s eyes. A circle of silver separates black from gold. A mystic pool I wish to stare into.
Neck elongated to the sky, Awyer swallows. “Grim,” he says, voice soft.
“Yes?”
“I used to worry that being unseen bothered you,” he says slowly.
“Aye, you asked me such.”
“And you told me it did not,” he says.
“It did not.”
“It does now,” he assumes.
“At times.”
Awyer nods and swallows again.
The tension in the night air builds. Tension, a nonmaterial thing like me. A thing that exists between space.
“I was thinking about what we talked of before,” I say. “The difference between stern me and giddy me.”
Awyer’s eyes slink sideways to catch mine before returning again to the mooned sky peeking through the canopy.
I, too, look to the moon as I bring my hand to my chest. “Though my soul is old, what of this part?” I say, causing Awyer’s gaze to flick again to me. “Though my soul is old, my heart is new with each life. That is how I distinguish between my selves. It is a matter of which I allow to command my thought. Is it my old soul? Or is it my young heart?”
Perhaps the reason I was not made aware of the commandment is because there was never need for it before. Never have I thought to kiss a ward. Never before Awyer. Why is he different?
Although he is the least sphinx of his line, he is the most stoic. His smiles are few, but when they come, they spark me. I rue the day that we will separate. His coming death tears me apart.
And for that, he is different.
“You can lean here, Grim.” Awyer pats his tattoo-marked shoulder.
And I do lean. Late into the night, I lean against his strong shoulder. And when he is on the verge of sleep, I whisper into his ear:
“Do not worry over my frustration, Awyer. Truthfully, all that matters is that you can see me.”
Chapter XIV: Nerved
Moist-leafed tree, inconspicuous brook, stalked flower. These are the things that inhabit the Reck. The ground is dotted by light patterns showing through the heavy canopy of trees that drip with fruited vines and alit moths. The moths, intelligent mites, moan soft, cooing moans if any of the mortals accidentally brush against their homes on our way through the jungle; and when Mael peers into their bugged eyes, they respond by clicking a chatter of nonsense. Or mayhap it is not nonsense, for Mael clicks back just as assuredly as if she were speaking to an old friend.
Through tight teeth, Pedj scolds her from the action, ringing an elbow around her neck and pulling her along.
It is certain he holds resentment over her trickery that lent him to this quest in the first place, though he has by now committed to the journey.
“Hey, Awyer! Hows about we get a plan together for when we reach the Golden Place? Thought at all about how we’re gonna get your rellies to bequeaf the Amethyst to the deservin’ Bloődites?”
Mouth cocked, Awyer raises a brow. “Deserving? In what way?”
“Hey! You know what way!” Pedj is roused only until he realizes that the sphinx is jesting. “Oh. Har. Har. So, what say you, Awyer?”
“I think no. When I am free of Amethyst, I am through with it. I will take a page from Techton’s tome.”
Pedj releases a whine and falls behind the others, most likely to scheme on how else he might gain Awyer’s assistance.
“Still no sign of any army,” Techton muses, farther ahead. “Hate to think that reputable-looking fellow was lying.”
But what benefit, I wonder, would the gray man have from telling Awyer that lie?
I remain beside my tall-standing pactor. In truth, I miss that short passage of time when I had no choice but to hide my shadow in his.
“Mistress.” An airy voice comes from the front of the group.
Dread.
“Ower, let me talk to Mistress, oka?”
Dread. Dread.
I have dreaded her request of audience. And there is no hiding behind Awyer. “Grim can do what she wants,” he says dully.
“She is to scold me,” I tell him, but because he was not witness to the previous night’s kissing discussion, he does not know what I mean, and I am responded by only a wrinkled forehead.
I can do nothing but flit ahead to where the necromancer walks with hips swaying and arm extended listlessly.
When Mael sees my light approaching, she nods to the shade bird hidden by the shadows. “Good,” she tells it. And then to me, “Been thinkin’, Mistress. Might not be too late.”
It might not be too late? Perhaps this is not a scold after all. “I am listening,” I say. But since it is a pointless utterance, I soon bob instead to show that I have heard.
“Ower goes to gold for destiny,” Mael goes on. “What’s is, is you gotta make space between.”
Space between?
“Put space right there.” She points over her shoulder. “‘Tween you and Ower. Do that and he’ll do what he should . . . maybe.”
Mael means to tell me that I should distance myself from my sphinx in the days before we reach the Golden Lands? Aye, a responsible suggestion. A thing I should rightly do. And indeed I would . . . if I knew we had years remaining. But we do not. Awyer’s end is soon coming, and even without contemplating on the proposition, I know that I cannot spend our remaining days distancing from him.
Until these ‘two endings’ are revealed directly to me through Awyer’s touch, I cannot agree to Mael’s terms.
Foolish and selfish, I zip away from her. High into the sky again I flee, and this time the view awaiting me is not so serene.
In the east, in the direction of the Gated Rise from whence we have come, a cloud hovers low over the healthy green canopy of the Reck. And it is not just an unassuming cloud of gray and white.
It is a cloud of blue.
Azurian blue.
As quickly as I shot from the jungle, I return to it.
“AWYER! MY WARD! MY WARD!” I come whizzing right before him so that he is forced to collide with me.
“Grim? I told you not to call me tha–”
“The army! The gray man WAS speaking of the Azurians!”
“Grim, calm. What are you–”
“Behind us, not more than a day away, the sky is blemished by Azure smoke! They really are coming, my fief! We must go quickly! We must–”
My eyes grow wide.
My cheeks are cupped.
My spasms go limp as lips are placed upon my forehead.
Awyer’s kiss stains my brow.
I would say something if my voice would come, were my tongue not held in place by weighted saliva. I am frozen with his mouth and hands upon my face.
“Do not call me ‘fief’ either,” Awyer says when he pulls away. And then, without bothering to explain, he releases my cheeks and jogs ahead to tell Techton of what I have seen, leaving me to hang suspended alike a wilted piece of string.
There I stay.
Until Pedj, yet at the hind of the group, is unfortunate enough to pass through me some seconds later.
“HOO! Spooky!” Hugging his arms to his chest, he squints at the place where I hang. He is unable to reach any satisfying revelation, however, for Techton has already started a wrangle. Arms over head, he waves and calls for the disturbed zombie.
I shake out of the languid state Awyer’s kiss upon my brow has caused. Quickly after, Pedj I go to regroup with the others, where starts a rapid plan from Techton’s mouth.
Ahead lies an encampment – the very ‘Fetra’s Nerve’ Techton agreed to take us as far as. Only very slightly off course from Mael’s shade bird’s pull, the Nerve will be a chance to gain provisions if we need them and brief respite if we can spare it. If we are quick, we will reach the camp by nightfall, and Techton will instruct the nomads there to tread deeper, prepare to fight, or leave the Reck by whatever means they may.
He explains, “I’m assuming that if an army, of all things, barged into the Reck, magicks spewing, they aren’t here for just a friendly visit. Crusade, you say . . .” He releases a perturbed sort of growl that is in no way frightening. “My thoughts? Now that they’ve polluted their own air, the royals are moving on to clean soil, and they’ll probably try to take it by force. Since the people of the Reck aren’t exactly battle hardy, where does that leave us? Heloõs brolee, aquis brolee. I’m taking you that way anyway; we might as well give them a proper heads up.”
“That your home, Tech?” Mael asks.
“Well now, I do live there from time to time, and that’s where I was planning on settling for a while, but given the circumstances . . .” Techton studies Mael’s fragile frame. “I think the best place for you all is beyond the Gloerlands.”
A soft spot he carries for the mystic girl. While I do not at all agree with his theory that the Azurains are storming the Reck for gain of its resources, nor do I fully believe it his true opinion – there was a hollow quality to the way he spoke it – what is important is that he sees the value in moving quickly away from the impending threat.
“What are the Gloerlands?” inquires the kisser of the group, whom I cannot look directly at without flushing.
Covetable Techton looks at Awyer a moment – fully capable of doing so without flushing – and shakes his head. “You know something?” he says. “You really lucked out.” With good nature, he massages the hair of his chin.
“Supposin’ to mean what?” says Pedj, annoyed.
The Azurian shakes his head and laughs raspily. “As far as the Gloerlands are concerned, you’ve got to see them to believe them. There aren’t many that would be able to take you there.”
“But you can,” Awyer assumes.
Techton nods. “And I suppose I will.”
Mael pipes, “Destiny. What’s is, is destiny.”
Techton studies her, not so convinced. “Is it really, Lady? I’ve come to believe that destiny is a force moved by those who believe in it. People like you, for instance.”
Mael cocks her head. Whether she understands his implication or not, we cannot afford to speak on philosophy now. The time to race is nigh!
Casting his leisurely pace aside once more, Techton begins a sprint through the jungle, closely followed by Awyer, and not so closely followed by Pedj and Mael. I, too, nimbly flee, zipping every so often above the canopy to check on the status of the Azure smoke as it inches across the trees. What manner of enchants are they casting to cause such a stir?
Feligo, the Azurian maestro . . .
And Bexwin, the count depleted of his Amethyst . . .
Leading an army of Azurians . . .
Accompanied by drained, fresh-from-Eldrade Pates . . .
Aided by a whistling gray man known to be holding the hair of the hellbeast . . .
All storming Bloődite Territory.
All seeking Awyer’s Amethyst?
No, not all of them. That whistling sorcerer, the gray man, seemed to know of Awyer, yet he let us flee.
Is he the person from my forememory? Or is he a messenger of the witches, sent for revenge on Awyer? Or perhaps he is Ark, the boogeyman of the necromancers, aiming to crack open the Eternity Vessel.
Or . . . by chance . . . is he all three?
. . .
Fetra’s Nerve: A spiraling rock formation in the middle of the jungle, crawling with flowered vines and moss. From the exterior, it appears an upside-down tornado, turned to stone, immobilized and left to nature’s will.
On the inside, it is something else entirely.
An ‘encampment’ Techton called it, but it is no mere resting place for weary travelers. It is a full-fledged residence of sturdy rock structure into which dwelling spaces have been carved. At its base lies a small lake mysteriously glowing from below. Starting at the lake and corkscrewing upward along the rounded wall, a spiraled ledge serves as a staircase going up, up into the high reaches of the rock where only a small circle of night sky is visible. Around and around the Nerve’s interior, this ledge coils, passing by each of many humble dwellings. Each dwelling is closed off from the rest of the Nerve by cloth curtain or pearled string or whatever other manner of divide the residents have managed to construct.
Though it is enclosed, Fetra’s Nerve is not dark. The whole of the cone is lit by standing torches placed along the spiraled walkway – some adorned with fire, others lit by orbs. Glowing orbs? It takes only a bout of investigation to discover that the balls are everglowing crystals that have been polished into spheres. Ah. Then the mystery of the glowing water is also solved. Everglowing crystals, the rarest of rare objects, are incomprehensively abundant here. I shall have Awyer nab one before we leave.
Also abundant here are shadows. Far more shadows scatter the Nerve than there are bodies within. Not so difficult to notice is that many of them bounce about the walls freely, unconfined to the spiraled stair.
“My war–” I cut myself from the habit. “Awyer! There are many naefaeries here!”
This truth excites me. We cannot see or feel or hear each other, but there is a sense of comfort found in crossing shadows with another of my kind.
Pedj will not delight when he realizes the company he is in.
“Is this the only city found within the Reck?” Awyer scrutinizes the Nerve without any amount of awe.
“Umm, no. But it IS the best.” Techton chuckles. “Does that count? Let’s see . . . There’s a fishermen’s village north of here, and two other Nerves deeper in and to the south. Plus, some random huts here and there. For the most part, everyone moves around. Sure, there are a few lifers, but people beyond the Rise enjoy the mobile life. Find an open cubby and it’s yours for as long as you want it, providing you clean up after yourself before you leave.” Clearly tired, Techton ends his speech by rubbing a hand down the whole of his face.
Beginning to show tooth-grinding signs of being put off by the Nerve’s dancing shadows, the palest of our party barks, “Now what?”
Techton turns to my sphinx. “Awyer, would you mind asking your mistress how long she thinks we can spare? I’d ask her myself, but I don’t feel like deciphering any more ancient script.”
Awyer does not understand the jest. I answer quickly so that he will not prod deeper:
“Tell the Azurian that we have made headway. When I last checked, the army was a little more than a day in tow,” I say.
Awyer rel
ays the message.
“Okay,” says Techton. “Trade what you can. Get something to eat. Take a nap. I’ll give you four hours before I start sounding the alarm. After that, we can probably count on chaos.” He turns to Awyer. “Tell your mistress – apologies, but now’s probably not the best time to track down another contractor for her to chat with.” With that, the Azurian dismisses us by jovial wave, and begins a hasty ascent up the spiral. It is obvious we are not invited to join him.
Awyer’s expression inquires me to explain why I should wish to speak to another ward. I have yet to tell him about the lock. And I do not wish to do so now. Luckily, his attention is caught by an energetic zombie.
“He say trade?” The zombie in question is staring cagily after Techton.
“He did,” says Awyer. “Do you have something?”
Pedj sets his pack onto the ground and through it begins rifling. After feeling up the various pockets within, he pulls forth a fishbone comb. “This?” he suggests.
Awyer inspects the piece before gaining a twitch to his dimple. “But, Pedj . . .” he starts, sly. “What of your hair?”
I cannot help myself. Invisible giggles spill into the air. Mael also releases a laugh that is more alike the long hiss of a minxy serpent. Pedj does not catch on that his frenzied hair, which does not appear ever to have been combed, is a subject worthy of taunt.
“Right,” he says. He frowns at his comb, weighing the consequences; and when he decides what is best, goes on – “But know what? I think this is a skosh more important!”
“Pray tell, Pedj,” says Awyer, arms folded amusedly, “what are you hoping to gain from trade?”
I see at what he is getting. Thanks to Techton, the group has amassed an appropriate store of food. Rations most certainly can be found here, but what might Pedj need?
“Hoo? Uh, right. Never know. Might find somethin’ . . .” says the disillusioned zombie.
Shaking his head amusedly, Awyer moves toward the ramp.
“Are you going to find an alcove to rest in?” I ask of him.
With a succinct nod, he says, “And who knows what else we will find?” His eyes linger upon me too long. Suddenly reminded of the kiss, I am forced to turn away. I will that I would have the strength to look him straight on, but it is of no use, and so I distract myself with the dwellings found along the spiral. Some of their curtains are pulled, and the residents within have created small displays of goods for trade. One of the first we happen upon is an inlet selling contraptions comprised of brass and other shined metals, sprouting buttons and gears and winding keys.
