by Brindi Quinn
“Tinkers,” coos Mael. “Ooooh. Aaaah.” Starting a listing reach with the hand that is not currently being tugged in the opposite direction by a shaded creature, Mael thinks to hold one of the pieces as her own. Her intent is quickly snatched away.
“Crank! Go on gettin’ away from there, Mael!” Pedj shivers an overdramatized shiver. “You feel that chill?! Gettin’ spooked just lookin’ at them!”
I will not be the one to tell Pedj that the chill is most likely nothing more than a dashing naefaerie.
Awyer takes no interest in the tinkers. He proceeds up the ledge, leaving the cousins to bicker.
“Awyer, let us use this time to speak with Techton,” I suggest.
“Why?” I am reluctantly responded.
“There is still all manner of things we do not know. Why Count Bexwin chose to passive-aggressively pursue you through the Maestro Feligo . . . Where lies the true location of the Golden Lands, what have you.”
“And?”
“And a thing stood out before. Techton did not answer suitably when inquired why the Azurians would wish to invade the Reck. Do you recall? I believe he thinks it more than just their search for unpolluted air. I wish to know if he will tell us when out of the presence of the Bloődites.”
“Would you not rather rest?” he says.
“You know I do not tire.”
“Mm. Would you not lie with me while I rest, then?”
Lie with . . .
When I finally meet his eyes, they are . . . simpering.
Ah?! Never before have they simpered.
“I WILL FLY AHEAD TO FIND WHERE THE AZURIAN HAS SETTLED!” This I cry whilst making a rapid bolt from where my broken ward stands. My shadow joins the plethora of dashing others.
I zip through curtain and pearled sting, invisible to all, noticed by none, until I find Techton’s stall some ways up. He did not waste any iota of time finding resting room. Flitting into his temporary claimed dwelling ends in an uncompromising view of his bare chest stretched out upon a pile of patched blankets.
Yes, the bare chest of any other person does nothing to make me shy away.
“Awyer!” I call from within the alcove, not dwelling on the simper that only recently occurred. “I have found him!”
Awyer arrives unenthusiastically a helping of minutes later. He pushes through the fabric scrap without greeting – making Techton give a start.
“I am sorry. She made me disturb you.” The simperer sends me a look. “She likes to control.”
Techton’s neck swivels left to right. “Your mistress is here?”
“She followed you. She hoped to see more than what you have shown,” Awyer lies dully.
“I did not!” I insist. And to think that there was once a time when I rued my sphinx’s lack of mischief.
Techton cannot hear my frazzled reaction; he can, however, see my sphinx’s smirk. “So, you came here to flirt? Is that it?”
Awyer leans against the small room’s wall. “Grim wishes me to ask you something away from the others,” he says.
Techton rubs his tired face. “Now?”
Awyer nods.
“Geh. Sure, then. Go ahead.” He is not enthused at all by the permittance.
“She believes you know why the Azurian army crossed into the Reck.”
“Didn’t I tell you? Those pigheaded politicians polluted their own air, and now–”
“She believes there is more. Is there more?”
When asked such a question, it would be easy to respond in lie . . . if asked by anyone other than a descendant of the most beguiling race. The sacred gold found in Awyer’s eyes dares Techton to speak falsely.
The Azurian recognizes this, and he groans. “Look, I don’t like starting problems.”
“Do you believe me to be a person who enjoys them?” says Awyer.
Techton blinks at my ward. Blankly, he blinks and he blinks with sleepy stupor. And then he laughs deeply. “Well, no. You have a point . . .” His amusement falls beneath the weight of the topic’s severity. “Ugh. By now I’ve picked up on the gist of your situation, despite how hard I tried to stay out of it. You’re from the lost Amethyst City and you’re on a journey to deliver something important to someplace deep in the Reck. If you’ve missed out on hundreds of years of history, I suppose you could use all the information you can get, huh?”
Awyer tips forward his head.
“In that case, you might want to get comfy.” Techton appears like a new father kept awake at the mercy of his infant. “The Kerr Crusade – the first one, I mean – was started by a king named Resh.”
“Fifty years ago,” says Awyer.
“Forty-eight. But who’s counting? As the story goes, King Resh had seven evil councilmen to manage the seven regions of Azure Territory.”
Awyer is shrewd. “All seven were evil?”
“Well, you know, people like to embellish,” Techton says.
“Mm.”
“Oh come on, just listen quietly and let me go back to sleep.”
“Why are you so tired, anyway?” says Awyer.
So he, too, has picked up on it. True, we have been racing continually since I discovered the blue smoke leaking across the trees, but Techton is not only physically tired; he has become mentally exhausted as well.
“Uhh–” The exhausted one is not eager to answer.
“It is the Azure, Awyer,” I say softly. “Recall that Techton was once an addict. Knowing that there is an amassing of blue power behind us is most likely tempting for him. I am sure he has been fighting his veins’ wants as we have fled.”
“Never mind, Techton,” says Awyer when he learns the truth. “We are all tired.”
Grateful that he will not be forced to explain his flaws, Techton dives straight into his story:
“The reason Azurians don’t like to talk about the Kerr Crusade much is that we were in the wrong. Well, not the nation as a whole, but the king was definitely in the wrong. The seven evil–” He emphasizes for Awyer’s sake – “councilmen were in the king’s ear, stewing lies about how the Bloődites were hiding colors of mass destruction.
“In a rage, the king commanded the royal army to storm Bloődite Territory in order to find this imaginary Amethyst. While the royal army had no choice but to obey the king, the citizens knew all along that it was a farce. The Bloődites have always been a little behind the times, and a change as impactful as Amethyst entering their society would be recognizable on a large scale. Meanwhile, they weren’t showing even the slightest signs of having access to colors of mass destruction.
“After the siege started, there was an immediate call for impeachment, and eventually King Resh was overthrown and replaced by his brother, King Jerigo. But the royal army had already done its damage. It took years to repair the relationship between our nations. To be honest, it’s still pretty rocky.”
“What has that to do with the Reck?” says Awyer.
“There’s another part of the story that the Bloődites don’t know about. No Azurian would ever mention it in front of one of them because, well, it’s horrible.” Techton’s discomfort shows in the way he fiddles with his rightmost earring. “As rumor has it, during the Kerr Crusade, a group of the more unethical men of the royal army forced Bloődite rustics up the Gated Rise.”
It is horrible. But I have heard of worse.
“Why would they do this?” I inquire via Awyer.
“They were working under the instruction of one of the seven evil councilmen. The guy was adamant that a surplus of power existed beyond the Gate of the West.”
A surplus of power. Then the reason for their invasion now is that they are again riled by the thought of withheld magicks. Again they are chasing Amethyst, and again their search has led them to the Reck; only this time, there was no need to force Bloődite rustics up the wall.
The gray man has seen to that.
“Now,” says Techton, clapping together his hands, “it doesn’t take a genius to realize ther
e’s a connection between a sphinx showing up with Amethyst, heading deep into the Reck, and the army also moving into the Reck – the same army that’s been known to hunt after Amethyst in the past. Want to tell me where you’re heading? Where that thing on the lady’s wrist is leading you?”
Awyer waits for my approval. The forememory drives me to nod.
“The Golden Lands,” says Awyer.
“Ask if he is aware of their existence within the Reck,” I prod.
“Do you know where they are?” says Awyer.
Techton shakes his head. “I’ve never seen them. And I’ve never met anyone who’s seen them. I said I’d take you to the Gloerlands. My thinking is, if an army’s coming, that’s the best bet to stay out of their business. Heloõs brolee, aquis brolee. If I’m going there anyway, I’ll take you along.”
“That is why you offered,” says Awyer.
Techton nods.
An untruth. I suspect a certain racy necromancer plays the biggest factor in his decision.
“It’s up to you, though. I have no idea if the Golden Lands are through there or if they’re even anywhere near here. What I’m saying is, I’ll take you to the Gloerlands, but are you sure that’s where you want to go?”
“We will go with you.” Awyer makes a king’s decision. “And if Mael’s shade bird pulls her elsewhere, we will part with you.”
Giving nothing in the way of farewell, Awyer removes himself from Techton’s hollow, causing he fabric scrap to thrash. I, too, begin to flit away, but before reaching the curtain, my interest is captured by a mutter. “I’m sensitive to your kind, Mistress,” Techton’s soulful voice says. “Always have been.”
Curious. A confession left for me? But why should I care that the Azurian is sensitive to naefaeries? It is only after he goes on that I understand:
I should very much care.
“Since running into you,” he says, settling into his mess of blankets and turning onto his half-exposed side, “I can’t help but wonder . . . does your Amethyst boy have two?”
. . . Two? Two naefaeries?
“Grim.” Awyer’s impatient voice from the other side of the fabric urges that I should come to his side. My connection to him beckons. But I should very well stay. Stay to delve deeper into the muttered nonsense of a sleeping Azurian.
If I want to press Techton further, however, I cannot. His raspy throat turns raspier the more deeply it breathes.
Chapter XV: Mirror
I find my sphinx waiting a few steps down the ramp.
Two naefaeries. That cannot be. It is not possible for a sorcerer to pact more than one. It is certainly not. The tired ramblings of an addict are not to be trusted. They are certainly not. Awyer has hidden nothing from me. He has certainly not.
Why then, does my reckless mouth feel the need to blurt, “I-I am your only naefaerie?” the moment I reach the unsuspecting boy? Awyer’s expression questions my sanity. And it is rightly so. Nevertheless, “There are no others,” I stress, giving way to paranoia. “I am the only one, am I not?”
Awyer’s expression is bemused. “The only bossy one,” he says, brow high. But I am not in the mood to jest. This he perceives, and in a motion of condolence, his hand finds my head’s top, where it situates tenderly upon my darkened hair. “Grim. Obviously there are none but you. Why would you ask?”
“No reason,” I lie. “It is nothing.”
“It is rarely something,” says Awyer. So easily he becomes cross. Lifting condolences, he moves on without me. I dawdle behind him. Because I mourn over the things I cannot share. Because I mourn over the rift it causes. Yes, my sulk is reminiscent of Pedj’s.
Speaking of whom . . .
From below comes a bellow. A squabble. An outburst. Our attention is directed away from our own tiff and to the tiff of a pair of fighting cousins, both of whom I recognize by their shouts.
“YOU CRANKIN’ WITH ME?! THOSE ARE AGENTS WHAT ARE BOUNDIN’ ROUND HERE?! WE’RE GETTING OUTTA THIS PLACE!”
I cease dawdling, hurrying instead to catch up to the one who may end their argument. “Awyer, run and tell them to stop! They cause a scene! They draw attention where it should not be drawn!” Namely to the Amethyst runaway.
I am responded by naught. Not even a headshake.
“YOU’RE DIM, MAEL! WITH THIS MANY, THERE’S GOTTA BE A FEW BADIES SNUCK IN!”
Peeking over the edge of the ledge reveals the extremity of the disruption. The indiscreet cousins are across the Nerve making a spectacle near an old woman’s shop of sundries, where a small crowd has already begun to gather.
“Awyer! They are creating a stir!” I urge.
But still, he is reluctant. His crossness over my reservation makes him so.
Your brow is heavy, Awyer. Join me. Divulge your worries.
The things I demand of him, he wishes to demand of me. He wishes for my confidence. Alas, I cannot give it to him.
“Very well!” I yell at him, frustrated, and skim from where he is and to where Pedj stands shouting at Mael. “Calm yourselves!” I command, to no avail. “Cease this at once!”
But Pedj cannot hear me, and he will not calm. And Mael is not making it any easier. In her subdued tone, she sputters a list of ill-willed curses that cut much more ruthlessly than Pedj’s public wails. She is an artful killer. One whose appearance lends to concealment. A sharp tongue shrouded by a dowdy mouth. A thorn protected by petals.
“Racist Pedjram wishes to be whole? Pedj should be a whole necromanced, then. Pedj will never be a necromancer. Pedj is suited for zombiedom. Like his dar.”
“HO, YEAH?! THAT WHAT YOU REALLY THINK–”
Pedj halts, for I have just shot through his body.
“WAAAAH! ONE OF THEM GOT ME!”
“Don’t be a baby,” says the sharp-tongued necromancer. “It’s just Mistress.”
So all of the naefaeries do not appear ‘bright’ to her? Only I am given that honor, apparently.
Pedj continues to make a fool of himself. There is naught I can do, as Awyer has not thought to come to the rescue. When this is over, I will surely remain angry with him. He knows of my situation, he knows I cannot act alone, and yet he leaves me to this task.
The woman selling sundries has begun scolding the cousins for their commotion. Likewise, a few more Nerve inhabitants have thought to interject their opinions. It does not speak well for my sphinx’s company!
Forcing my attention on Pedj’s hand, I will it to receive me. I will our flesh to meet. But Pedj’s skin is not as welcoming as Techton’s, when healthy. Willing it proves harder than I expect. Even so, I concentrate. I close my eyes and concentrate on the zombie’s pale flesh. I make progress. My fingers connect briefly with Pedj’s.
It is only brief because he throws his hand from mine, now even more alarmed over being grabbed by an invisible hand.
It is no use.
I can do nothing.
I am nothing.
I sink to the ground, bury my face to my knees, and listen to the fools continue to shout over my head.
“Pedj.” A stern tone cuts through the mire of squabble. “Quiet. This is not your territory. You cannot act however you want.”
At last. At long, long last, Awyer has deemed it suitable to arrive.
I look to see him standing over me, between Mael and Pedj, in the center of a group of Nerve inhabitants.
Awyer turns to Mael. “What happened?”
Mael points to the sundries woman. “She said if we have naefaeries, we can bring them to the top to show them off to our friends.”
Show off naefaeries? Meaning so that others may see them? It sounds like a trickery.
Mael folds her arms in condescension. “That’s when Pedjram went loonsie,” she says.
“Well, doy! ‘Scuze me for not realizing this was a nest of agents!”
There is an unsettled gasp from the crowd, followed by an unsettling murmur.
With threat, Awyer bores his eyes into Pedj’s. “Do not speak. You
will offend someone,” he says with golden weight.
The Bloődite challenges my sphinx with an equally threatening glare, but when Awyer flexes his hands, signaling enchanted intent, Pedj drops any hostility. He knows he cannot win if they are to enter a brawl.
Awyer shifts focus to the roused sundries woman. “We are sorry,” he says. And then to the cousins, “Come.”
He begins again up the stair.
He would rather not intervene.
Yet he did.
For me, he did.
But he did so too late.
I remain angry.
Mael happily pops to Awyer’s side, humming as she goes, waist swishing as she goes, for she feels she has won the fight. Or at least ‘Ower’s’ favor. Pedj mopes behind. He is nearly as moping as I. In silence, we parade up the spiral, following Awyer’s lead, until it becomes apparent that he intends to continue past all of the open dwellings.
Pedj flinches as a shadow zips past the wall. And then he speaks up, “What gives? Where’re we goin’?”
“I will show you Grim, and you will see that she is not evil. You will see that she is fair. You will see why I am fond of her.”
News to me. News to Pedj.
We react very differently. While Pedj appears to be rethinking himself, alike a child who has just been slapped in punishment, my chest begins a race. Fond and fair, my fief . . . no, my Awyer spoke. Fond and fair, and he wishes to, as Mael termed, ‘show me off’. Mael’s excitement reflects in her gait. With short legs she takes large steps to get ahead of Awyer.
To the top we go, and all the while, I am unsure as to whether I like this or I unlike this. The spiral grows tighter the higher it rises. As the top of the cone nears, the shorter the time it takes to make a new pass around the ledge. Above, a small opening to the heavens allows for viewing of a small section of night sky. The moon’s light does not make it into view. Only ink and cloud.
