by Brindi Quinn
“You appeared to him like you appeared to me,” says Awyer, jaw set.
I nod.
“By Thyst,” says Awyer.
Again, I nod.
“By Thyst. I am bound. Until dea–”
“Do not!” I cut him off. Because I cannot bear to hear it. Because I am weak. “I-it is not your birthday,” I cover, “so you should not speak it.”
Unnatural silence takes advantage of the situation.
“You came to him,” Awyer says after a while. “You revealed yourself. He accepted.”
A third time, I nod.
“What if a naefaerie is denied?” he says.
“We die. And we are not reborn. For that reason, I am in your ancestor’s debt. I am indebted to your line.” I have never properly explained, for fear that Awyer might discover the truth of his coming death. Our time together runs thin. The time to explain is now or it is never.
“At the end of one pact,” I say, “a naefaerie chooses a new pactor. The longer she goes without finding one, the vaguer she becomes. She may reveal herself to one person and one person alone, and if the chosen accepts, she will be reborn. If not, she will fade. I was desperate, after fleeing from Ensecré. I chose an unlikely pactor: a sphinx, of a race known to keep to themselves. I did not expect his cooperation . . .” My voice trails as I am lost in the memory of it. “And yet . . .”
“You were fond of him.”
“Ah?”
When I look to Awyer, he sports a glare. A darkness. A severity.
“As I told you,” I say, unsure of myself, “it is unheard of.”
Awyer turns his back to me. The brown ends of his hair are still in the windless day. “I will go with you to the Blue Capital when this is finished,” says over his shoulder. And with that, he saunters away to Pedj’s side, leaving me to ponder on everything.
I am indebted to that first sphinx. Because of him, I was assured rebirth after rebirth through his descendants. My debt is his. I am to deliver the stolen color to its promised recipients.
True.
But . . .
Is there not another way?
Chapter XVII: Gloers
The Gloerlands come abruptly. Techton said we would need to see them to believe them, and it was no lie. The sight of them is a thing to behold.
There is jungle. Emerald green mossy growth, vibrant climbing vines adorned with bursts of color, woody trunks of earthy brown. The colors of the Reck have surrounded my sphinx’s company for days.
But when we reach the Gloerlands, they are no more.
At the Gloerlands, color ceases to be.
In a line, the jungle becomes devoid of anything but white. It is not that there is nothing within the white; merely everything has turned to white – flower and rock and vine. And with a backdrop of white, it is impossible to see what lies ahead.
When my eyes first find the white jungle, I am confused. If the Reck turns white, surely I should have seen such from my frequent sojourns above the canopy. To examine the anomaly further, I shoot above the jungle crown before anything else. My suspicions are confirmed; an anomaly it is rightly called. For when I break through the trees, a strange thing occurs. In my view, the Reck has not been painted white at all. From the top, at least, it appears normal leafy tree cover. There is green. There is not white.
I flit again below the canopy.
Starkness returns.
How rare!
I explain what I have seen to Awyer, and he in turn relays it to Techton.
“Don’t ask me,” the Azurian says. “I was boggled the first time I came here too.”
Following the pull of her pet, Mael holds forward her arms and takes a few steps beyond the white line.
“HOOP!” shrieks Pedj.
It is too late.
Thwak!
Mael’s forehead makes contact with the unruly arm of a tree. At least, I believe it to be a tree. It is difficult to tell under the circumstances.
“Wait a skosh!” says Pedj. “Oka, how the heck is this a good hidin’ place? The whole thing’s white! We’ll stick out like four sore thumbs!”
“Five,” says Awyer, eyes narrow, in reference to me.
“Har. Har,” says Pedj.
But Awyer is not jesting. His temper has not been grand since our last conversation.
“That’s one of the wonders of the Gloerlands. Go in deep enough and you’ll be white too,” explains Techton.
“Naw way!” says Pedj.
“Yep way,” says Techton.
“How did you come to know of this place,” I ask via Awyer.
“This is what lead me to the Reck in the first place. When I gave up Azure, I went on a pilgrimage–”
“Pilgrimage?” Pedj interrupts. “Seriously?”
Awyer looks sidelong at me, and I make haste to tell that, “I knew they were fashionable!”
Techton continues, “Yep, a pilgrimage. To the shrine Ergandach. Ever heard of it?” Pedj and Awyer shake their heads in unison. Mael is not paying attention. She coos at the bird on her wrist. Techton goes on, “I met a monk at Ergandach. He told me that if I really wanted to be free of my addiction, I should lose my color beyond the Gated Rise. He told me about a fabled place without color. He seemed like an all right old chap, so I made the journey.”
Awyer looks as though he has just been told the key to salvation. “If I enter, I will lose my color!?” he says with far more energy than he has exerted over much else in his life.
I, on the other hand, have mixed feelings on the discovery. My old soul and my young heart enter confliction.
‘Do not enter, my ward! It is your duty to carry the stolen color!’
‘Make haste, Awyer! Be free of this burden!’
These are the things I wish to cry. The things I struggle to decide between. But it is for naught. In the end, I am not made to choose.
“No, your magicks won’t go anywhere,” Techton says, to Awyer’s chagrin. “The old grizzly meant metaphorically. Lose my reliance on them in an unworldly place or something. Of course it would have been nice to KNOW that ahead of time . . . but what can you do?”
“Did you get on crossin’ all the way through it?” says Pedj.
Techton shakes his head. “I went as far as the altar.”
“Altar?” says Awyer.
“A little ways in. It’s like a big round black thing. I thought that was where I could get rid of my Azure, but when I went there, nothing happened.”
“How did you find your way?” I ask through Awyer. “Under these . . . circumstances.”
“I had a guide. And we will too.”
Into his massive rucksack Techton’s hand dives. When it submerges, it holds a brass box etched with fluted designs. From its back juts a key.
“Oooh,” says Mael. “Tinker.”
“I’ll let you do the honors, Lady.” Techton hands the piece to her. “Wind the switch, then open it up.”
Mael looks from the box to Techton and again to the box. “How many?”
“Um, just a few should do the trick.”
With a determined nod, the necromancer begins to turn the key. Once, twice – She suddenly stops. “It ain’t gonna shake, is it?”
Techton chuckles. “No, nothing like that.”
Determination renewed, Mael gives a few more turns before she releases. A muted song begins to play from within the tinker, but it is only muted until Mael opens fully the box, at which point, the song grows immensely into a haunting, clinking tune that emits from the brass piece, spills over Mael’s hand, and pours into the monochromatic Gloerlands.
The song makes uneasy the pit of my stomach.
“Now what?” says impatient Pedj.
“We wait.” Techton drops his sack onto the ground, and – “Who’s hungry?” he says, causing Pedj to brighten right up. The zombie raises a hand above his hand, ecstatic over the thought of food in his belly.
How little it takes.
A bowl of dried meat and vegetativ
e roots makes Pedj’s sunken eyes gleam. Alas, the ‘starved’ boy makes it only halfway through his meal when he abruptly proceeds to choke. Coughing and hacking, he grabs at his pale throat with an equally pale hand.
“Pedjram?” Mael’s reaction is, per usual, delayed. Techton and Awyer have already jumped up to offer assistance. Their assistance is unwanted. Shaking his head vehemently, Pedj hops away from them, pointing over their shoulders to the whiteness beyond.
When I see what he sees, so do I excite. “My ward! It is a man!”
Awyer does not think to scold me for my mistake, for the moment I mention what I have observed, he whirls around to lay eyes upon the man in the white. A man of tall stature. A man of layered clothing. A man of long, knotted hair that is clumped together in thick, rope-like strands and tied back with a cluster of fabric strips. A man with eyes of purest white whose irises are outlined by a dark ring each.
And above all, a man with antlers. A pair of large, multi-pronged antlers protrudes from the top of the man’s head.
It is as the tale of Awyer’s ancestor spoke: men with horns.
Pedj finally manages to swallow his unchewed clump of food. “WHAT THE ERF IS THAT?!”
Techton is not so alarmed. “Oh,” he says with a smile, “that’s why you’re out of sorts. He’s a gloer. If we’re lucky, he’ll guide us through his country.”
It is my first time encountering such a being.
While the other three mortals look on, Techton moves to where the brass box is yet making song. “Gloers don’t talk. Well, the others I encountered didn’t anyway. It could be that they only talk between themselves . . . I digress. Either way, they understand us, even if they don’t say anything in return.” He extends the box to the gloer, who is standing rather stiffly a short ways into the white jungle. “We offer this music box in exchange for guidance through your land,” says Techton genuinely. “What do you say?”
The antlered man is stiff a moment longer before striding nimbly to where Techton stands. His steps are light and long as he hops over white obstacles hidden to the rest of us. Pedj backs into Awyer.
“His eyes’re crankin’ creepy.”
Awyer lays a playful hand upon Pedj’s shoulder. “You do not go for dead stares? If we compare, Ark’s were most creepy, were they not?”
“Ack! Don’t remind me!”
As to the gloer’s eyes, I do not find them unsettling – not as the slaywings’ were. Piercing, yes. But what is more, they are enigmatic.
The gloer takes from Techton’s hand the singing box. Thoughtfully he turns it over. He inspects the fluted etchings with his thumb. He opens and closes the top. And when he is through, he nods.
Content, Techton turns to the rest of us. “Okay,” he says. “Ready?”
But I am not so content. Never before have I worked with a gloer. Never before have I entered the white jungle. And Mael’s wrist is yet being pulled slightly southward.
If we are deserted partway through, we will not easily escape the world of white.
“A riddle of gold, Awyer.” I fly in the way of his path before he can move to follow the others.
He says nothing, but conveys with his eyes a questioning.
“As assurance that he will take us the whole of the way across,” I say.
“It is necessary?” says Awyer.
Speaking truthfully . . . “No,” I admit.
“It will ease you?” says Awyer.
“Aye.”
That is all he needs. He extends his hand, and to the gloer calls, “A riddle of gold.”
The gloer’s interest is caught. He turns very slowly to examine my pactor.
Though he holds only a quarter sphinx, the gold of Awyer’s eyes shine. “Speak the following,” I tell him, and he repeats:
“Over white, lead not astray. Brass is lost without full way . . .” Awyer waits for me to speak more, and when I do not, “That is it, Grim?” he questions.
“It is all that is needed.”
Indeed, the gloer looks from Awyer’s gold to box’s brass, and then he nods and takes the hand of a boy with borrowed craft. The deal is made. Their hands glow golden.
“Um, okay. Are you all set now?” says Techton. He who has formerly been lead by a gloer does not feel a need for reassurance.
“Ower riddled,” says Mael, apparently impressed.
Not so impressed is Pedj. “But . . . weren’t riddles supposed to be what are, like, tricky to figure out? I’s thinkin’ there wasn’t anythin’ tricky ‘bout that one . . . unless . . . Hoo! It’s so tricky it tricks you into thinkin’ it’s simple?!”
No, it merely is simple. Be we will let Pedj think what he likes.
“Aha, nice work,” says Pedj, giving a wink to my sphinx. “I see what you did there.”
From within the rucksack, Techton finds a coiled rope. Giving one end to the silent gloer, he tells the rest, “I’ll bring up the rear. Sound okay? Everyone else grab hold in the middle of this cord and don’t let go.”
Pedj is wary of his spacy cousin’s ability to follow the order. “Phoo, don’t you think we should tie it ‘round her?” he suggests, picking his hair nervously.
“Shup, Pedjram. I’m oka.”
“Lady says she’s okay,” says Techton publicly. Though afterward, more discreetly, he tells Pedj, “Let’s put her between us just in case.”
Thus, the order of their march is: gloer, sphinx, zombie, necromancer, addict. And what of naefaerie? I shall not hold the rope that must be enchanted to receive me. I shall hold the one I may touch in the absence of enchants. I boldly take Awyer’s warm hand.
With that, we set off into the white after a man with antlers.
Techton’s allegation was correct. A minute into the Gloerlands, we begin to fade. I am able to see my own body, for I do not fully exist, but the rest? They turn as white as the land around them. They become swallowed, as though by a mountainous blizzard. But there is no snow. There is no frost. There is humid jungle.
And there is something else.
Six colorful intrusions skate across the white ground after us. One for each in our party. Alike snakes of slithering color, beneath our feet a short trail is left. They move with us as we move. They swim the ground, marking it with each of our given colors.
Mine is purple. Amethyst.
So too is Awyer’s a shimmering purple, though his is also glittered gold.
Techton’s is blue. Azurian.
Pedj’s is red. Bloődite.
Mael’s is darker red. Stronger Bloődite? Or perhaps a little of the shade bird’s darkness is emitting through.
Peculiarly, the gloer’s is black. It is strange. Perhaps the black is a marking for those without power. Perhaps it has something to do with the void of the rivers encasing the Reck.
“Them’s our enchants?!” exclaims invisible Pedj.
“Yep,” says Techton. “Even the faerie’s shows up, huh?”
It is news to me. “Awyer, can you yet see me?” I ask.
“Yes.”
“And can you see yourself?” I ask.
“No.”
I take his hand, which remains in mine, and pull it to my abdomen. There, he spreads out his fingers flush against my belly. Only against my form do they show up. White. Not only white. Devoid of all color. I am swift to entwine my fingers in his once more.
May we be through this place quickly.
While I pass over the ground as easily as the antlered man, the rest in our party do not fare so easily. Frequent are the tugs through the rope, and consequently through Awyer, that signal someone farther back has banged into a tree or a log or a stone. These stumblings are often accompanied by a swear from Pedj: “Crank!” or a subdued sound from Mael: “Oooops . . .” or a chuckle from Techton: “My bad!”
Awyer does not have the problems of the rest. He is nearest to the guide, and as such he can most accurately feel the pull of the rope. Eventually, that pull begins to go southward.
“That’s what
the bird’s sayin’ too!” Mael cries when she feels the change in course. “There’s the way!”
I find it a great relief.
What I do not find a great relief is how long our wandering is. It is disquieting, the way I am unable to keep track of time. Here, the sun does not shine and the stars do not show. Day or night could pass without ever giving hint. If I fly above the white curtain, there is no guarantee that I will be able to find again my sphinx. Who knows if his trail of Amethyst will remain visible from afar? An eeriness also falls over these parts in that, barring the talk of our company, the Gloerlands are entirely silent. If any animals reside within, they are as noiseless as our native guide.
“How’s he know where he’s goin’?” Pedj asks after an unknown passing of time.
Techton’s voice answers, “It doesn’t look the same to him as it does to us. I think the key is his antlers. Last time I was here, my guide tipped his head and let me touch one, and for an instant, everything was normal; it looked just like regular Reck. As soon as I let go, though, it all returned to white.”
Aye, then it would seem Techton’s theory is valid. To the natives, this land appears common jungleland.
White.
White.
White.
Uncaptured time passes as we follow the gloer through starkness.
And then there is a change. Through the white, there is black. Never before have I been so grateful to lay eyes upon the color.
“That’s the altar,” Techton says from the back of the line. “That’s as far as I went last time. When we step onto it, we’ll show up naturally again.”
The shapes of white trees show against the black structure. The altar is a round disc of sorts, several feet high and many, many yards in diameter, placed in the center of what looks to be a clearing.
Incensed by the thought of again being visible, Mael and Pedj race for the side of the altar. Given the briefness of their time spent unseen, they would certainly not do well as naefaeries. A pair of delighted schoolchildren, their forms show against the backdrop of the altar. Pedj helps Mael up and gives a cry of joy as his skin turns from white to . . . slightly less white. At least the rest of him regains its color. A zombie’s skin is not really toned to begin with.
