by Dorian Hart
“Are you going to live?” Morningstar was talking loudly over the wind.
“Yeah,” Kibi forced himself to say. “But I ain’t enjoyin’ livin’ just now.”
* * *
Kibi had to endure five more trips like that before the journey’s first day was over. Each time, when Tor brought the carpet to a stop, Kibi rolled off and hugged the ground like his own mother come to embrace him. Dranko asked if he needed healing the first time, and the others gathered around him in concern, but only the blessed touch of the earth brought him peace. He knew he’d have to endure it; the alternatives would be to slow everyone else down or let them leave him behind. He wouldn’t accept the first, and his friends wouldn’t allow the second.
His sleep that night began with a predictable nightmare. He was back on the carpet, but Tor had lost control of it, the rug spiraling upward into the vast blue ocean of the sky. Kibi gripped the carpet, bunching its fabric into his sweaty fists, only to feel it unraveling in his fingers. Beneath him were islands of clouds; the solidity of Spira was lost to him.
Morningstar was there with him on the carpet.
“Be at peace, Kibilhathur. This is only a dream. Spira’s surface has not abandoned you. Close your eyes and let your demons go.”
The dream became misty and lost its cutting edge of dread. Kibi shook his head and looked up at her.
“Morningstar? Are you really here, or am I just dreamin’ you?”
“It doesn’t matter. Look again, Kibilhathur.”
He peered over the side of the unwinding carpet and found he was back on the ground. Of its own volition his body rolled sideways until his shoulder blades pressed into the dirt.
His eyes snapped open. A million stars blazed across the sky, but it was a sky far away, and its glittering expanse did not trouble him. Several feet away Morningstar slumbered in her bedroll, a tiny smile on her lips.
* * *
Morningstar didn’t want to talk about it the next day, and she reminded Kibi she preferred to keep the subject a secret from the others. He still insisted on thanking her and marveling at what she had done.
“You talk to rocks and work stone like clay,” she said quietly. “And I am learning to walk inside dreams…and mold them like clay, in a manner of speaking. I don’t see that one is more astounding than the other.”
Kibi endured the day’s carpet rides with a tad less panic, and it helped that there were fewer of them. An hour before noon they reached the stubby Norlin Hills, at which point Tor took the carpet on a solo flight to scout. Morningstar had argued that if Sagiro was already there searching, the carpet’s smoke trail would give away the company’s arrival. But the prevailing opinion was that speed was their highest priority, and finding the “crumbling keep” could take days of wandering in the hills if they didn’t avail themselves of a bird’s-eye view.
That decision paid off quickly, as Tor returned within the hour announcing that he had spotted the decaying ruins of an old hill fort. “We can be there in two hours if we keep shuttling people on the flying carpet. There’s even an old path leading to it, blocked with boulders in some places and washed out in others.”
“And did you see any sign a’ Sagiro?” asked Kibi.
“I didn’t see anyone, and I flew over it a few times checking. I’m pretty sure it’s abandoned.”
Kibi suffered three more brief carpet rides before they had all gathered at the edge of a narrow but deep ravine, at the bottom of which swift and frothing rapids swept southward to join the Norlin River. On the far side of the ravine, not more than twenty feet distant, were the remains of a time-ravaged fortress. There had been a drawbridge once, but the chains had rusted through and the planks must have long since dropped into the river. Tor confirmed that there was no other point of entry, as the old fort perched atop a steep-sided and solitary hill. Someone standing on the ramparts and jumping down into the courtyard would fall only twenty feet, but a leap outward would result in a hundred-foot plummet into the river (if you were lucky) or onto sharp rocks (if you were not).
Much as Kibi hated the carpet, he was glad of it now. With Vyasa Vya the absence of a drawbridge was no impediment, and soon all six of them were standing on the weedy hard-packed soil of the fort’s main courtyard. Around them moss and vines had covered most of the remaining walls, both the parts that were standing and the crumbled blocks, patchy with grime and lichen, that lay tumbled about like children’s toys.
The fort was of a plain, uninspired design, just four walls, tall square towers at each corner, and a once-strong keep in its center. The gatehouse was small, its single iron portcullis rusted away. A building that might once have been a stable had collapsed in a sagging ruin against the south wall. The entire interior wasn’t more than fifty yards on a side.
“After we’re famous,” said Dranko, “we should ask for this place as a vacation home. Little fixing up and it’ll be fit for a king. Or a knight, or whatever they make us once we’ve saved the kingdom. We can call it Castle Blackhope.”
The others fanned out to search, each choosing a different heap of rubble, but Kibi stayed put. A vibrating thrum sang in his bones, a radiating power from somewhere nearby that reminded him strongly of the Seven Mirrors. The Eye was close! He took two long steps to a waist-high chunk of fallen rock and put his hand upon it, and while it offered no direct advice, the keen sense of a deep-earth heartbeat grew stronger. When he concentrated, he perceived the source of that power and was drawn to it, as a hungry man to the scent of a hot home-cooked meal.
“Hey!” he shouted. The others stopped their searching to look at him. “It’s in the keep, up on the second story.”
After their previous encounter with Sagiro, none of his friends asked him how he knew. Kibi found that gratifying. His own meager abilities to shape stone had never been as impressive as Tor’s martial prowess, or Dranko’s street smarts, or Aravia’s wizardry. The Eyes of Moirel had revealed in Kibi an unusual area of expertise, but it remained to be seen of what use the diamonds would be. His mind went back to his talk with Morningstar from the previous day, in particular on the subject of destiny.
He shook his head. “Don’t mean nothin’,” he muttered to himself. “You got a gift, is all, and Abernathy’s spell picked you ’cause of it. Nothin’ more to it than that. A general will pick his best warrior to lead a charge, but that don’t make it destiny he’ll win the field.”
The keep was more intact than its surroundings, though its walls were pocked with holes and a corner of its roof was caved in. It even had a door, half-rotten and leaning loosely against its frame. Kibi went through first, though Tor was quickly by his side, sword drawn. Immediately to his right a sweep of worn stone stairs curved up and out of sight.
“It’s up there,” he said over his shoulder. “I can almost see it now, like it’s a ball a’ purple flame, and the keep is all made out a’ glass. Ten feet above us and thirty feet in, or thereabouts.”
There was no need for a lantern or light-coin; the holes in the outer walls let enough sunlight spill through to illuminate the dusty, cracked stairs. After a full revolution the spiral staircase emptied out onto a second floor hallway. The floor was littered with moldering mounds and thickly coated with dust. A mostly disintegrated suit of armor leaned casually in a corner.
The hall was wide, with spears of sunlight stabbing down through gaps in the ceiling. One of these fell upon a wide doorless opening; beyond that was the Eye of Moirel, twinkling directly through the stone.
“In there,” he whispered. Tor nodded, gave the others a hurry-up gesture, and dashed through the opening. Kibi half-expected they’d discover Sagiro, the Eye already in his pocket, and he drew his mining pick from his belt just in case. He and the rest quickly followed Tor.
They were now standing in a small throne room, and while their mustachioed rival was not in evidence, they beheld something equally alarming. At the far end of the chamber was a stone throne, modestly ornate, its back and arms carve
d with a braided cord design like intertwining snakes. Along the top of its backing was a row of scooped ovals, empty, out of which gemstones must long ago have been prised and carried off by looters.
The Eye of Moirel was highly conspicuous, at home in the eye socket of a skeleton seated comfortably on the throne. And while at first Kibi thought the skeleton had simply been arranged in a lifelike pose, hand on chin, left ankle on right knee, it surprised him by uncrossing its legs and standing up a moment after he observed it. Once on its feet, violet light surged from the gemstone in its left eye. A quick rime of purple crystal boiled from the apertures of its skull like ants stirred from a nest, coating the head before racing down its spine and out along its ribs and limbs.
Once the whole of it was encrusted with living amethyst, the skeleton stepped down from its throne. Kibi gripped his pick; was this skeleton going to attack them, the Eye defending itself with its possessed body? It took several unsteady steps towards him, swaying and clattering. He felt the others fan out around him, heard the hiss of Ernie drawing Pyknite, but his eyes were fixed on the Eye, blazing purple in the living skull of its host.
It advanced, tottering, until it stood less than ten feet away. From the corner of his eye Kibi saw Tor shifting his weight, preparing to strike.
The skull swiveled on its crystalline neck until it was looking directly at Ernie, who gulped audibly. A voice issued from the skull, a voice as dry and cracked as old sandpaper.
ERNEST. YOU ARE LOOKING WELL. I HAVE SEEN YOU AGAIN SOON.
Then it turned its baleful sockets to Kibi, and the purple gemstone flared a little brighter.
KIBILHATHUR. MY REGARDS TO YOUR GRANDFATHER. NOW BRING ME TO MY BROTHER. TIME RUNS SHORT.
The skull lolled once more, snapped off at the neck, and shattered upon the flagstones. The rest of the skeleton dropped like a puppet with its strings cut, collapsing into a jumbled heap of bones. The purple crystal all hissed away to nothingness, and a small round diamond with a heart of jet rolled from the skull and bumped gently against Kibi’s boot. He picked it up.
“You know my grandfather?” he asked it. “You mean my ma’s pa?”
It said nothing.
“Talk to me, you damn crazy rock!” he shouted.
Again, nothing. With a heavy sigh he dropped the Eye of Moirel into his pocket.
“‘I have seen you again soon?’” said Ernie. “That doesn’t make any sense.”
“Aravia,” said Morningstar. “Now that we have what we came for, can you get us back home? We shouldn’t stay here any longer than is necessary.”
“Agreed,” said Aravia, and right there in the throne room the wizardess began the half-minute process of casting teleport. They all waited patiently, and Kibi steeled himself for the personal discomfort he was fated to endure. Aravia spoke the final syllable and twitched her left pinky just so, and there was the blackness, the sloshing contortions of his innards, and…
…he was still standing in the throne room. So was everyone else.
“Kibi, it’s you,” said Aravia.
“I was jus’ standin’ here!”
Aravia stared at him a moment, and he would have sworn he could see gears and wheels turning behind her eyes.
“No, it’s the Eye of Moirel. Whatever physical or magical property makes my teleport spells have difficulty with you, it’s much stronger on the Eye. I don’t think I can teleport it.”
Kibi’s heart sank. He’d happily have tolerated the irksome displacement of a single teleport over another half dozen airborne stints on Vyasa Vya. But they could hardly leave the Eye behind.
“Let’s get goin’ then,” he said. The others didn’t hold it against him, and Ernie even patted his shoulder. He followed, last in line, as the group filed out of the room and down the spiral staircase, to emerge into the afternoon sun casting its rays into the courtyard.
Sagiro was there, standing ten feet inside the gatehouse, his mustache cast in up-curled silhouette. He was flanked by four Sharshun. Two of the bald blue-skinned Sharshun—one man, one woman—held long curved blades. The other two, both men, had such weapons at their belts but pointed cocked and loaded crossbows at the company.
“That answers that question,” Dranko muttered.
“Stand still and my friends will not shoot!” called Sagiro, his voice cheerful yet hard-edged.
“You’re too late!” shouted Tor. “We’ve already found the Eye of Moirel, so turn around and go back where you came from.”
Kibi was no strategic genius, but he was pretty sure that was something they should have kept to themselves.
“I am pleased to hear you have been successful,” said Sagiro, “but the Eye does not belong to you, and I would ask you to return it now.” He sounded for all the world like a patient but remonstrative parent.
Kibi had his hands in his pockets, the Eye of Moirel clutched in a fist. He tried thinking to it. I don’t suppose you can blast them fellahs, like Sagiro did with his?
No response.
Dranko pointed an accusatory finger at Sagiro. “And what if instead of handing over our lawful property, we tell you to stick your rapier up your arse? We have you outnumbered.”
Sagiro frowned. “Your vulgarity is not appreciated. And what I would do is instruct my friends here to kill you, and take the Eye once you were dead. As before, my strong preference is not to cause you injury, but the Eye is not your property, despite that you possess it. It belongs to us, and always has.”
“And who’s ‘us,’ exactly?” asked Kibi. “You and your bald buddies there? We’ve heard some things about ‘em, and they don’t sound like fit company for a gentleman like yourself.”
“There is nothing to be gained by further conversation,” said Sagiro. “I will give you to the count of—”
Tor, it seemed, was not interested in math. He charged the closest Sharshun, drawing his sword as he did so, and this uncorked the chaos of battle. Both crossbows twanged, and while one bolt soared high, only grazing Tor’s shoulder, the other sprouted from his thigh. It barely slowed the boy. Ernie and Morningstar leapt forward a second later, leaving Kibi to agonize over whether he should grab his pick and join the melee.
With Grey Wolf missing, Tor had insisted on continuing their nightly sparring sessions, but Kibi had usually stayed out of them. Despite his strength, he was ponderous, incapable of the quick footwork and side-to-side agility that hand-to-hand combat demanded. And so, while he went as far as to pull the mining pick from his belt and even took two hesitant steps toward Sagiro and the Sharshun, he moved no further. He’d be throwing his life away.
Much of his pessimism came from the obvious skill of the Sharshun in battle. The one who had shot Tor dropped his crossbow and unsheathed his blade in one unnaturally fluid motion, in time to deflect Tor’s overhand swing. Now those two faced off against one another more warily, but the Sharshun’s body language projected a contemptuous confidence. Blood flowed freely from Tor’s leg.
While the second crossbowman hastily reloaded, the remaining two Sharshun engaged Ernie and Morningstar, and even to Kibi’s untrained eye his friends were badly outmatched. Ernie stumbled hastily backward, giving up all pretense of attack and trying only to ward off the Sharshun’s rapid strikes. Morningstar was knocked to her knees and rolled quickly out of the way to avoid her opponent’s follow-up slash.
At his side Aravia flicked out her hand and spoke quick syllables. The Sharshun reloading his bow flew backward as if punched hard in the stomach; the crossbow twanged and sent its bolt soaring out over the walls. But Aravia herself fell backward from the effort; had her failed teleport still drained most of her casting energy? That was hardly fair.
“Kibi, they need you!” Dranko’s voice barked from behind him.
Kibi again thrust his hand into his pocket and gripped the Eye of Moirel.
Damn you, you Hells-spawned rock, I know you can blast our enemies. I seen your brother do it.
IT IS NOT WHAT WE WERE MADE FOR.
/> An answer! That was progress.
I don’t care what you were made for! Your green brother told us we had to collect you to keep the world from being unmade. Also we’re gonna be dead in another minute, so come on!
Kibi took the Eye from his pocket and held it before him like a talisman. Blast ’em!
Sagiro, still standing in the back, looked wide-eyed at Kibi and barked an order. The Sharshun fighting Ernie spun and kicked the baker in the neck. Ernie dropped Pyknite as he fell onto his side, but instead of finishing him off the Sharshun strode rapidly toward Kibi. Her dark eyes flashed with cruelty and the pleasure of battle.
Knock the buggers out! Please!
I WILL BECOME DAMAGED. YOU MUST FIND ANOTHER WAY.
There is no other way! I’m about five seconds from being gutted like a fish!
It was closer to two seconds, but Kibi was saved from a filleting by Dranko, who leapt from the side and tackled the Sharshun. The two went down and rolled over several times, but the Sharshun ended up on top. Dranko’s hands gripped her sword-arm, but the blue-skinned woman brought down her blade, inch by relentless inch, toward the channeler’s neck.
“You know,” Dranko gasped. “I like a…woman who knows what she…wants, but not if what she wants is to…cut my throat.”
I don’t care if you become damaged! Better that than Sagiro get his hands on you.
YOU DO NOT UNDERSTAND.
Kibi couldn’t deny that! While he stood frozen, arguing with a talking rock, the battle was rapidly coming to an end. Ernie and Morningstar were each bleeding from numerous shallow cuts and had not inflicted any telling blows of their own. Both were fighting desperate retreating actions. Dranko had only seconds before the Sharshun’s weapon would cut into his neck. Sagiro himself had drawn his rapier and was advancing straight towards Kibi.
