tmp_48d41530aaad86c106555e2e52630fd9_VLf2O0.fixed.tidied

by Scott Andrews

  Hraken’s shadow stumbled to its feet and grabbed its severed head. “You would use my curse to save your own skin, Tsarevitch?”

  “Certain death or a slim chance of survival? I choose the latter,” I said.

  The balance of power on the saga-silk shifted with Hraken’s arrival. Now that Anansya and Pol must also contend with the Stormlord’s spirit, they were no longer dominating the struggle against Selenja and me. To maintain their hold on the spell, they manifested on the silk as well. Our three factions now vied for the ritual’s magic, each trying to bend the outcome to our will. When one faction began seizing power, the other two beat it back. If one tried to hurt another, it left itself vulnerable to the third.

  Deadlock.

  The lamp-flame flickered.

  “End this now,” Selenja begged of me and Anansya both. “If none of us yields when that flame goes out, the ritual will consume us all! Can’t you feel it?”

  She was right. I felt the magic that brought us onto the screen crushing us cloth-thin.

  Despite Selenja’s warning, no one deigned to answer.

  “If that does not sway you, then consider Fabek beyond the silk,” I said to Anansya. “I have instructed him to slay me if I am robbed of my body, and for the sake of the tsardom, Fabek will carry out his orders. The question is, will he interpret this sudden silence as proof of the ritual’s triumph? The longer we delay, the more likely he is to slit someone’s throat. It might be mine. It might be yours. Think on that.”

  “How do we come to an accommodation?” Anansya said at last.

  “No!” said Hraken. “You invoked my curse, and I will have vengeance against you all, even if it means my own destruction!”

  “There’s unparalleled power in this ritual, to which we all have a claim.” I directed their attention to my real body and the five full goblets before it. “These are the cups wrested from you and your lieutenants, Hraken. Five Dooms of the underworld, five water-curses. Shadow, Oblivion, Frost, Silence, and Madness. We can divert the ritual’s power to imbue each cup with one of those dooms. We will take turns naming one of us to a curse until all five of us are bound. Then, with all five of us seizing control of my sword, we will topple the cups and let the curses spill forth.”

  “I came to claim a new body, not play with curses,” Anansya said.

  “If the curse is phrased right, it may free a body for the taking,” Hraken said, clearly tempted by the chance at a second life.

  “We will decide the first to match a name to a curse,” I suggested. “That person names a victim and words the curse as he pleases. The one named will choose the next to be cursed, and so forth.”

  Anansya laughed. “You’re clever, Tsarevitch, but I see wrinkles in your plan. Obviously, you can’t name the first person who chooses, since that would leave someone out of the chain of curses. And the last two people in the chain have no real choice in which foe they name, do they? But I will agree to this.”

  “And I,” said Hraken.

  Off-silk, the flame began to sputter. Fabek knelt next to Pol’s body, and poised his dagger so that the tip was merely a hair away from his blank, staring eye.

  Pol gulped. “Hurry. Decide who starts the chain!”

  I leaned closer to Selenja, overlapping her shadow. “You must name Hraken, or else we risk another deadlock.” The Stormlord was certain to curse me first, which would give me the opportunity to foil Anansya with a carefully-worded curse.

  Selenja nodded. “Whatever happens, Dominin, I want you to know I love you,” she said.

  “And I you,” I replied, and kissed her.

  The five of us pooled our wills and reshaped the ritual to fit our covenant. Tendrils of light swirled around our silhouettes and even spun off the silken screen to twist above the goblets. Fabek recoiled at the sight.

  Together, we spoke the name of the one we chose to shape the first curse.

  “Anansya,” said Anansya.

  “Anansya,” said Pol.

  “Hraken,” said Selenja.

  “Hraken,” I said.

  “Anansya,” said Hraken, surprising me.

  With our pronouncements, specks of golden light shimmered around Anansya’s silhouette.

  The Stormlord laughed. “You thought I’d name myself, Tsarevitch? No, I wish to see you and the witch destroy one another, for that is what you deserve.”

  “Then I will oblige,” said Anansya. “Dominin, I give you the Doom of Oblivion. Let your body forget the tenor of your soul, and let your soul not remember your life or love. When you become a mindless shell, my soul will come to dwell in your abandoned flesh.”

  A tendril of light dipped into the wine in an edgemost cup in the line before my body, giving it a ghostly glow.

  The shape of her curse was much as I predicted. She intended to follow through on her plan to become me.

  It was my turn, but which curse on whom? Pol, Selenja, or Hraken? Shadow, Frost, Silence, or Madness?

  In the Obsidian Room, Fabek moved behind my body and raised the knife in a quaking hand. I had to choose quickly.

  I could name Selenja and spare her the worst of the curses, but I would lose the chance to remove Hraken as a threat. But if I named Hraken next, I knew the likely fate to befall Selenja. Yet, my beloved was only one woman. I loved her, to be sure, but my first duty was to the people of the tsardom. That was the legacy my father left me. I squeezed Selenja’s hand. “Hraken, I give you the Doom of Frost. The cold of the grave will follow you always, no matter what refuge your soul finds. Let the chill cripple the flesh of any body you steal and thwart your sorceries and schemes. . . .” That was how I had planned to end the curse, but I could not leave it so. “. . . until a true love’s kiss ousts your soul and frees the accursed one to live again.”

  A tentacle of light illuminated the middle cup.

  “So you would rob me of the joy of living again, Tsarevitch?” said Hraken. “Then I shall take pleasure in taking revenge upon you. Do I take the body of the man who stole my pelt, or the harlot who tricked the secret of my pelt from me? The latter, I think, should twist the dagger in your heart. Selenja, I give you the Doom of Shadow. I banish your soul to the shadow you cast, bound to your body until the Falls of the underworld run dry. Your empty body will become mine instead, and I will live again in your flesh.”

  “No!” I cried, but Hraken had spoken his curse, and the ritual touched the cup between the two already ensorcelled. Even if my kiss forced Hraken out of Selenja’s body, she would not be returned to me because of the Stormlord’s dictum.

  In the Obsidian Room, Fabek whispered words I could not hear as he touched the edge of his knife to my throat. Perhaps he prayed to the gods, or begged my forgiveness.

  “It’s all right, my love.” Selenja touched my cheek. She turned to Pol. “You and I have suffered Anansya’s cruelty too long, my friend, and we cannot suffer her playing tyrant in Dominin’s body. With Madness and Silence left, there is only one way to ensure that she never hurts another again.”

  “Don’t listen to her, Pol,” warned Anansya. “You were always the stronger. Side with me, and I will make you the greatest sorcerer of shadows the world has ever—”

  “Shut up, you old crone,” Pol said. “I have been your puppet these long years because you promised me power, but all you have given us are breadcrumbs while you devoured the lion’s share of our ventures. What do you propose, Selenja?”

  “I would grant you Silence, the least of the Dooms, if you curse Anansya with a specific Madness,” Selenja said. “Let her madness be the unshaking belief that she is none other than my beloved Dominin, upholding his virtuous ways no matter which body she steals. If Dominin is lost to Oblivion, then she will have no choice but to become the man she destroys. Such is the only way to save the tsardom.”

  I kissed her forehead. “Well played.”

  “Very well,” Pol said. “Say it.”

  “Pol, I give you the Doom of Silence,” Selenja said. “Though y
ou must live your life mute, I bless you with true silence when you ply your thieving skills towards the good of the tsardom. Use it well.”

  The other edgemost cup filled with brightness.

  “That leave you, Anansya,” said Pol. “I—”

  Anansya turned on her apprentice and leapt upon him, her black bony fingers throttling his throat.

  I unslung my shadow bow, nocked an arrow of light and fired. The arrow struck Anansya in the back, and she released Pol.

  Pol caught his breath and blurted out his curse. “I give you the Doom of Madness, Anansya! Mad to believe you’re none other than Dominin Tsarevitch, in whichever body you reside!”

  With that, the last magical tendril flowed into the remaining cup.

  All five of us spirits hurtled into my body for the final part of our ritual of curses. The cups still must spill before the curses are fulfilled. I wore my scabbard on my left side, and the cups of Shadow and Oblivion were the rightmost before me. If I could knock over the rest but prevent those two from tipping, that might yet save us from doom!

  But all five of us had the same idea, and fought to control different parts of my body. Even worse, Fabek might panic and cut my throat. Hraken seized my right hand first, trying to knock over all the cups. Selenja and I fought him, forcing my hand to reach for the hilt of my saber instead.

  Meanwhile, Anansya took control of my left hand, reached up and grabbed Fabek’s wrist to stay the blade. Pol took the opportunity to use my voice, calling out: “Not yet!”

  Fabek fought to keep his knife a threat. “Prove you are Dominin.”

  Hraken abandoned his attempt to control my right arm, and forced my left foot to kick forward. He hit the leftmost goblet, the Cup of Silence, and spilled its curse upon Pol.

  Silence!

  Pol lost control of my voice. His surprise at his curse broke his concentration and forced him back into his real body.

  Without Hraken’s interference, Selenja and I gained control of the right hand and drew the sword, sweeping it from left to right. The steel smashed into the Cup of Madness and tipped it.

  Madness!

  Anansya was ripped out of my body and thrust back into hers. Her hold over my left hand was broken, and Fabek’s blade drew blood from my neck. I relinquished control over my right hand to Selenja and rushed to seize control of the left, preventing the sharp edge from slicing deeper.

  Anansya held her hands trembling before her eyes. “How. . . ? Selenja, Fabek! The witch has taken my body!”

  The witch believed she was me. However, she would not take my body until the Cup of Oblivion fell.

  Hraken seized my right foot and kicked towards the cups bearing my and Selenja’s curses.

  I sped my thoughts towards helping Selenja with my right hand, driving the saber towards Hraken’s cup. Just as our blade knocked the Cup of Frost over, the foot controlled by Hraken hit the Cup of Shadow.

  Frost and Shadow!

  I regained control of my body, slowing the saber’s edge so it merely tapped the Cup of Oblivion. Only a single droplet trickled down the side of the goblet.

  “Oblivion,” I whispered. Almost.

  On the other side of the silk, Selenja curled up and hugged her knees, shivering. Hraken had taken her body, but suffered my curse. The Selenja I knew was gone, banished to her own shadow.

  Anansya lay in a pool of blood, dead. Pol stood over her body still holding the weapon that had killed her, a broken ivory handle taken from a shadow puppet. I had not heard him at all.

  Fabek’s knife at my throat trembled. “Last chance to prove you are Dominin,” he said.

  “Only you and I know how you saw through my disguise during the war,” I answered. “You had recognized something in my gait that reminded you of my father. It is I, my friend.”

  Fabek removed the blade and let it clatter to the stone floor. “Never ask me to slay you again, Dominin.”

  I touched my bloodied neck. “Agreed.”

  The lamp-fire died, leaving only the dwindling glow from the Cup of Oblivion as illumination.

  ~ ~ ~

  The witch Anansya is dead, slain by her apprentice Pol, I wrote in my latest letter to Mother. Pol has become a thief again, now that he has no voice to sing with. I have taken him into my service, and he seems pleased to spy on behalf of the tsardom. Time will tell whether he is to be trusted. As for Hraken and Selenja. . . .

  I put down my quill when Fabek brought Hraken-in-Selenja before me. Under the ravages of his chill-curse, Hraken was no more than a cripple, helplessly shivering, barely able to speak. “W-will you execute m-me, D-dominin?”

  “No.” It was still Selenja’s body, even if she was imprisoned in its shadow. I still longed for her caress, but not even my kiss could reunite her soul with her body. Hraken’s curse was too strong. And yet, I could not imagine doing her body harm, even when I knew full well Hraken wore her face. “I banish you from my tsardom, Hraken. Go warm your bones in the southern isles, live out your stolen life, and never return.”

  “Y-you’re a f-fool,” said Hraken. “I’d k-kill—”

  I cut him off. “Speed him to his exile, Fabek.” I gazed at Selenja’s shadow. “Farewell, my love.”

  “Consider it done,” said Fabek, and led Hraken away.

  As for my curse? I ordered the Obsidian Room sealed, all things within untouched. Perhaps the Cup of Oblivion still lingered there, waiting for its curse to spill.

  Perhaps the wine would dry, leaving nothing but dregs.

  Or perhaps that lone drop of wine that escaped the brim had already fulfilled the curse, and I was in truth Anansya’s mad soul, playing the part of Dominin Tsarevitch. Who would know?

  Not I.

  ~ ~ ~~ ~

  Dr. Tony Pi is a Toronto-based writer, linguist, and university administrator working in cinema studies, and sometimes ideas from his day job cross over into his stories. His short fiction has appeared multiple times in On Spec and Abyss & Apex. He was a winner of the Writers of the Future Contest and a nominee in “Best Short Form in English” category of the 2008 Prix Aurora Awards.

  DRIFTWOOD

  Marie Brennan

  IN THE DAYS BEFORE THEIR WORLD SHATTERED, crumbled, and finally fetched up against that cluster of old realities known as Driftwood, they were called the Valraisangenek.

  One of their scholars once spent a week lecturing me on that name alone, before I was allowed to learn anything else. Valraisangenek: echoing their once-proud world of Valrassuith, “The Perfect Circle”—itself based on the ancient root word of velar, “totality”—and their race’s legendary founder Saneig, “Chosen of San,” chosen of the Supreme Goddess, from whom they were all descended (genkoi). A name full of meaning, for those who know how to read it. But most people think the name of the Valraisangenek is too long and difficult to be worth remembering, especially when there are so few of them left. These days, everyone just calls them the Greens.

  After all, that name has the advantage of being so obvious anybody could remember it—or at least attach it to the appropriate target on sight. Somebody walks in with hair like sea foam, eyes like emeralds, and skin like moss? You’re looking at a Green. Slap on whatever the word is for “green” in your language, and you’re set to go. Or “blue/green,” if your people don’t distinguish those two colors, or “red/green” if your race is color-blind, although in that latter case you might run a risk of confusing a Green with a Kakt. But the red-skinned Kakts are numerous enough, and well-known enough, not to mention horned enough, that if you’re not smart enough to tell them apart from the Greens, you won’t last long in Driftwood anyway.

  The Kakts’ world is so newly-Drifted that on three sides it still borders on nothing but Mist. The calendrists I know figure within a year it’ll share a boundary with Egnuren—a Kakt year, that is; nearly two Egnuren years—but I don’t recommend telling the Kakts that. Most of them still deny the Driftwood thing. They’re new; they’re proud. They don’t want to admit that their
world is gone, and they’re all that’s left of it.

  The Greens know better. Hard to deny the death of your world when it’s shrunk down to a small ghetto whose name hardly anybody bothers to remember. There are theories on how to slow the decay, of course, and back in the day the Greens tried them all. Stay home, and pretend Driftwood isn’t there. Speak only your own language. Breed only with your own kind. And pray, pray, pray to your gods, as if Driftwood is some kind of test they’re putting you through, or a bad dream you can wake up from.

  None of it helps. I should know.

  But no one listens when I tell them.