The Sylvalla Chronicles

by A. J. Ponder

  “Witch Queen,” a brown-clad thief retorted. “Some of us may fall, but your death will make it worthwhile.”

  A woman slashed Dirk’s chest with a sword. It bled freely.

  The suffocating stench of smoke wafted up again.

  “Fire!” Torri yelled, running out of one of the buildings, a baby under each arm. “Your houses are on fire, you’d better go save them!”

  Flames licked up from the thatch, and suddenly their enemies were all but gone.

  Dirk put his sword through the last one.

  “Thank you for saving my life,” Sylvalla said, surveying her multitude of injuries. Mostly little cuts and easily stanched, except for the slash in her leg gushing blood. She collapsed to the ground.

  “Are you all right?” Torri asked.

  “I just need a minute. And whatever else—I did not faint, I only needed to sit down for a bit.”

  Dirk nodded. “Of course, My Queen. What do you think Arrant was doing here?”

  “Whatever it is, it can’t be that dire,” Sylvalla said. “Not with Dothie safely locked up at the Goodfellow’s Bairnsley University.”

  §

  Arrant fumed. He’d lost an outpost, and more of his thieves and soldiers than he would have liked. Although a fair few had decided, like he had, that you needed to save your bravery for when it was truly needed.

  The voice in his head, the wizard Emz’rial, laughed at Arrant’s anger. Do not panic. As soon as my brother Xem’rial and his host Dothie are released, we will have all we need to create a brand-new world. A world we will rule, forever.

  The Beginning of the End

  There are times when you look over your life and wonder where the years went, and what it was all for. There are times when it seems that everyone around you is insane, and there are times when the bleakness of reality slides into view and you realise that any semblance of sanity was indeed a masterpiece of fantasy, made real only by a profound desire that it should be so. (Attrib. A. C. Goodfellow)

  Mr Goodfellow senior frowned. The trial was not going well. Dothie was talking from within his protective bubble, addressing the packed hall with dangerously slick aplomb. Somehow, despite everything Dothie had said and done, the audience hung gullibly on his every lie. The forked tongue of his reptilian familiar lent the only truth to the proceedings.

  Now that it was Mr Goodfellow senior’s turn to speak, it was hard, extremely hard, not to use a magically-enhanced thunderous voice of conviction, or his more subtle spells of persuasion. In any other circumstance, with so many lives and freedoms at stake, he would have cheated to get the required result. Unfortunately, here, any magic he could cast would be spotted immediately—and, even worse, be taken as an admission of the transgressions of which he was accused.

  He licked his lips and tried to concentrate. “My fellow wizards.” Now that was a lie. Fellow implied some kind of equality. A few might claim to be his equal, maybe even surpass him in certain esoteric fields, but none were near his equal[83] in matters of magic.

  Any untruth, no matter how slight, will easily be spotted. I need to tell the absolute truth or I’ll be the one who is locked up.

  “The world turns and you do not see it. I bring you the scribe’s words, written records that omens are everywhere, and still you say I have no proof. Must the world fall into flame before you are prepared to move your buttocks off the chairs they so firmly fill?”

  Angry cries from the gallery of peers were quickly stifled as Capro ploughed on. It was far too late for insincere civility now. “Perhaps you think I have gone too far! I say I have not gone far enough, because even now you will not crack the film that covers your eyes and blinds you to the very danger you court. You do not treat Dothie with the respect he, as a wizard, deserves.”

  A querulous voice rose from the peers[84]. “How dangerous can he be? For goodness sake, Dothie’s own college, Fairly University, rated him so poorly he didn’t even pass his first exam.”

  “Actually, he held the panel of examiners to ransom by transforming one of their number into a fruit fly and threatening the rest with a similar fate. Strange, don’t you think, for an entire examination board to be coerced in such a manner by a young student whose powers were, supposedly, minimal? I’m not surprised his pass has been struck off the official record.”

  A man Capro barely recognised stood up. “How can you know all this? You were not there.”

  “Ah, yes, but you were, weren’t you? So why don’t you give these Bairnsley University stalwarts some idea of Dothie’s character?”

  The man coughed and sat down.

  “That’s enough.” The First Wizard cut through their exchange. “All judgement is suspended until we hear from the accused. Remove the protective shield.”

  “First Wizard!” Capro bit his tongue rather hard on the words. “I must insist the prisoner remain within the shield. His power is such that he can speak through immense shielding—imagine how dangerous he’ll be if he’s released.”

  “You show your cowardice,” Dothie said. “There’s only one of me.”

  “I’m no coward,” Mr Goodfellow senior thundered. “I’ve faced dragons. My fellow wizards, you’ve not considered everything.” He hesitated to state his fear—that Dothie was no longer Dothie, but an old and powerful wizard, yet maybe it was past time that he did. “You have not considered that Phetero tried to wake the Nameless—”

  “Now you are but fearmongering.” The First Wizard threw out his arms. “We are wizards, not cowards. There is enough expertise here to put paid to several young hooligans—one, we should manage with ease.”

  A murmur of assent rose from the court.

  “I insist more care is—”

  “You insist?” the First Wizard crowed. “You do not have the right. One more word, and you will be evicted.”

  Even the doddery old wizards at the back looked up. The wizard, Dothie, with his burning eyes and the disconcerting lizard upon his shoulder was an enigma every bit as beguiling as Pandora’s Box[85] to wizards who’d never tasted danger.

  “Release the prisoner so he may hear the charges against him.”

  “He can hear them well enough already,” Mr Goodfellow senior snapped.

  “I warn you again, Capro, do not try my patience. If you won’t dispel the bubble, I will.”

  “That’s Mr Goodfellow senior to you.” Mr Goodfellow senior stared fixedly at the First Wizard. “Now, do you take full responsibility for this action?”

  “I do.”

  “And if you should die, who then will take responsibility after you?”

  The First Wizard sighed. “Goodfellow.” His voice contained layers of charm and hurt. “Goodfellow senior, must you insist on these…formalities?”

  “I must.”

  A large man, whose name I am not at liberty to publish, stood up.

  Mr Goodfellow senior tried to meet the fellow’s eyes, but the large man turned away.

  Once more, Capro Goodfellow made an official protest, but with the air of a defeated man who nevertheless will try and rally support to the bitter end. “There must also be a vote. And you must all swear, on the foundation stone of this university, that should it fall, you will rebuild these halls brick by brick.”

  Half the peers stood[86]…and stayed there, shuffling nervously. Uncertain about how long they should stand, but not wanting to look like they were backing down.

  So, who wasn’t a fool? Mr Goodfellow tried to remember faces. A waste of time. Most of those sitting were just too lazy, or too old, to get up.

  “So be it, and on your heads, and your arms shall weigh the consequences,” Mr Goodfellow said. “Will the official stenographer put their names to the roll and place it somewhere safe—not in this building, for I doubt we’ll find anything much in here again after this.”

  “That is enough,” the First Wizard snapped. “Stop being so melodramatic and release the prisoner.”

  Mr Goodfellow held up a finger and waited until
the scroll had left the room, long after the First Wizard had turned purple and angrily called for his spell book. Only after the appearance of said scroll book did Mr Goodfellow senior relent and clap his hands.

  The bubble burst.

  Many amongst the audience flinched, even those who’d called to hear the accused.

  The judge pretended not to notice the tension in the room, nor the pungent smell of fear. “Do you know why you are here today?”

  Dothie glanced up with a careful blend of smile and confusion. A shallow pretence of false innocence many in the crowd found strangely beguiling.

  “They are serious charges.” The judge turned to the accused as if he expected Dothie to read his own misdemeanours. Of course, Dothie did not.

  The judge squinted back down at the parchment, and in a monotone that could have been used to put small infants to sleep, listed the offences. “Use of forbidden magic. Waking the Unnameable Gods. Rending open the Chasm of the aforesaid Unnameable Ones. Allowing some of aforesaid Chasm’s contents to enter this world…”

  “No!” Dothie cried out. “Who would say such things? I only wanted to serve the wise and venerable Phetero. But this man—”

  Dothie flung his arms wide and once again, a number of wizards flinched backwards.

  “—this man opposite me has played a dangerous game, accusing me of sordid crimes, and then confining me without trial, and falsified proof.”

  Mr Goodfellow senior paled with anger. Dothie had a way with the truth that would make a dragon jealous. Still, Capro had one last trick up his sleeve. “This is no game. At any rate, it is not my game. But see. Your tongue is a rainbow. It shows every colour of deceit.”

  Dothie paused, surveying the suddenly unsettled hall, his face a mask of fear. Then he coughed, and it was as if the moment had never happened. “My dear Mr Goodfellow, finally you come to a truth—this is no game. This is my life, and not some political game, but I would like to thank the brave and noble wizards who have given me the opportunity to defend myself.”

  Capro sat down, his ears buzzing with anger—at least, he hoped that’s what the buzzing was. With Dothie released, anything was possible. Any danger. Any underhanded trick, subterfuge or game. For Dothie, other people’s lives were just tools to improve his own.

  Angels and Devils

  There is little difference between Wrong and Right

  When Possession is nine tenths of the law

  Maey struggled back into consciousness. Something heavy was being placed around her neck. It seared her chest like a brand. A fug of torment, her mind wandered as reality slipped in and out of the murk.

  Endless screaming echoed around her.

  Where’s that terrible noise coming from?

  It took a long while before she realised the screaming was her own, or that she was lying on a pallet by the fire.

  Death glittered just out of sight. A knife.

  Even with her eyes closed, she could sense the blade, and quietened.

  How she knew it was there, behind her father’s back, she didn’t know, but in her head, the light reflecting from it was more beautiful than any gem. She could hear her father’s footsteps coming closer, his breathing as he hovered close.

  The knife’s call was silken in her ears. Take me. Remove the necklace. Cut. Slice. Together, we will do beautiful things. Together…

  The images she saw sickened her and yet the impulse persisted. It’s not my longing, she told herself. It is not me. She fought with the words she was unable to form, opening her eyes to dispel the appalling visions.

  Her hands rebelled, tearing at the necklace that burned into her flesh like ice-fire—too sharp to grip, too brutal to ignore. The cord cut into her hands and fingers. Thwarted, her hands closed into fists. She reared up, clawing at the empty space where her father had been leaning over the pallet.

  “By the Mother!” he swore, jumping back, his heart thumping loud enough for Maey to hear. “The priestess said if this does not work, there is no hope. How can I give up hope? She is but a child. Mine own flesh and blood.” He squeezed the knife tighter. “This is beyond my strength to endure.”

  “Give it to me!” a voice rasped. It was Maey’s voice—but not. This thing inside her saw the blood as if it had already been spilt, craved its sweet taste. It took control of her arms, snaking them out and manically grasping for the blade. While she, the real Maey, fought on, more helpless than a babe.

  “Begone, I command thee! By the Gods; by the Mother; by the Daughter; by Death…”

  That helped. And made it worse. Maey’s spirit was being crushed against the walls of her body. The pain was unbearable. And the noise—as agonising as the screech her cat made the day Daisy had trodden on it. Maey tried to think through the dreadful sound, barely aware it was emanating from her own mouth.

  One thing was keeping her here.

  Just one thing.

  The bright pain exploding from the charm.

  Maey tried to touch the charm around her neck. Her arm did not work as she wanted. It clutched for the knife.

  Maey put all her will into the single act, until there was nothing else left, only the desire to hold the charm.

  Her fingertips brushed its burning surface.

  Pain threatened to engulf her, worse than any threat. Colder than ice. Hot as the hundred furnaces of hell. “Maiden, protect me,” she whispered, squeezing it firmly in her palm as she sank back onto the pallet.

  “We should kill her now.” Her father’s voice. Unsteady.

  Her mother held him and cried.

  Maey’s body jerked and a voice issued forth. A different one. Sweet and melodious and ringing like a hundred trumpets in glorious fanfare. “Beware that which can be seen and is unseen.” Maey’s eyes rolled back in her head. She had to keep fighting.

  The voice echoed with a dire warning. “Beware that which is unseen—and can’t be seen.”

  There was a thunderous pause.

  “Beware the mad and fair.”

  So vile a thing, to take a soul and loosen it from the body. Maey kept fighting. Good. Evil. It no longer mattered. She elbowed the voice from her mind.

  Maey’s fingers clasped the amulet harder. It burnt all the more. She wanted so badly to tear it away. To remove this object of torture from her neck.

  Fresh herbs were thrown onto the fire. Maey struggled not to vomit as she was assaulted by the smell of thyme and rosemary—herbs she’d previously found sweet. Eyes burning, the taste of ashes and blood thick on her tongue, she turned her back to the fire, closed her eyes and lay calm and quiet. Not sleeping. Merely giving the appearance of sleep.

  When her parents moved away, Maey’s eyes opened in the thinnest of slits, so the penumbra of her parents’ bodies could be seen where they intersected the light.

  At last, her father unlocked the door. “I’ll be a minute, just grabbing some wood.” He pushed the heavy door open.

  Maey swung herself off the pallet and ran out into the snowy night. For her, it seemed warm enough.

  Her parents chased her for a while, but she was too fast. Long after the noise of their pursuit was gone, she slowed to a walk.

  The pain of the amulet told her she was alive, even as otherworldly voices echoed around her skull. Unable to stop their endless babble, she spoke their words out loud.

  Days, perhaps weeks, passed. It was hard to tell with light and dark at war upon her shoulders. People she passed would hold their hands up in the symbol for The Circle—thumb and pinkie finger forming an endless loop.

  “The beginning and the end,” she’d tell them, conversationally, as they backed away. “With no beginning and no end. The serpent, and the eternal wheel. The shield and the curse of ages. Damnation! You use such powerful magic!” And she would walk right up to them and scream, “Witch!” or “Wizard! Get thee hence!”

  See how they scuttle away like rats startled by the sunlight, a voice whispered in one ear. In the other ear, another voice cajoled, Why do you liv
e with your pain? Take it away. You need not burn. Take it away, and you can be free.

  Then, almost overnight, a gaggle of eager followers in black appeared. Toting pens and piles of parchment, they spent their time scrawling down her words with a religious fervour.

  “The Sylvalla prophecy,” they said in muted tones, muttering ominously amongst themselves.

  Maey drew back in alarm. The name, Sylvalla, was terrifying—even to the beings who plagued her. “It’s not the prophecies that should worry you,” Maey said. “It’s the things that create them. They’re here. They’re everywhere, and they infect us all.”

  Disorderly Behaviour in the Court

  Justice is blind,

  deaf and dumb,

  and walks with a limp

  “…so, my peers, your most-excellent selves,” Dothie droned on, directing his outrageous flattery to the wizards sitting up in the gallery. “I would like to bring before you my objections. The old wizard who dares to accuse me is deluded with his own self-importance. Yes, I do come from far away, but there’s no reason to be distrustful of my magic. Tell me now, will you release me, or continue with this sham of a trial, when it’s clear that I am innocent of…”

  Capro could only shake his head in disbelief at the sheer gall of it all. And while he could swear that Dothie had been using no magic, he was sure that someone or something had. He could feel the court being swayed by what at best could only be described as prattle.

  There was nothing else for it. He’d have to call on Dalberth as a witness. If there was one man who could convince this jury of Dothie’s guilt then it was Dalberth. The traces of the magic Dothie had used would still be evident, and the man should have no problem recognising Dothie as the perpetrator. Reluctantly, he stood. “My Lord, peers, I have a witness.”

  “Well, then, bring him forth.”

  “He’s in Scotch Mist.”

  “I object,” the First Wizard shouted. “This is time wasting. If there was a witness, why was he not brought to my attention earlier?”