by A. J. Ponder
Jonathan murmured a quick blessing and was hit by the waves of fathomless hate emanating from the possessed child. He needed another plan. “By the gods, can we call for a priest to lift this curse? Quickly. Before her spirit fails.”
“Here? Now?”
Well, he hardly wanted to go back to the university. And not because they’d probably confine him; he didn’t trust them to save her.
“Hellfire and damnation, do you want another Maretta on your conscience? She will die, and you’ll not get another prophecy out of her, anyway.”
Some of the older wizards bobbed their heads up and down like birds. Others turned on Jonathan.
“It’s my right!” a wizard shouted, waving pen and parchment. “Following around prophets with no care for their welfare is a long and revered tradition I fully intend to uphold. Everyone agrees that it saves lives.”
People tried to shush him, but he yelled louder. “How dare you? Don’t shush me.”
“Don’t shush you? Then stop behaving like a child,” Jonathan snapped. “Do you really think you have the right of it? A single life for many is the kind of reasoning that kills everyone in the long run. There has to be a way out.”
“Just another self-important trumped-up Goodfellow. Always thinking you know best. Everyone knows you’re a traitor, repeating the same lies as your father. Don’t worry, when we’re finished, I’ll personally ensure you get back to Bairnsley University, so you can be tried along with your father.”
Right now, there was no time to think about his plight, or that of his father. So long as he had his backpack, he’d have to trust everything would turn out all right in the end. He had to save the child.
While they continued arguing, Jonathan knelt down and covered Maey with his cloak.
The child snuggled sleepily, but started to writhe when he sprinkled a bottle of Grannie’s Cure All infused holy water over the bundle.
“What are you doing?”
Any moment now, whoever that was would stop merely protesting and rush to stop him. Useless lot. He’d hoped one of them would dare to step forward and take on the role of priest and remove the evil spirit. That’s what fully-trained magicians were supposed to do, wasn’t it?
Hurriedly, Jonathan recited a blessing, his precious backpack slung over his shoulder. “May the gods protect you, and keep you from harm. May your spirit be released from your torment…we cannot and will not ask for more than you have already given.”
“Speak for yourself,” someone grumbled. But a furtive glance showed most of the wizards’ heads bowed in prayer.
Some recited the blessing they’d been taught as young trainees visiting Maretta the prophetess’ graveside. “Rest in peace, hide from sight. Cast aside shade and embrace the light.”
Jonathan ignored them, screwed up his courage and laid his hand on the child’s forehead. A chill settled on him, colder than any wind.
In a flash of misdirected insight, he understood more than he had ever wished to know. It staggered him. “The gods should not play with mortal man!—I cannot take her burden.”
Screaming.
More prayers, fervently muttered.
Sparks of sickly-green light rose from Maey’s still form—A’Rieal—the icy souls hovered over her.
“Embrace the light,” Jonathan said. His hands glowing, he focussed on chasing away the evil spirits.
“Is that a demon?” one wizard demanded.
“Demon? There’s no demon.”
“There was definitely something.”
The ground rushed toward Jonathan—or he rushed toward the ground. More likely it was the latter, but to his senses it was all the same thing. Darkness enveloped him.
When Jonathan came to, old Potsie was almost standing on top of him, urgently mumbling. Jaundiced old hands quivered. It all sounded very sombre.
The ceremony was over, the cloaked wizards turned to Jonathan, scrolls and quills to the ready. Jonathan groaned and was greeted by the fuzzy image of a man holding something…a scroll and quill. Immediately, he knew what the man was waiting for: Words. Words of Prophecy.
“It’s not enough. It’s never enough,” Jonathan said, clutching his backpack as if it could save him, knowing it could not. The scratching of quills louder in his ears than his own voice. Further away, a knot of wizards talked amongst themselves. “He has done this before. It was a year ago to the day.”
Jonathan remembered. Nightmares could not contain such memories as he had forgotten. He backed away. “Not me, anyone but me. It’s someone else’s turn.”
Yet who else should take this burden?
“Would you sacrifice yourself for a stranger?” he asked Maey’s translucent image as it floated before him.
The words were scribbled down with a religious fervour, the meanings and the implications argued with a fire that resembled a street brawl more than civilised conversation.
Jonathan shook his head. Despite their philosophising, they had no notion of selflessness. And now he was being taken back to Bairnsley University whether he liked it or not. There was no point fighting it. He’d not yet done what he had come to do. He’d not yet rescued the girl.
Jonathan’s hand reached out, although he could not reach Maey.
“I take your gift,” he said quietly.
There was silence, except, of course, for the scratching of pens recording his words in the hope they were prophecies. The day he’d come to the grave of the other child prophetess, Maretta, he’d been thinking of prophecies. But most of all he’d been thinking about Sylvalla…
He closed his eyes.
This time Sylvalla did not arrive—it was Maretta. Insubstantial. Nothing more than a waif, her dog, Radag the Faithful, by her side. Maretta patted it, oblivious of her bare feet trailing phantom blood. An innocent who knew too much. His memory of his previous encounter with her spirit, spooling out as vividly as if he were reliving it all over again. A sea of destruction and death that led to a terrible war, death and an evil sprawled across the landscape, further than the eye could see. It settled softly over the kingships, and strangled them one by one. Passing over mountains and valleys, across seas, and beyond the borders of the known world.
A cow lowed. Maey re-appeared. Sweetly, she patted the beast’s nose and stroked between its eyes. “It’s all right, Daisy. I’m all right. Why are you here, wizard? Am I dead?”
“I don’t know. I don’t think so. I came to save you.”
“You came like all wizards do,” Maretta chastised. “You came for knowledge.”
“Not this time,” Jonathan said. “I’m sorry, I thought…”
What do I think? That I saved Maretta? That I set her free?
“You did free me. I have come to save my sister soul.”
A clarion bell invaded his thoughts. “In time, the spirit will be released…” A god. The Maiden.
“You have no right! No right,” Jonathan and Maretta both protested.
The goddess screamed. “What do you know, humans? Every day you humans demand signs and beg for help. Well, I have given them.”
Jonathan opened his eyes, but the vision did not end. Maey, tossing and turning nearby, and the wizards standing over them both, appeared translucent and insubstantial, as though the real world was the one of ghosts. This is weird, to see the world and the world beyond at once.
Maey’s amorphous hand grabbed hold of the broken necklace—it was whole in the vision, and glowed with a light the Maiden and A’Rieal demons shrank from. Nearby, Maey scrabbled at the shards imbedded in her hand.
Jonathan stretched out his own hand. He thought he knew what he was doing. He thought he was strong enough.
The words of Maretta, the last prophetess, rang in his ears—
“Mighty are the fallen three
Death stalks, evil walks,
My words,
My gift to thee.”
The fleeting touch of those visions at Maretta’s gravesite had been overwhelming. Yet, this time th
ere was more.
Maey’s spirit glowed. Her hands twitched randomly. No, not randomly at all, she was making some kind of a bundle. Jonathan recognised the dark garment, all night and shadow. It was wrapped around a white and blue charm.
“Let it go,” the ghostly Maretta urged. She looked towards Jonathan. “He is the one.”
In one smooth motion, Maey yanked the pendant from her neck, throwing it, and the almost imperceptible bundle, to Jonathan.
Jonathan’s mind swept him away into visions, through the past and into the future…He could see it all, every pathway, every choice, every chance and, as always, they came down to one thing—no—one person…
Didn’t they always?
Missing Persons
Screams echoed in Sylvalla’s ears.
It was the same old nightmare. Mahrawyn, Sylvalla’s long-dead handmaiden, floating past, dark hair streaming.
Sylvalla followed, as she always did. The screams grew louder and more horrifying until there was only a cavernous pit below her feet.
Sylvalla sobbed as Mahrawyn fell. The mangled body of her deceased handmaiden picked itself up and torturously began climbing again, calling out.
Poised over the lip of that dreadful fall, Sylvalla could hear no words, only terror. She reached down to help, like she had so many times—dreading her fall into the abyss.
“Though the moon shall die, it shall be but the beginning. You must be ready. Sylvalla, you are the day, and the midday sun burns.” Mahrawyn reached out to Sylvalla, and pulled—only someone grabbed Sylvalla.
Jonathan.
And Jonathan was not alone. Two strange girls were with him, one with a mangy dog, the other trailing a cow.
Together, they pulled Mahrawyn to safety.
Jonathan mumbled prayers before handing Sylvalla a white and blue charm wrapped in darkness. “I believe these are yours,” he said before disappearing. One of the girls disappeared also, leaving only the tattered child with the cow. “Can you take Daisy?” she asked. “Now the evil is gone, she’s a sweet thing.”
“Yes,” Mahrawyn said, “but there’s one thing I need to do first.”
She turned to Sylvalla. “Sylvalla, if you fail everyone, they will fail you.” Mahrawyn’s face morphed until another familiar face stared back.
“You forgot me,” Amarinda said, her earnest face so sad, her arms buried in soapy water.
“Amarinda?” Sylvalla asked. “You’re near the best medic in the kingdom, and my lady-in-waiting, why are you dressed as a scullery maid? Amarinda?” But Amarinda was gone. Sylvalla was alone, in the pits of Hel, A’Rieal swarming all around as a postulant tentacle reached out to grab her.
§
Sylvalla woke sweating. Her head hurt and her limbs felt like lead. Damn. Neither swordswomen nor queens were supposed to go around having visions or dreams. Nor were they supposed to worry about what they may or may not have wished for.
And Amarinda? Why should I feel guilty about Amarinda? Isn’t she with her family?
Someone knocked politely on the door. Not Dirk, he never knocked. “Amarinda?” Sylvalla asked, more in hope than expectation—but it was Estha, the nursemaid.
I should have asked about Amarinda. And Estha. What was I thinking?
Reluctantly, Sylvalla stirred and unbarred the heavy door.
Her bonnet askew. A small child under each arm, Estha pushed past Sylvalla. “Queen Sylvalla.” She gave a fair attempt at a curtsy given the circumstances. “Your mother says one of these is the real Prince Tomas, heir to the throne of Avondale. But, milady, I swear I cannot tell the difference. It’s as if they’re twins.”
Estha set the squirming bundles onto the floor. “I know your lady mother, the queen, says otherwise and points to the one and says it’s her own. It’s just that I, er…I’m not…It doesn’t matter. Anyway, now that you’re here, I quit. I quit, and I won’t be back again.”
“Wait,” Sylvalla said, and before Estha could escape back into the corridor, slammed the door closed.
Estha jumped, looking around wild-eyed, while the two boys giggled and ran all over the room.
“Whatever you do or don’t believe,” Sylvalla snapped, “keep your voice down, for crying out loud.” She bit her lip. “You see, it’s a ruse. I’ve placed the real boy, er, my brother, in hiding. You know there’s talk of evil things happening, and you know how important it is that we keep the prince safe. If people find out where he truly is, he’ll be in danger. We’ll all be in peril from those who want to take his kingdom from him.” Sylvalla stared hard at Estha. “You do understand what I mean?”
Estha took a step back. “I never said a word.”
Sylvalla smiled. “Good, anything less would be treason.”
Estha turned away.
“Before you go, I’m looking for a woman. My lady, Amarinda.”
Estha hesitated. She looked about furtively, then she grabbed up the children. “I think it’s time I left.”
“I’m the queen of Avondale, you will tell me,” Sylvalla demanded.
Estha clutched the children so tightly they cried out. She shushed them, her eyes darting between Sylvalla to the door. “Amarinda went away in disgrace.”
“What for?”
“What for?” Estha repeated, deliberately mocking. “Oh, I think you’d better ask your mother. Or Cook. Amarinda angered both of them. All I know is that she’s not with her family like they said.”
“What?” Sylvalla snapped, before deciding Estha had seen enough tantrums that she wouldn’t be impressed by a royal one. “Estha,” Sylvalla said, swallowing her pride. “You’ve really helped me today. Please know I will do everything I can to help, but you must understand how dangerous that information is. Letting you go is not an option.”
Estha gasped.
Sylvalla felt terrible, but Estha needed to know how sensitive her position was. Overestimating the risk was better than underestimating it.
“I’m sorry,” Sylvalla said. “But you have to know it’s not as simple as walking away. I promise to do what I can to make your position more comfortable.”
“You could make me a lady, like Amarinda.”
“I could, but that’s a dangerous option. Let me see what I can do.” Sylvalla snatched up her sword, and stormed down the corridor to her mother’s rooms.
“I hope I didn’t disturb you,” Sylvalla lied as she barged into the room, ignoring the vociferous protests of her mother’s guards. Sylvalla slammed the door on them; this was not for their ears.
Tishke smiled thinly. “Pain makes sleep somewhat of a luxury. So what do I owe the pleasure of this visit, and at this hour of the morning?”
“I saw Estha. Your ruse of twins is falling apart and so is she.”
“Yes, unfortunately too many people suspect. That’s why I asked you to come back and find a child to take over as the heir of Avondale. The twins aren’t much use for anything except decoys—if we can ever prise the pair of them apart.”
“I would have thought for someone with your…ingenuity that wouldn’t be so difficult.”
“Yes. So did I. The two of them can hardly walk and they’re like homing pigeons, worse than all the others put together.”
“Why don’t you choose one of the other children?”
“None of them look like my boy. No. I’ve decided we need to find one that has some resemblance to Tomas. So, if that’s all?”
“Not in the slightest. You should have employed more people in the nursery. Estha seems to be raising half the toddlers in Avondale.”
Tishke frowned. “Yes, it was a mistake. I thought the fewer people who knew, the better—but it’s common gossip now. Sylvalla, don’t you think this could have waited until later in the day?”
“I don’t think so. What if Estha walks out? What will you do then? You’d better sort it, or I will. But I didn’t come here for Estha alone.”
“Oh, do enlighten me. It’s a distraction from the agonising pain. I have mentioned the agonisi
ng pain, haven’t I?”
“What have you done with Amarinda? Locked her up? Banished her? Whatever could she have done to deserve that?”
“I simply sent the poor thing…home.” Tishke’s eyes jerked away from Sylvalla’s gaze. The pauses were enough for Sylvalla to suspect her mother was lying, but the inability to hold eye-contact was a dead giveaway.
“Home?” Sylvalla said.
“It was best to send her away. For the both of you.”
“Don’t lie to me. Where is she?” Sylvalla demanded.
“Isn’t there enough scandal in your life?”
“Where is she?”
“I told you, she went home.” Tishke licked her lips. “I mean, the ladies were all talking. Couldn’t you have let her do her job without permitting her to dress up like some kind of pet goat? It was repugnant.”
“What?”
“My dear, the dresses. You let her wear your dresses, and the worst of it was she looked better in them than you ever have. It was a scandal. Ever since, my ladies have wittered on about nothing except how uppity our chambermaids are, and what the kingdom will come to if you go around letting the servants believe they’re our equals.” Tishke rolled her eyes to emphasise her point. “If only I’d been stricter and made you take up tapestry when you were five, none of this would have happened.”
“I don’t think so.” Sylvalla smiled a smile any sensible person would have run and hidden from. “Tapestry was never my strong point, I only ever had one needle—Dragonslayer—and it was always better at shredding material than sewing it. Pity it was lost, but I do find Dragontooth’s heft reassuring. Now, where is Amarinda?”
“Are you accusing me of lying? I’ll…” Tishke slumped back onto her bed, her pale face flushed an unhealthy shade of puce. “You know, she’s not the only spy that’s gone missing lately.”
Sylvalla closed her eyes. “Spy? Missing? Mother, really, you have outdone yourself this time. Where did you send her?”
“You’ll have to ask Cook. We both agreed it was for the best, Sylvalla.”
