by M. S. Verish
Kariayla waited.
“There was a wand made of crystal, a medallion etched with a luminescent eagle, and an old book with a spine nearly rotted through.”
“You chose the book,” Kariayla said.
“I did.” He chuckled. “And I cannot even remember the title. My choice, however, must have been the correct one, for he held out his hand and told me that I would be his student. Never mind that I had not agreed to such a role. His reasoning, naturally, was that if I had accepted his invitation, I was in the market for what he had to offer.” Arcturus shook his head. “If only I had known then what I know now. The years of insanity I would have to endure….”
“You would have declined?”
“There was never truly any other choice for me,” Arcturus said. “I do not regret his tutelage, but I did tell him exactly what I thought of the sorry quality of wine he left at my door.”
Kariayla smiled.
“Since then, he has tried, in vain, to meet the standards of perfection I guard, but he cannot accept that Markanturian wine cannot be bested. One day, when I share with him a cup from my homeland, he will finally understand.”
“Do you think, then, you will humor whatever plans he has for you?” Kariayla asked.
Arcturus looked at her, amused. “You seem concerned about his intentions, my dear, but you need not fret. If his plans for us are at all as ludicrous as I expect they will be, you have every right to decline your involvement. You can use our tracker as your model for inspiration.”
Kariayla nodded despite his misconstruing her worries. She was slightly relieved to find Arcturus included her in William’s scheming, and she found it difficult to consider any future plans that she would refuse—especially if it meant keeping the company of her friends and a possible opportunity to be of help to anyone.
Her absent gaze had turned to the fire in the hearth, and she found herself suppressing a yawn—a battle that did not go unacknowledged by Arcturus.
“Before you decide to pursue some needed rest, Kariayla, I wondered if you might humor a question of mine.”
Her curiosity gave her a spark of energy. She turned to him.
“If you might think back upon our unnatural encounter in the Plains of Delmadria, when all had fallen dark….”
Her stomach knotted.
“How did you manage to find Whitestar?”
She could not meet his gaze. “I saw where you had been standing. I guessed at where it might have been.”
Arcturus nodded. “When you lifted it, did it feel strange to you? A magical vibration to it, perhaps?”
Kariayla nodded.
“As I thought,” Arcturus mused. “Do not let me detain you any further. This old Markanturian has tired you enough with his ramblings and reminiscing.”
“Good night, Arcturus,” Kariayla said and took her leave. It pained her enough that she had lied to him about the staff, but what was downright frightening was that she did not remember retrieving Whitestar at all, let alone wielding it to vanquish the demon. Yet even Hawkwing had told William that she had done so. With a sigh she tried to clear her thoughts and avoid the pressing feeling that something about her was very wrong.
15
Keeping Company
Kariayla was already awake when she heard a quick rap upon her bedroom door. She had been reluctant to leave the warmth of the bed, and the sunshine had been golden and comforting as it spilled through her window and across the blanket. “Yes?” she asked.
“It snowed outside!” came Jinx’s muffled voice.
“Did it?” She was uncertain how to respond, but it mattered little. She heard his footsteps and Ruby’s patter as they dashed down the hall. Though they were gone, her curiosity had been stirred. She pushed back the blanket, slid into her slippers, and crossed the room to where the window invited a glimpse outside. There was a sparkling mantle of snow—a couple inches to be sure—that had transformed autumn into winter overnight. There must not have been any wind, for every tree branch was perfectly adorned in crystalline grandeur.
Kariayla sighed at the sight, thinking about her mountains and wondering if winter had found its way there as well. Jumull was further north than Nemeloreah; it was entirely likely her people would enjoy a few more weeks of milder weather. She did not mind the winter, but the storms she so loved assumed a different nature in the cold season. There was no lightning, rarely any thunder, and the clouds did not seem nearly as dramatic. By far her favorite season was spring, when the warmer air inspired rain in all manner of spectacular theatrics. Spring storms turned the world green, and all life emerged once more. That was a magic no wizard could perform.
But this was winter’s first shaky step; spring was a long way away. Much like the spontaneous and glittering groundcover, she wondered what this day would bring. There were no promises of what to expect, no set meetings or planned activities. The day was alarmingly amorphous. Perhaps she could see what Arcturus intended to do, though Kariayla had a strong suspicion his activities would involve reading, wine, and a sedentary station beside the blazing hearth. It was not a bad way to spend the day, but nor was it conducive to company. Jinx’s excitement led her to believe he already had a plan in mind. If she was feeling any excess energy, he would have a million ways for her to spend it.
Kariayla dressed with such thoughts in mind, but she reached no decision by the time she had replaced her slippers for shoes. She left her room without direction, and the first person she came across was not a person at all. It was a cavy. She had heard the light clicking of nails upon the floor, trailing behind her, and when she turned, the rodent stopped following her and stared up at her with its beady eyes. She cast Karrott a perplexed smile and backtracked to meet him. The cavy stretched and purred beneath her touch.
“Why are you following me?” Kariayla asked. “Are you bored?” She did not expect an answer, and what she received was another blank stare. She gave Karrott a last pat and rose. The cavy scurried past her and rounded a corner. “Or am I supposed to follow you?” she murmured.
On a whim, she did, finding herself in a corridor she did not recognize. Karrott was gone, but she found a door left ajar at the far end. She peered inside to find a room full of light broken by various shapes and sizes of leaves. An array of potted plants covered the floor and tables within, reminding her of the indoor garden she had visited with William.
“My personal collection,” came the wizard’s voice from behind a shrub with leaves as large as chairs. He stepped into view with a water can in hand. He wore an apron and a straw hat, and a polite smile as well. “No butterflies in here, though.”
“I didn’t mean to intrude,” Kariayla said, looking back at the door. “I was following Karrott, and I thought—”
“Oh, he came in here, did he?” William said, casting the can aside to place his hands on his hips.
“I did not actually see him come in,” Kariayla said, uncertain.
William shook his head. “The lettuce. He always goes after my lettuce.” He stalked away, but not before motioning her to follow. “If he can snatch a leaf, he will, and then he refuses his dinner later because he is bloated.”
Kariayla nearly laughed at the random line. Then she saw the lettuce plant and understood. It was three times the size of any lettuce she had seen, the leaves as long as her arm. And it was blue. “How could such a little animal eat a whole leaf?” she marveled.
“Ask him,” William said, inspecting the plant for evidence of tampering. He sighed. “He has not been here yet; he is waiting for me to leave before he strikes. He used to be an honest cavy. But cavies change, and people change.” He turned to face her. “Makes it hard for us stubborn, old wizards to keep pace.”
“You do not change?” she asked.
He granted her a mysterious smile but did not answer. “You should know that I value Arcturus’s honesty about my tendencies, but even he does not know everything.”
Kariayla studied him, wondering if he had
heard the entirety of Arcturus’s conversation with her. Or perhaps William just knew the Markanturian that well. “He told me the story of how you met.”
“Did he?” William handed her a pair of pruners. “You may find it hard to imagine, but he was not always as he is now.”
Kariayla looked at the pruners doubtfully. “I don’t unders—”
“Oh, sure you do,” William said with a wave of his hand. “He smokes and drinks and sits and talks, and one might even dare to call him boring, but when I met him, he was rather feisty.”
She trailed behind him as he led her to a palm-like tree with a ladder propped against it.
“He was an angry sort of fellow, still spitting fireballs over his exile,” the wizard continued. “He was a challenging pupil in that he constantly challenged me, but I knew it would be so. He was a Markanturian outside Markanturos. Of my two good friends, he has always been the more radical.”
William pointed to a cluster of oblong purple fruit hanging from the tree. “Up you go!” he said.
Kariayla blinked. “You want me to—”
“To harvest that ripe, delicious fruit? Who better? You are not afraid of heights. Oh!” He produced a shoulder bag from his sleeve. “And you can put them in this.”
She took the bag and started climbing, feeling a little ridiculous if not a great deal confused. He continued to talk to her from the ground.
“It is of little surprise to me there was tension between Arcturus and Hawkwing, but I had hoped that both of them being intelligent individuals, they would strike an accord. But as I consider it, Hawkwing is quite the pacifist, the conservative man who does not like ripples in the water. He would not stand up to Arcturus’s strong will unless he was forced to do so.”
Kariayla looked down at him.
“You’re doing fine,” William encouraged. “Anyway, I did not expect he would actually leave. I thought his curiosity would get the better of him, and he would choose to co-lead this endeavor.”
As she neared the fruit, she wondered why he was disclosing any of this to her at all. Was it because she had been there to hear his conversation with Hawkwing before he had left? Or did he expect her to be some sort of liaison to Arcturus? Or just maybe wizards needed someone to confide in as well, but then, why her? “Do you think Arcturus upset him?” she asked.
William wagged a finger. “I had considered that, but it would take more than Arcturus to ruffle Hawkwing’s feathers—no pun intended.”
Kariayla did not understand what the pun was, but her attention had become somewhat divided as she reached to snip a purple fruit. She half-heard the wizard warning her to be careful, but in another moment, the fuzzy item was in her hand, soon to be in the bag.
“Excellent! Just two more!”
She obtained the fruit with ease and was soon on her way down the ladder. William was waiting with a pat for her back, and after he lifted the bag from her shoulder, he asked her to hold out her hand. Into it he pressed the same gem she had seen Karrott deliver the night before.
“A small token for assisting an old man,” William said.
“But…isn’t this the stone Hawkwing left you?” She turned it over in her hand, feeling its cool, worn surface and noting the pale blue color with wispy swirls of white. It reminded her of the sky. In fact… “Wasn’t it a different color before?”
“Yes and yes,” William said, his tone less bright.
Kariayla looked up at him. “Why would you give this to me?”
“Because a stone holds no memory—not for me,” William said. “This stone was significant to Hawkwing, and it reminded him of the beginning of our friendship.”
“When you and the Ilangiel freed him from the Nightwind?” she asked.
William raised an eyebrow. “The man does speak of himself. What a wonder,” he murmured. “Well, since you know that tale, I won’t tell it again. That would be redundancy in its finest. I will tell you that this was the ‘glow stone’ he wore around his neck, and it does glow when called upon to do so.” He fell silent and watched her, as if he expected her to illuminate it then and there.
“Er, I don’t know how I would activate it,” she said.
“Ah!” William shrugged. “Neither do I. You’ll decipher it, I am certain. Anyone who can activate Whitestar can activate a glow stone.”
Kariayla bit her lip.
“It is also known as a skystone, because—well, it reflects the sky. Not helpful for predicting weather, but if your head was permanently bent toward the ground, it would be entertaining. Just remove it from your pocket and, instant sky!”
“I don’t think I can accept this,” Kariayla said.
William pointed at it. “You cannot doubt it, for these are cirrus clouds, and if we were to look out the window—”
“I mean I can’t take this from you,” Kariayla said, blushing. “Hawkwing wanted you to have it.”
“That is not what his note told me,” the wizard mused, scratching his head. “I did not read it in front of you, as it would have been rude, but he instructed me to give this to you. That was why I asked you here.”
“But you didn’t—”
“Now, now, you must take it. If he was here, he would be most insistent.” William ushered her toward the door. “He does tend to give rather interesting gifts, and between you and me, he has always been a bit strange.”
Before she knew it, Kariayla was standing in the corridor again, wondering if she was still asleep and dreaming. The skystone, however, was solid in her hand. Had Hawkwing truly wanted her to have it, or did William lie so that she would take it? If the latter was the case, then why? More confused than when she had arrived, she wandered back the way she had come.
*
The bowl was tossed to the floor, half of its gloppy contents splattering amongst the debris of splintered wood, stone, and rat feces. “Since you can see your meal, you can eat it yourself.”
The Demon looked up to meet the Jornoan’s dark eyes, as if its own feral stare could sear holes into its captor’s head. It had managed to, for what seemed the hundredth time, slip the blindfold from its face, and this had snapped the brittle stick that was its keeper’s temper. The Demon did not shrink away, did not move at all—not until the boot connected with its side. The creature crumpled soundlessly, and Asmat scowled.
“You will learn fear—if not from me, then from your master.” He crouched beside the Demon and wrapped his fingers around the creature’s scrawny arm. He watched what little he could see of the shadowed face. “When the Priagent returns, you will become his,” he said in a low voice. “When you open your eyes, he will see through them. If you rise, it will be at his command. You will not flinch unless he allows it. Every move you make—” his grip tightened “—will be by his will.” The corners of Asmat’s mouth lifted when the creature tried to pull away. “Terror has replaced your defiance. Better get used to it.”
The Demon suddenly snapped at him, its sharp teeth sinking into the Jornoan’s hand. Asmat gave a cry and then a curse as he withdrew, blood running down his arm. In one swift motion, he seized the creature’s head and smashed it against the ground, grinding the side of its face into the spilled contents of the bowl. “I would crush you right now,” he seethed, ready to bear all his weight atop the Demon’s skull. There was a moment when he leaned forward to follow through, but then he shoved the creature away. “You’ll find a fate worse than death.” Asmat stood and walked away, though the Demon did not move until it heard the door to the cellar slam shut and the last of the footfalls ascend the stairs.
Slowly, painfully, the Demon tried to sit upright. Its hands were bound in gloves of metal attached to a thin spike that had been driven into its palms. Until now, the Demon’s meager meals had been fed to it with no lack of resentment on behalf of either party. With the sludge from the bowl caked upon its face, its sensitive nose was overpowered by pungent slop, and the creature heaved what its barren stomach could not offer. It gasped and heaved agai
n, then submitted to the floor. For a long while it lay there, staring at the walls of the cellar, watching the inevitable approach of roaches and flies to where its dinner stagnated.
Weeks ago, the Demon’s prison had been the bed of a wagon. In a cocoon of ropes, it had been bound, blinded, concealed, and cast amongst its captors’ supplies to endure the long, rough road to the damp, cold setting in which it now suffered. The journey had given the creature much to consider, listening to the strange tongue of its captors, feeling the air grow steadily warmer and catching the scent of the sea as the days passed. But now—now there was nothing but nameless anxiety and anticipation of what would come next. There were walls, and there was the dirt of the floor. There was silence until the one named Asmat came to torture him, and when Asmat was gone, the Demon was left to endure its wounds. For how long it had claimed the cellar as its living tomb, it did not know. Days and nights were the same; time was meaningless. But there was always the waiting, and it suspected that soon the waiting would come to an end.
A fly landed near its eye, and the Demon jerked in response. Without purposeful consideration, Asmat’s words returned to the creature’s thoughts. The Jornoan mined fear with his touch, and no matter how deeply the Demon had buried this feeling, Asmat would find a way for it to surface and swell. Even now, the Demon could taste Asmat’s blood upon its tongue, but it was with disgust and not satisfaction that it spat the vile taint across the floor.
Another voice replaced that of the Jornoan, and somehow these gentle, familiar words inspired more resentment than the Demon’s captors. “Y’ are destined for a greater path,” the old man had said with a smile. And the Demon had listened to those rich and promising words, not completely certain of what they meant, but believing them simply because they came from the mouth of the Prophet. “A greater path” was what had brought the Demon to Northern Secramore, or so the creature had hoped. Laying on the floor of a cellar, bloodied, bruised, and broken, amongst rats and roaches, the greater path was a greater joke.
