by M. S. Verish
At some point, the shadows had descended enough that a strange phenomenon transpired around them. Fireflies of different colors appeared, but they did not behave like fireflies. They darted a little too quickly, with too much direction. Her fear forgotten, Ruby ogled at them, and she reached out to try and snatch one.
“Do you remember the last time that happened?” Kariayla warned her. “In the Plains of Delmadria?”
The imp immediately snatched back her hand and kept it at her side.
“I bet they are fairies,” she whispered. “And look!” Soft, pale blue light emitted from blossoms that had opened. A sweet fragrance wafted through the air, and the two companions drew nearer—unable to resist. The bloom resembled a lily, but with spidery anthers. A green-white moth larger than Kariayla’s hand hovered toward it, unmindful of the spectators. Its long tongue extended like a silver thread, probing the flower and detecting the sweet well of nectar at its center. When it had finished, it fluttered around their heads, as if investigating. Then it expanded to three times its size, slowly dissolving until its gossamer form had vanished completely. This had happened in the span of mere seconds, and Kariayla and Ruby had forgotten to breathe.
The foliage across from them rustled, and they started. Pale as the moon, a doe emerged, her large ears flicking in all directions. Her sky-blue eyes settled upon Kariayla and Ruby, and she lifted her pink nose to catch their scent. As if deciding the intruders presented no threat, the doe delicately stepped into view, studied them a bit more, snatched a blossom, and bounded away.
“Maybe we should stay here,” Kariayla said. One place was as good as another, and as of yet, no new threat had presented itself. Ruby did not object, and Kariayla set down their bag. She unpacked a small, rolled blanket and some bread and cheese William had given them. The costrel was full of sweet juice, and the two of them dined contentedly, though their eyes never ceased searching their surroundings. For what they could not see, there was a myriad of sound: soft trills and hums, quick chirrups and whistles—all of which seemed more curious than threatening. The two companions gradually relaxed, and their eyes grew heavy. Wrapped in the blanket, Kariayla at last drifted to sleep with Ruby by her side.
*
His words were soft and gentle, but they did not ease her. Rather, they slid beneath her skin and caused her flesh to prickle. Kariayla’s stomach knotted, and her back stiffened as the head priest approached. His expression held no menace, but there was an intense look about his eyes—eyes that studied her like a map, and he was plotting his course. Kariayla turned her own gaze to the floor as he came to stand beside her. He was close enough she could feel the heat of his body, smell the incense from the last ceremony over which he had presided.
“You seem concerned, child,” he murmured, placing a hand on her shoulder.
“The rain,” Kariayla managed. “I was praying to Eruane for rain.”
“The goddess does not seem to hear us,” he said, his regard upon the effigy in front of them. “I wonder sometimes if she listens at all to the cries of her people.”
Kariayla turned to him in surprise. “She is always present, sir. I can sense her. There must be a reason the rains haven’t come.”
“Perhaps,” he said lightly. “You have always had a special connection to Eruane. We have known this since you were very young. I have watched you grow.” His fingers moved gently back and forth across her shoulder. “Your talents have grown as you have matured into a beautiful young woman.”
“Thank you” did not seem like quite the right response, though Kariayla doubted she could find her voice at all. Her heart pounded as he moved a lock of her hair behind her ear.
“You are very special, Kariayla. I want you to realize this. I want you to see, to understand…” He moved closer still—close enough to press against her. “It is a rite of passage, a sign that you are ready to advance in the ranks of our order.”
“Sir, I—I have to tend to—” She never finished the excuse; his finger pressed to her lips for silence.
“All you need consider is this moment. You have been chosen, Daughter of the Storm.” He smiled at her, a slow and satisfied smile to signify what he was about to achieve.
She knew what he wanted, despite all her naivety. But it was wrong. It felt wrong, and she wanted to scream, to cry out, but there was no voice inside her. There had been others—others that had maintained silence—but it had been there in the eyes of her peers. She had wondered at it then—did not understand—not like how she realized now. Now—that it was about to happen to her too.
*
Kariayla’s eyes opened, but it was not she who opened them. She was met with darkness, paralyzed, with only her thoughts—which were now frantic. Why could she not move? Was she still in the forest? Where was Ruby? She tried to silence her initial fears and focus upon her breathing. Slow and steady, her breaths and her heartbeat did not echo her state of mind. Her eyes adjusted to the darkness, finding the edges of the leaves and the branches in the trees and foliage around her. The glowing specks were gone. All other sounds had vanished…except for….
It was not thunder; the low and menacing reverberation emanated from the throat of a creature yet unseen. Kariayla did not have to see it to know it was the same beast from before. And from the sound of it, it was prowling in the brush nearby. Even if she had control of her body, she would not have moved, but whatever force had possession of her chose this time to have her sit upright.
A soft voice in her head that could have been an echo in the dark told her not to fear. Her undeniable terror shoved the whisper away, and when a pair of luminous yellow eyes flashed before her, Kariayla’s heart nearly stopped. The rustling in the leaves ceased, replaced by a closer growl. Kariayla could feel her chest rattle with the sound, and she prayed that this was all part of her nightmare.
A new sensation—the tingling of her skin—made her aware that energy was being drawn toward her. Her magic had ignited, like a small but steady flame, eager to grow. She could not stop it, could not control it, could not even imagine how or why or what was happening. She knew only the pull of opposing charges, the electrical attraction through which she was the medium. From the pit of her stomach to the tips of the hairs on her head, she felt the coursing of raw power.
The beast came into view—at least, as much as it could be seen in the darkness. The yellow eyes found her, and the creature gave a shriek that could have frozen the blood in Kariayla’s veins. Except that her blood was afire, and even before the monster leapt, she could feel the magic leave her to collide with the threat. Searing white light blinded her, and there was a sound as sharp and as deafening as the snapping of a tree. The smell of burnt flesh was acrid in her nose, and as the darkness descended again like falling ash, she found herself both reluctant and eager to see the result of the lightning.
She scarcely realized she had regained control of her limbs until she was crawling toward the smoking carcass. Charred fur, a blackened body now still, the yellow eyes gone. Melted, perhaps. She was not sure. Tears blurred her own vision—the aftermath of a traumatic moment that left her overwhelmed with an onslaught of emotions. The fear was not gone, though it had mainly succumbed to confusion and nameless anxiety. The immediate danger was vanquished, and while Kariayla was shaken, the deeper concern was what was wrong with her.
The last death she had been responsible for was one she did not remember, but this—this was a glimpse into the cause—the force inside her against which she was powerless. Not her magic—something else—something that could seize her body and her magic whenever it wished. And it had told her not to be afraid. Was it a spirit of protection? Was she possessed by one of the deities she had so devoutly served? Or was she a puppet destined for a role in some grand scheme? What if whatever was inside her decided not to release its hold?
Exhausted from her thoughts and from the magic forced through her, Kariayla wiped her eyes and moved away from the carcass. She huddled near the base of
a tree, settling into a niche between roots as large as her arms. A peculiar pressure at her side had her fingers groping in her pocket, rediscovering the stone Hawkwing had given her. She pulled it out, clasping it tightly in her hands as though it would bring her some comfort. She had not bothered to look at it until her fingers began to glow. Soft and pale, the stone was like a miniature moon cupped in her palms, bringing her light in this seemingly endless night. If only it could chase away the shadows that had come to dwell inside her mind.
19
Future and Fortune
The tall, slight man never cracked a smile, never altered the stone-carved expression except to deepen his frown—as he did now. His somber stare was directed at the floor. “Is this necessary?” he asked, his tone ringing with annoyance.
The giant Jornoan merely smiled. “It is a custom we observe, to remove our footwear before entering a place of gathering.” He gestured to the threshold of a spacious room with a marble floor that, for all appearances, was immaculate. The white stone echoed the laughter and vibrancy of the great and cheery hearth that welcomed the trio from the far end of the hall. There was no table or furniture of any kind, but at the center of the floor was a vast, crimson rug ornate in geometric patterns of gold and green. Upon the rug was a circle of green velvet cushions. At the center was a reed mat, supporting a trivet topped by a covered metal bowl. Smoke seeped from the vessel, crowding the open hall with the imposing scent of incense.
Lord Sebastian Hale’s two companions had already removed their boots, though he managed a final, irritated sigh before he did the same. The nobleman followed the Jornoan, his pale feet stepping gingerly upon the marble as though it was ice. Medoriate Argamus Dunn and Rourke of the East Freeland Enforcers trailed him, watching their leader curiously as he picked his way among the cushions.
“You were expecting us,” Hale said without emotion.
“Yes,” the Jornoan said. “We had hoped the storm did not hinder you.” He presented them the cushions and asked that they seat themselves.
Hale dusted his cushion with a gloved hand before he settled. He looked at their host with a sharp glance. “Medoriate Dunn does not believe the tempest was natural.”
“He is most astute,” said a new voice from the entrance to the hall. A short, slight, dark-complexioned man in crimson robes smiled warmly at them. He leaned slightly on a cane, but when he stepped forward, he wielded the aid as more of an instrument of fashion. “Welcome to my home. I am Rashir, and I see you have met my brother Nesif.”
Rashir slowly made his way to the seated travelers, the drawn and weary features of his face becoming more apparent in the stark contrast of the firelight. His smile, however, never faded, and when the companions started to rise to greet him, he motioned that they remained seated. “Do not rise on my account, for I will join you.” He sat cross-legged across from Hale and set his cane behind him. “Nesif, if you would see to our drinks….”
The giant nodded and disappeared.
“I am so very glad the Merchants’ Guild has decided to entertain my proposal,” Rashir said. “I had hoped we would receive guests.”
Hale gave a nod. “I am Sebastian Hale, Master of the Eastern Allies of the Merchants’ Guild. In my company are Medoriate Argamus Dunn of Mystland and Rourke of the East Freeland Enforcers.”
“It is my pleasure to be your host,” Rashir said, though his eyes had moved toward the entrance. “I hope you will not mind if my brothers join us this evening. They are my family as well as my associates.”
“As you wish,” Hale said, indifferent.
Rashir lifted his chin, and his Jornoan brothers filed in. Some were tall, some short, some thin, some stocky, but all were dark-eyed, dark-complexioned, and kept a similar appearance to the Priagent. They wore neat and pointed beards and kept their hair tied back in a short tail upon their necks. Rashir hailed them all by name, minus Nesif, who was still engaged in retrieving their drinks. The brothers all sat outside the circle of cushions, their regard upon the visitors.
Rourke stirred uncomfortably, and Hale locked gazes with him. The brute of a fighter looked away to pick at the edge of his cushion.
“So tell me, Lord Hale, do you believe in fate?” Rashir asked.
Humorless, the tall man adjusted his gloves. “I am afraid I do not understand you, Priagent Diemh.” He flicked a speck of dust from his sleeve.
“Please, I have no need of such formalities in my home. Call me Rashir.”
“That hardly seems fitting for one of your status,” Hale said.
Rashir glanced at his brothers, who all wore their amusement. “I will tell you the truth about my status. My brothers have so named me ‘Priagent,’ and in my native tongue, the term means ‘emperor.’ It is, in fact, what you might call a jest.”
Hale frowned. “Were you not a ruler in Southern Secramore?”
Rashir laughed. “Anyone can claim authority in Southern Secramore. It is the same as staking ownership of a desert. My subjects were misers and miners, adventurers and criminals. Most of them did not know or care that I had created my own throne in their territory. More accurately, I am a man of business. And it is for business that you are here.”
Nesif appeared with a tray of drinks and a ewer, and Rashir produced a small bag from beneath his cushion. “You have faced the hardships of travel, and we will speak of business in good time,” the Priagent said. “First, I return to the question: do you believe in fate? And by this I mean, do you believe that the future is a determined path for each of us?”
“I have made my own fortune, if that is what you ask,” Hale said. Nesif handed him a cup and finished apportioning drinks to Argamus and Rourke. Hale scrutinized the contents.
“It is a spirit I have brought from my homeland,” Rashir said. “It contains an extract from the Alaman Tree—quite flavorful and of better quality than most aged spirits here. Please, drink.”
Argamus did not hesitate, and his ruby eyes widened with surprise. “Most amazing,” he said. “This rivals the best wine I have sampled in my travels.”
Rashir smiled. “Thank you, Medoriate.”
“Argamus,” he insisted, “and the pleasure is mine.”
Rourke had sniffed the drink before sipping it. Then, finding several pairs of eyes upon him, he downed the small cup. Hale’s lips never touched the rim; he set the vessel down.
“Will you not try it?” Rashir asked. Even Argamus stared at his peer in awe.
“I am afraid I must decline,” Hale said easily. “I have sensitivities to foreign drinks.”
Rashir’s smile faded but a little. “So be it.” He opened the bag before him and withdrew a dozen tokens, each different in shape and in material. “Do not refuse me this little indulgence, I beg you. For you, it may be a frivolity. For me, it is a custom. You may or may not know of the significance of prophecy in the Jornoan culture. It has been the cause of unrest amongst my people—between radicals and traditionalists. I fancy myself as neither—a self-made entrepreneur who, like you, has more faith in my own will than in some historic superstition or religious dogma.” He shrugged. “Yet I cannot quite escape the influence of my birth-home. The Twelve Oracles are a simple means of fortune-telling.”
He arranged the tokens in a circle. “The Serpent is of jade, the Lion of gold, the Eagle of skystone, the Dragon of firewood. The Wolf is silver, the Crow is onyx…” Rashir trailed and held a token up to the firelight. “All twelve are creatures of power, each with different attributes inherent to its nature. Each is wrought from a precious material. The creatures most like us are thought to be linked to us, and by communing with each related spirit, they will give us the key to our future.” He emptied several other tokens from the bag. “Insight to our fate,” he murmured. He held up a white cube, black cube, and a gray cube—each with markings on their sides.
“The Dragon is my spirit animal,” Rashir said, moving the token apart from the circle. He shook the three cubes in his hand and released them into
the center of the tokens. “Past, present, and future. All three are needed to read one’s fate.”
He moved the black cube beside the Dragon. “It is no secret and no shame that I was outcasted from my people. We cannot always hope to be like those around us, and often for our gifts—those traits that make us different—we are misunderstood…perhaps even rejected.” He moved the gray cube to sit next to the black one. “Our past can dictate our present ambitions—whether we feel weak or strong, whether our goal is in sight or our vision is veiled. In this pending mission, I know I have the strength and the vision to succeed.”
Lastly, he moved the white cube. “Ah, the future.” He nodded. “There is promise here. A goal within reach.” He closed his fingers around the cubes again. “Shall we see what fate has promised for you? Who will humor my little game?”
“Um, I’ll try,” Rourke said, without much hesitation. He had been eyeing the tokens eagerly, watching the motion of the dice with an itch in his fingers.
Rashir gathered the tokens in the bag, rose, and knelt across from the brute. “Hold out your hands together.” He closed his eyes and placed his palms atop Rourke’s. “Enforcer of East Freelands, clear your thoughts.” They sat in silence a moment before Rashir removed his hands and opened his eyes. He jostled the bag. “Pull forth the spirit that will speak to you.”
Rourke dug a meaty hand into the bag and shifted the tokens around before grasping one. He pulled it free and held it in his open palm. “What is that—a lizard?”
“The Salamander,” Rashir said, amused. “Made of clay, from the earth—its natural home. It must always be wet, always be cool. It moves slowly; it resists change. It is comfortable in its environment and does not like to be disturbed.”
“Don’t sound like me,” Rourke protested.
“How we view ourselves is not always an honest insight,” Rashir said. He took the token. “But the Salamander is not without defense. It is poison to its enemies; few will try to harm it.”
