Call of Arcadia

by Annathesa Nikola Darksbane

  Jone’s world shook. Her here-and-now eyes went blind as her mind’s eye was overwhelmed by images. A charcoal face with pitch hair and dark wings. A tiny red-skinned imp with a lantern yellow gaze. A mephit with burning coals for eyes, enclosed in a lantern.

  The first spirits I had ever seen. That knowledge floated to the surface, empty and disconnected, devoid of context. When had she seen them? Where? How old had she been?

  And why did the memory, her first to fully return, fill her with such anger?

  - - -

  Food was everywhere, but all of it was out of Jone’s reach. Not physically, but economically. Businesses weren’t charities, after all, and the owners of several of the stalls she ventured too close to watched her suspiciously, a bedraggled, barefoot woman dressed in rags. She had no money, and nothing to trade…

  A cold spot along her breastbone reminded her of the one thing of value she had. One hand went to it immediately, eager to find a way to stave off her hollow hunger, but also eager to be rid of the strange item—

  But she couldn’t.

  The golden eye and its chain grew heavier and heavier in her hand as if resisting her desire to tear it from her neck. That wasn’t the reason why she stopped though. A hesitance and an ominous feeling welled up within her, a not-so-subtle warning for Jone not to move forward with her intent.

  She could have stubbornly pushed forward anyway, yanked it from around her throat, and offered it to the first merchant willing to buy it from her for a cut of beef, or even a nice warm pie, especially if they’d throw in some fresh clothes. But what if there was a reason for these feelings? What if that strange warning held a purpose? With so many unanswered questions, it would be the path of fools to take an action there was no way to return upon.

  With a sigh, she let the golden necklace drop.

  “About time you did something smart,” a husky, female voice like honey whispered in Jone’s ear.

  Startled, she jumped, spinning around and looking for the speaker. But there was no one near her, no one at all.

  “Stop that before you look like a crazy vagrant, instead of just looking like a normal vagrant.”

  Whoever was talking, they had a good point. Jone stepped discreetly into an alley before putting her back to the granite wall of someone’s home and scrutinizing her surroundings. But still, no matter how hard she looked, no one was there.

  “Okay. As hilarious as this is to watch, you need to think back, as hard as you can. Do you remember anything, anything at all?”

  The voice came from right near her ear again…or maybe even closer. Was it...inside her head? Much of today’s adventure could be explained easily if she were simply insane.

  But…the voice sounded familiar. Very familiar.

  “Oh, that’s just wonderful. I thought we made it past the ‘oh no I must be crazy’ stage a long, long time ago.” The voice dripped sarcasm and honey.

  Jone knew that voice.

  Her world threatened to split apart, like lighting sundering a wayward pine. No visual, specific memory surfaced, but she knew this voice. Not what it was, or whence it came, but that it had always been with her, for better or worse.

  At least, she thought so. Her head was hurting so bad it was hard to tell sky from Abyss.

  “Who… What are you? Where are you?” Jone kept her voice low, casting questions into the wind.

  “Please stop talking to me out loud, you crazy person. Remember how much trouble you got into last time—no. Nevermind, of course you don’t. Just trust me, I can hear you just fine without you talking to inanimate objects or empty air.”

  Jone blinked. “Okay, but—”

  “Look, I don’t have months or years to answer your silly ‘who what why’ questions all over again. It was frustrating enough the first time. You’re just going to have to deal with it. I’m here to make sure you eat something.”

  Jone took a deep breath to reply, then caught herself and thought the words out instead, as if speaking inside her own mind. If you have some way to do so, I’d love to hear it. I have no money, no prospects… And I can’t remember for sure, but I don’t think I’ve ever been this hungry.

  “You haven’t. And there’s a reason for that.” The voice paused, and Jone felt her eyes drawn to the end of the alley where a fat merchant's purse lay close to the edge of a stall, the large, jolly man who owned it speaking boisterously to a friendly customer.

  “No way,” she muttered, shaking her head. She set her jaw into a firm, defiant line. “I’m not doing that.”

  “Of course you will. The question is how desperate and sloppy you’ll get first.” There was a ripple in the air as if the disembodied voice were sighing. “Look. I know you don’t want to, with that bizarre ‘morality’ of yours, but what else are you going to do? You stink so, so much. You look like a street thief, and you insist on talking to yourself. Combined with that incident from earlier this morning, no one’s going to give you honest work. You’re a walking inquisition risk. And we both know you’re not going to just starve. You can’t help anyone that way.”

  Jone didn’t like what the voice was saying, but it was hard to deny its truth.

  “Oh, and Jonelise…it’s good to see you again.”

  There was a sudden feeling of void as if something she hadn’t been aware of before was abruptly gone. “Wait!” she hissed. Come back! You obviously know me! Tell me who I am! Tell me anything!

  But no voice answered her. Could she have imagined it? Maybe it was her way of justifying things to herself, of passing guilt or blame off on another, even on someone who didn’t really exist.

  Jone’s stomach rumbled, louder than ever. It hurt deep inside, a hollow ache, and it was only getting worse.

  The voice was right.

  She crept toward the purse, motions careful and measured. She took a good look at her surroundings, noting where each set of nearby eyes were pointed, observing the actions and level of awareness of each passerby, of each shopper and seller. Then she paused, watching the merry shopkeep make wide, sweeping gestures with his hands, watching him laugh.

  She memorized his face, his voice, his strange, loose red doublet of fine cloth, trimmed in even finer silver thread.

  Jonelise always repaid her debts. Always. She did not pass those debts off to others, be those others real or imagined.

  The perfect moment came, and she reached out and plucked the purse from the counter with no one the wiser. She slipped deeper into the alley before turning and making her way, quickly, deep into the maze of streets. She paused somewhere along the way to discard the purse, instead making a little pouch on the inside of her garments by simply bundling up a section of cloth and tying it with a loose thread, leaving her clothes hanging uncomfortably with the weight of its substantial contents.

  Then her restraint broke as hungry pain spiked, and she ran to the inn as quickly as her bare feet could take her.

  2

  Warlike

  By the time food came, it was an act of will for Jonelise not to squirm in pain.

  It wouldn’t do for the other patrons, the innkeeper, or even the friendly serving girl to see her as vulnerable; strangers could turn to enemies at a moment’s notice, given the right stimulus. Overall, it was wise not to hand them any weapons. Besides, it had been hard enough to convince them to serve her in the first place.

  “Thank you ever so much, Adrienne,” Jone said, smiling through the pain. She stood to help the barmaid with her burden, a huge, steaming plate mounded with fresh beef cooked in carrots, potatoes, and some barnacle roots. There was enough food here that, if consumed, should kill two girls Jone’s size, and that was without including the pitcher of warm cider she’d ordered along with it.

  “I surely don’t know what you’re gonna put all of this, Jone,” the girl replied. Adrienne was a pretty, soft, plump girl who, like everyone else, was taller than Jone. Her hair was nearly the same shade of golden wheat that Jone’s was, just not nearly as long or as d
irty, and something in her accent and manner felt familiar, comfortable. They’d hit it off almost immediately, despite Jone’s state of disarray, and the serving girl had even interceded on her behalf when the innkeeper almost threw her out. “You must be starvin’ to death.”

  Jone’s smile brightened, partly at the proximity of the food, partly in irony. “Something like that.” She wished she could ask the girl where she was from, but she didn't dare, in case it should have been obvious. She didn’t want to arouse anyone’s suspicions—or superstitions—until she knew what was going on for herself.

  They chatted for a good half hour about nothing of significance before an influx of customers pulled Adrienne back to her duties. She didn’t know how long it had been since she last connected with someone, but Jone found it fulfilling, even if she had to steer away from so many topics of conversation.

  At least that was one thing that felt fulfilled. Her hunger was a different matter. Shoveling down bite after bite blunted the painful edge of her hunger, but it didn’t sate it, and she didn’t feel full. Did the dead hunger like this? Jone had never heard of such. But the more of the feast disappeared, the more concerned Jone became. She had much more of her ill-gotten gains that she could spend to stave off her hunger, but prices were higher than felt reasonable, and how much food would it take?

  More importantly, what if it was some sort of curse? Unending hunger could easily be a sign indicative of whatever strange power had made her walk the earth again or stolen her memories. This much food should have logically filled a stomach the size of hers twice over, if not more. It was certain to rouse suspicions if she kept stuffing herself, but not feeding her hunger might be even worse of an idea. The sharp pain was gone, but a hollow, hungry ache persisted, insatiable. Catching Adrienne’s attention, Jone laid coins on the table and ordered seconds.

  She was on her third serving when the inn’s thick wooden door slammed open. The sound of sky-oak on sky-oak echoed through the open eating area, and Jone noticed she wasn’t the only person to start, or rise halfway to her feet.

  A group of four men entered, their conversation already loud and raucous, filling the room and invading her personal space. They were armed with blades and maces, armored in half leather, half plate or chain, and they looked like they knew well which end of their weapons was the business end. They also looked like trouble. All men. A ship’s crew, or coincidence?

  Jone noticed the two women almost immediately after the thought, the rattle of chains drawing her eye. A dark-skinned girl with voluminous black hair in dreadlocks entered first, her hands bound with thick rope. The woman right behind her was a sharp contrast: tall, with fine features and light skin, her hair as black as the heart of the Abyss. Her gray eyes were as hard as steel, like the manacles that bound her hands and feet, but far more sharp. One of the four men led them over to a corner, pushing both women down with a boot and telling them to stay quiet.

  She forced herself to sit back down before she attracted the newcomers’ attention. This was why she’d picked a seat in a far corner of the room, back to the wall, all exits identified: she didn’t want any trouble. For all she knew, these women were criminals, a rightful bounty. It just wasn’t her business. The fact that the tall woman was dressed in tattered garments and the shorter, dark-skinned one was barely dressed at all was certainly…

  Jone gave up on lying to herself. She knew when something wasn’t right.

  She waged war on her hunger in silence, gauging the tension in the room, watching it slowly mount. The four men sat at a table near the exit, seemingly unaware—or uncaring—of the unease they were causing everyone else. For an instant, she caught the tall, fair-skinned girl in the corner staring at her, but the other woman quickly glanced away before Jone could read anything in her expression.

  “Serving girl! Serving girl!” What started as a bellow from one of the four armed men quickly grew into a chant voiced by all of them, their rowdy behavior irking at Jone’s sensibilities. Adrienne appeared quickly enough, as if summoned, but Jone noticed the hesitant drag in the steps of her tall-heeled boots as she approached the table.

  “About time you showed up,” one of the men said, grinning. Jone pinned him as the leader; he had that air about him as well as being the biggest and strongest. “Didn’t you miss us?”

  “O-of course,” Adrienne stuttered, trying on a wavering smile. “Very much so!”

  She’s scared. Or at least nervous. Jone frowned, chewing absently, her grip tight around her fork.

  “Of course she did,” the man glanced around at his compatriots, sharing a grin. “Didn’t she, boys?” His cronies shared a laugh as the big man patted Adrienne familiarly on the arm. The familiarity turned aggressive as he grabbed her loose white blouse just above the corset, dragging her closer to his face, his voice a low, husky growl. “You know what we want, don’t you Adie?”

  A couple of people in the room, one of them the innkeeper, tensed, but no one moved. Silence reigned save for the sound of the young barmaid’s stutter.

  “We want draughts, and lots of them!” the leader shouted, laughing and letting go of Adrienne’s blouse. Jone let out a breath she hadn’t known she was holding hostage as the blond barmaid hurried away, her face bright red and her feet stumbling over the hem of her frilly dress.

  Jone blinked and shook her head, realizing she’d been unconsciously sizing the men up, weighing their obvious strengths and weaknesses. What am I doing? This is crazy. But she watched Adrienne anyway, waited until no one seemed to be looking, and slipped around the edge of the room and into the kitchens.

  She found the serving girl filling tall mugs with steaming hot foaming liquor—along with the occasional tear.

  “Hey!” the barmaid snapped, glancing up as the door swung open with a creak. “You can’t come in—” she recognized Jone and shook her head, wiping at damp eyes with the back of her hand. “Sorry. Thought you were one of them.”

  “Are you alright?” Jone made her way slowly across the kitchen, a cluttered mess of food, drink, and dishes. Her stomach rumbled a little at the variety of enticing smells, despite all the food she’d already consumed. From the firepit of the oven, a small mephit danced about, then settled into the ash, watching her.

  “Funny,” Adrienne replied, glancing at the spirit and tugging a handkerchief from one sleeve, using it to dab at her eyes and nose. “He doesn't usually do that. He hates strangers.”

  Jone frowned with concern, catching the serving girl’s eyes and not letting her change the subject. “Those men shouldn’t treat you that way. It’s wrong.”

  The blond girl snorted. “Try tellin’ them that.”

  For a moment, Jone considered doing exactly that. “Do the city guards not keep such actions in check?”

  Adrienne shook her head with another snort. “Why? They ain't done nothing illegal. Slavery’s illegal, but they just call it ‘bounty hunting’ an’ flash the proper papers when they come through. And harassin’ little old me’s just fine as far as the law’s concerned. ‘Sides, there’s a lot more of ‘em outside, and everybody but the Commander’s scared of gettin’ hurt.” She sniffled. “Brendain tried to say something, the second time they came into town, but they just laughed in his face.” She looked up at Jone, her eyes nervous and tinged with anxiety. “You shoulda seen what they did to his knee after. Everyone knew what happened, but nobody said nothin’.”

  Jone ground her teeth.

  “Adie!” The innkeeper stuck his head in, blinking in surprise at Jone’s presence in his kitchen. “They’re starting to wonder where their drinks are.” He frowned sympathetically, blue eyes alight with worry.

  Wet rimmed the girl’s eyes again. “I just don’t know what to do.” She looked between the innkeeper and Jone. “Somebody...somebody’s gotta do something. Every time, they get worse. But if I don’t go back out there, who knows what they’ll do to somebody else.”

  Jone took a deep breath. “I have a solution.” Two heads t
urned to regard her, one hopeful, one nervous and uncertain.

  “Give me your clothes,” she said.

  - - -

  Jone bustled out the kitchen door as adroitly as she could, tripping on her borrowed heels. She’d never understood how so many girls walked just fine on these; it seemed to be a recipe for disaster. She struggled to balance the metal tray full of hot tankards with the fake smile she plastered across her face.

  The clothes-swapping experience had been educational. For one, Adrienne was obviously far less reserved about changing clothes than Jone was. Second, Jone now had definite confirmation about just how short she was; even without the heels, Adrienne still had two inches on her, and she claimed to be short.

  And third, why was there a ragged scar on her own chest, just below her left breast?

  Jone managed to make it to the men’s table before she tripped, nearly flipping the heavy tray of drinks into the face of the big mercenary staring at her, an act which certainly would have ended in disaster—especially for Jone. She managed to catch herself painfully on the table’s edge, hoisting the drinks high and giving the man what she hoped was a sheepish, embarrassed smile. “Sorry!” she chirped cheerily.

  He eyed her critically. “Where’s Adie? And who in the Abyss are you?”

  “Me? I’m Jone.” She said her own name in a sing-song tone. She knew she should have probably given a fake name, just in case, but the stress of the situation blanked her mind, defying cleverness or creativity. Jone tried to keep her voice sounding upbeat and oblivious, afraid that it sounded hopelessly fake instead. She had a feeling lying to people wasn’t her forte. “I’m new in town! Adie hasn’t been feeling well lately, so I’m helping out where I can.”

  Jone leaned over the table, handing out four of the heavy mugs. Despite her smaller size compared to Adrienne, the bodice of the fluffy white blouse was, if anything, even more full. Sure enough, any suspicion drained from the leader’s eyes as his gaze dropped unfailingly to her chest. His eyes stuck there so firmly, Jone wondered if a pry-bar would dislodge them.