BeneathCeaselessSkies_Issue011

by Unknown

  Issue #11 • Feb. 26, 2009

  “Silk and Shadow,” by Tony Pi

  “Preservation,” by Jonathan Wood

  PODCAST STORY

  “The God-Death of Halla,” by Tina Connolly

  For more stories and Audio Fiction Podcasts, visit

  http://beneath-ceaseless-skies.com/

  Silk and Shadow

  Tony Pi

  The Austere War has cost our tsardom much, in blood and in hope, I wrote in the letter to my mother the Tsarina. But at last Father’s killer lies dead, and we are victorious against the raiders from the sea. Soon, I will return to the capital and lead the citizens in remembrance of all we have lost, but for three month still must I tarry in the East. For though Palace Austere is returned to us, the same cannot be said for the spirit of our people. May my presence here speed their healing.

  My quill paused. I had not written the truth of all I had risked to achieve the hard-won victory. Had I told of my covenant with the witch or of the Stormlord’s dying curse, my mother the Tsarina would command Lord Fabek to ship me home to Nobylisk at once. By the abyss of the dead, let my soul escape to plague you, had said the man I slew to avenge my father. By the blood of storms, may the Five Dooms drown you in grief. Mother would fear for my life if she heard those words.

  But having seen the suffering in these provinces first-hand, I would sooner commit this sin of omission than leave before the East regained its strength. I signed the letter and sealed it.

  Lord Fabek strode into the library with a smile on his ruddy face and knelt before me. “Joyous day, milord! The puppet-witch Anansya has returned to the palace for her reward! She begs an audience, if it pleases you.”

  I frowned, unable to share his enthusiasm at the news of the witch’s return. It had been seven days since the puppeteers disappeared. While my heart ached to see Anansya’s apprentice Selenja again, I had mistrusted the witch’s offer of aid against the Stormlords from the beginning. Anansya asked for no gold, land, or titles, desiring only the privilege of crafting my life into a shadowplay. But to avenge my father’s death at the hands of the Stormlord Hraken, I had accepted Anansya’s offer, sealing the pact with a drop of my blood. I was certain she had an ulterior motive for aiding me, though I had not yet fathomed it.

  Still, the puppeteers proved instrumental in turning the tide of war, even if their methods called upon dark magics. If they had not infiltrated the enemy camp, how many more of my countrymen would have died on the battlefield or been enslaved? Despite my suspicions, as Tsarevitch I was obliged to thank them on behalf of my people.

  “Very well, I will receive them in Stonestark Hall. And Fabek?”

  “Milord?”

  “None of that. Call me Dominin.” I helped him to his feet. “There’s no place for formalities here at Palace Austere.”

  “Yes, mi–” He caught himself in time. “Yes, Dominin.”

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  Stonestark Hall was cavernous and barren, as it should be. The only riches of Palace Austere were the fire in its hearth, the water in its well, and the whistling winds in its corridors of stone. By tradition, every Imperial must live nine winters here as simply as his people, so that he might learn wisdom and humility. I paused at the centre of the hall, remembering how the Stormlord Hraken had defiled it with his golden bounty when he took the palace as his seat of power. Upon our reclamation of the ancient citadel, I had ordered my men to strip the hall of its blood-gold.

  Out of the eastern corridor came Fabek and the graying puppet-witch, her pair of apprentices behind her carrying a cedar box between them. They set the puppet-box down, kneeling on either side.

  Anansya was thrice my age, her teeth blackened with ash and her skin powdered white in the manner of her kind. Her hair, pale as spider-silk wrapped tight around a hapless fly. Pol, Anansya’s bright-hand, was clothed in silver, his head a polished dome. Selenja was her dark-hand and wore the black silk of her rank. Though they kept their heads low, I caught a glimpse of Selenja’s pleading eyes, and became lost in their beauty once more.

  It had been Selenja who first came to me in the grim days after the death of my father. She never told me how she found her way into the Scrimshaw Tower to lend an ear to my anger and regret, or how she knew the right words to ease my pain. At the end of the month of vigil, I could deny my desire for Selenja no more. On a moonbright evening, I threw caution aside so she might teach me the passions of a man. My confidence won, Selenja told me of Anansya’s scheme to steal Hraken of the Storm’s sealskin hide, the source of his power, and I had listened.

  Now, Selenja’s brief glance convinced me her mistress hid a deeper scheme, and I rued my folly for letting her seduce me so easily.

  Yet I still loved her.

  “Welcome, Anansya,” I said. “We owe the outcome of this war to you. Yet you vanished without a word. Why?”

  “We felt it best to flee with Hraken’s hide, lest we be captured,” said Anansya. “Tell us, Dominin, how did you slay the tyrant? I must know the details to finish your play.”

  I drew the saber named Fortune’s Law, my father’s legacy, and the memories flooded back. “We listened for your signal-chord and watched for the flash of light. I slew nine with my bow before we scaled the walls. The soldiers, blinded by your magic, fell easily to our swords. Hraken stood defiant in the heart of the chaos, blindly swinging his spear while he made mad libations from a half-empty cup of wine. But his gods forsook him.”

  Anansya nodded. “Without his sealskin, his charms are for naught.”

  “And I thank you for it,” I answered. “I fired an arrow at Hraken’s heart, bidding it to fly true. It found its mark square in the villain’s chest, bringing him to his knees. I stowed my bow, slid down a rope and cut down those between us, sending the cup spinning from his hand.”

  In my mind’s eye, I held the edge of my saber against Hraken’s throat again. Who dares? the Stormlord had cried. I answered him. I, Dominin, son of Kronin, am your death. Then bear my dying curse, Tsarevitch, Hraken said. Again, his curse echoed in my ears. Let my soul escape to plague you. May the Five Dooms drown you in grief.

  “He cursed me, but I would suffer my father’s killer no more,” I continued, Hraken’s voice still echoing in my mind. “With a single stroke, I beheaded him.”

  Anansya drew air between her teeth. “Your deeds will make an epic song. I propose a play this evening—”

  I sheathed Fortune’s Law. “No, Anansya. My men clamor for a celebration. Tomorrow, I will attend your play. Tonight, we feast!” Perhaps with some wine and charm, I could loosen the puppeteers’ tongues and learn of their scheme.

  “As you wish,” said Anansya, her face unreadable.

  “The halls of Austere are yours to roam. Come, Fabek, there are things we must discuss.”

  In my chambers, I told Fabek my suspicions, and spoke for the first time about my tryst with Selenja. “I should never have allowed her to steal my heart, nor bargained with her mistress for victory. Though the witch pledged her allegiance to the tsardom, her first loyalty is to her dark magic.”

  “What signs of malice have you seen?” asked Fabek.

  “The shadows hold their magic,” I said. One particular memory haunted me. “Once, when Selenja and I were tangled together in the sheets, I thought moonlight gleamed off a strand of hair tied to her little finger. I suspected it was an illusion, until I spied another such hair attached to her other hand. From the corner of my eye, I traced the strands to the shadows on the wall, where it seemed a phantom held their ends, but when I turned my head, it had vanished. I grow more certain each day that this specter bore the face of Anansya.”

  Fabek stroked his beard. “There are
whispered tales of strange shadows amongst our soldiers who fought in that battle. Some had come across stormfolk raiders on hands and knees, unable to rise and fight. It seemed that the enemies’ own shadows bound their wrists and ankles, not letting go until they were dead. I thought they waxed poetic, but now....”

  “Now the spider advances on the fly,” I said.

  “What will you do?” asked Fabek.

  “Play her game, but one better. Let her think she’s in control, for now,” I replied. “Perhaps I can steal a moment alone with Selenja, and discover what web Anansya weaves.”

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  A feast at Austere was bereft of glittering goblets and silver knives. The meat, wine, and delicacies fresh from the Sunlit Sea were more than enough. As guests of honor, Anansya, Selenja, and Pol sat at the same table as Fabek and I, though this table was no different from any other in the hall.

  Pol sipped his wine as he spoke of his part in Hraken’s downfall. “Selenja teased Hraken with her charms, but refused him. It would break her vow of chastity, she squealed!” Pol laughed, but Selenja pinched him hard in retaliation and he adopted a more serious tone. “As I was saying, it only drove Hraken to desire her more, and she tricked from him the whereabouts of his trappings. Once we knew where he hid it, it was easy to disarm his traps and steal his hide. The rest you know.”

  Selenja looked away, unwilling to meet my eyes. She had used Hraken the same way she used me. Was she ashamed of what she did? What hold did Anansya have over her? I had to speak to her alone.

  “There’s a song my father loved,” I said to Anansya. “Moonlight’s Vow. If you could play it in the company of our musicians, it would honor his memory.”

  “I’d be delighted,” said Anansya. She picked up her nine-stringed gusli and joined the musicians.

  I signaled Fabek. He poured more wine for Pol. Out from under his mistress’s watchful eye, Pol eagerly drained his cup. Fabek filled it to the brim again.

  Anansya began to play.

  “May I have this dance, Selenja?” I offered her my hand.

  She accepted. I led Selenja to the heart of the hall, encouraging others to join us in the moondance. When I drew Selenja close, Anansya misplayed a note.

  Selenja’s touch was soft and warm, and she hit every step of the intricate dance flawlessly. Another time, another place, I would savour this moment. But given all that I knew, I had to remain cautious. “Sweet one, let there be truth between us, if you truly cared for me,” I whispered. “Was I but a pawn in your mistress’s game?”

  She nearly missed a step. “I may be Anansya’s dark hand, but my heart is my own,” said Selenja, her voice a-tremble.

  “Then tell me what your mistress intends.”

  “I would if I could, but—” Selenja shifted so that my hand would drift over the small of her back. I felt scars under the silk that my fingers did not remember. Burns? “I underestimated her, once. Don’t make the same mistake.”

  “I will protect you, Selenja.” I gently touched her cheek and turned her head. “My eyes speak the truth, my love.”

  Selenja’s breath caught in her throat. At last, she spoke. “Age has caught up to Anansya, and she desires a young body. She knows a dark ritual and has all she needs. Black honey from a demon-hive. Wine as ancient as the sea. Skin of a selkie and emperor silk. From you, a drop of royal blood, all so that she may steal your flesh.”

  “What does the ritual involve?” I asked.

  “A shadowplay,” Selenja said. “When the story is told, she will claim your life.”

  “If I simply refuse to attend, will that thwart the ritual?”

  “No. When you gave your blood freely to Anansya during your pact, you opened the way into your mind and your flesh,” Selenja explained. “Given her skill, Anansya can invade your dreams and perform the shadowplay while you sleep. However, if we err, the magic may kill you. That is why she wishes you to attend the shadowplay in person.”

  Anansya quickened the song’s tempo. She was eager to cut short our dance. “What if I imprison or slay her?” I asked Selenja.

  “She’d vanish into the shadows before you could draw your sword, and risk the dream ritual from afar. If you are slain, she intends to seek out your sister instead. However, you, as the direct heir, remain her first prey. It saves her from shedding more blood to wear the crown.”

  Either way, Anansya intended death for me, and perhaps death for my sister as well. “We must stop her, Selenja. Would you be able to sabotage the ritual?”

  The song hurtled towards its end. “I do not dare. The wrong move and the magic could kill you.”

  “Still, better to fight than accept certain death,” I said. “Anansya must be most vulnerable during the ritual.”

  “It may be your best chance, but she is strong.” Selenja shivered. “Pol’s her creature too. We cannot prevail against them both.”

  “Then we must even the odds.” A dangerous plan began taking shape in my mind.

  The song ended abruptly. Selenja and I broke apart, short of breath. Anansya gestured to her, and she returned obediently to the witch.

  I pulled Fabek aside. “Bring me everything on selkie magic and mythology. I need to understand a Stormlord’s curse.”

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  In my chambers, I refreshed my knowledge of the selkie Stormlords. Their sealskin trappings granted them not only the ability to change shapes, but also the power to tap into five sources of magic. In their mythology, souls of the dead were swept into five great falls, the Dooms, which plunged into an endless abyss. Shadow, Madness, Silence, Frost, and Oblivion. Whichever doom a selkie earned in life, his soul would suffer in death. Only when a soul was washed clean of his misdeeds would the rising mists lift it aloft to be reborn.

  Libations freed the power of each Doom. “Slay a selkie before he can pour from a cup,” I recall my father’s lesson. “Wine spilt is blood spilt.” During the War, the selkies used all five magics against us, pouring the dooms from their goblets. Silence, to strike unheard. Madness, to destroy our minds or grant their warriors with rabid strength. Shadows to escape the touch of our blades. Frost, for the chill of death. Oblivion to erase all that we once held dear, making it easier to enslave our people.

  I summoned Fabek. “Prepare the Obsidian Room for Anansya’s shadowplay.”

  “Why there?” Fabek asked.

  “Only one way in and out. If Anansya succeeds in stealing my body, she may lose her power to escape through shadows,” I said. “I leave it to you to make certain that such a pretender never ascends my father’s throne.”

  Fabek’s eyes widened. “But sire, you cannot ask me to spill your blood!”

  “If it comes to that, my friend, it will be a just execution for a regicide,” I said. “For that reason as well, only you and I must attend the shadowplay. If you must slay my body, the presence of another might make you hesitate. That must never happen.”

  “I don’t like it, but I understand. Any other instructions?”

  “Have pillows, a plate of fruit, and a flask of wine in place, along with these.” I opened a locked chest, taking out the five goblets that once belonged to Hraken and his lieutenants: the Mooncalf and the Mute, Sleet’s Kiss, Blithe Laughter. “Line them before the pillows.”

  Fabek sighed. “It will be done,” he said, taking the goblets from me.

  I drew Fortune’s Law and held it my hands, remembering what my father told me of the sword. “This blade has been in our family for generations, Dominin. It reminds us of a universal truth: men will gamble on their luck, no matter how slim their odds.”

  I hoped my father was right.

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  The next morning, Fabek and I led the puppeteers deeper into the keep. Again, Pol and Selenja hefted the puppet-box between them. We took a spiraling stair down to an iron-bound door that Fabek unlocked, and entered the Obsidian Room.

  The walls and floors were black stone, polished to a luster. The sides tapered to a poin
t high above, wind whistling through tiny windows at the pinnacle. Torches in iron sconces illuminated the room. The fruit, wine, and cushions that I had requested awaited us.

  “Some call the Obsidian Room an extravagance that does not befit Austere, but I disagree,” I said. “In a place without mirrors, only here might we contemplate our reflections.”

  “Let us begin.” Anansya chanted over the puppet-box before lifting its lid. A gossamer saga-silk lay folded atop the puppets, almost invisible but for its glimmer.

  Pol and Selenja raised the silk screen, stringing it between two wall sconces. Behind the silk, Anansya hung and lit her witch-lamp. At her request, I extinguished all other lights. I sat myself down on a pillow and filled the five cups lined before me with red wine. Fabek sat cross-legged to the left of me, his hand drumming the leather of the boot where he had hidden his dagger.

  The emperor silk could not conceal the puppeteers’ actions. I watched Pol say a prayer before taking the first puppet from its box. It was made of roan hide, cut in the shape of a dragon curled inside the sun, its limbs hinged with studs of bone and fitted with ivory handles for the puppeteer. My skin crawled. So that’s what they’d done with Hraken’s hide!

  “Lohe, Mistress-Sun, a bright hand sets you high!” Pol stood the puppet by its handle on the rack beside him.

  Selenja took the next: a second drake curled in the crescent of the moon. “Zmascu, Master-Moon, a dark hand guides your path!”

  Seven more emerged from the box: puppets of the gods Rapture, Fortune, and Death, a Swan King, a Fox Queen, a Selkie Crone, and a Jester Man, all fashioned from Hraken’s hide.

  Anansya raised a golden thimble. “Three offerings must burn for the gods that slumber, for Fortune, Rapture, and Death,” she intoned. “Dark honey for Hag-Rid-Rapture, amber wine for Fortune-Dreaming, and royal blood for Death-in-Sleep.” She cast the concoction into the flame.