by J M Sanford
“What is this?” growled a voice like thunder, hot dragon breath washing over his face once more.
Harold opened one eye. He couldn’t speak. The dragon might believe it was using just enough force to pin its victim, but had underestimated its strength and size and was crushing the breath from Harold’s body. Bright blood ran from the dragon’s many wounds, hot where it touched Harold’s skin, but he was pretty sure he was the last man alive on the battlefield, nobody left to come to his aid.
“What. Is. This?” the dragon repeated, punctuating each word with a tap of one claw against Harold’s breastplate. Its blue eyes were narrowed, its lips pulled back from steak-knife fangs in a grin or a snarl. Harold couldn’t have managed to squeeze words out past the crushing weight on his chest even if he’d known what to say. The dragon gripped him tight as it lifted him into the air, and his vision darkened with the pain. Dimly he saw the wounded beast fail to spread its bloody wings as it bore him towards the waterfall, and then the ground and the shattered ice and everything else spun away as they plummeted over the edge.
20: THE PUZZLE BOX
Sensing the future drained any mage, but this time… So many ways, and the hateful dragon at the centre of it, like molten iron pouring through the cracks of Morel’s brain, a blinding horror. His soul had shied from a future impossible to predict; he’d sought refuge instinctively in the past. But the vaults of his memories contained horrors of their own, other monsters, other bindings, other mistakes that had sensed his weakness and joined forces to stalk him through his unconsciousness. Hours he’d lain incapacitated, he learned later, and even when he woke it was with pain as if his skull had been split in two.
In such condition, it was hard work to think what he must do next, and even harder work to get the puzzle box away from Sable, but Morel managed it in the end, luring the troublesome creature into dropping the box in exchange for some cold scraps of venison. The black griffin sat beside the workbench, his tail flipping lazily from side to side, his fierce silver-blue eyes watching attentively while Morel, ensconcing himself in a comfortable chair and wrapping many blankets tight around himself, turned the puzzle box over and over. This had been part of the negotiations, of course: no amount of clawing and biting had been able to open up the box, and had risked scratching up its beautifully polished surface, so Sable had reluctantly agreed that someone with dexterous human hands and strong magic might have a better chance of revealing its mysteries, but Sable must be allowed to see what was inside!
Sable would be allowed to see, if only he stayed down and kept his claws off the workbench. Of course, Morel’s hands were not so dexterous as they should be, shaking even under the weight of the puzzle box with its solid wood and brass, and he’d used up most of his personal reserves of magic just to keep the white dragon from taking its revenge on him. The puzzle box and the immense power it held was like a bottle of wine in the hands of a man dying of thirst, and here was Morel without a corkscrew… He could move the parts of the puzzle box. The grooves in the wood were more smoothly cut than anything a man could make, and the internal mechanisms (which must be finer than anything even a fairy could build) ran smoother than a child’s joints, but every now and then something stopped short. It was frustrating, to say the least. Times came when Morel wanted to take a hand drill or a saw to the wretched thing, just to know what kept stopping him. The beauty of the puzzle box’s manufacture (it pleased the eye, the fingertips, the part of the brain where magic stirred) might not have stopped him from doing just that, if he hadn’t needed the power he suspected was generated somewhere within it.
Sable croaked, eager and impatient, nudging the puzzle box with his beak.
Morel stroked the sleek black feathers of Sable’s neck, running his stiff cold fingers through the warm fur of the griffin’s shoulders. “Patience…” he warned, not entirely sure if he was talking to the griffin or to himself. “Too curious for your own good…”
The griffin rolled his eyes and laid his head down with that new satchel of his as a pillow.
“What do you have in there?” Morel asked him. “More of Miss Hartwood’s jewellery that you’ve pilfered? Naughty boy. Ah, but you’ll have to behave yourself better… or you’ll be in worse trouble than you can imagine…” Morel pushed a small brass catch along a narrow groove, listening or feeling for a barely perceptible ticking, wincing as some internal mechanism jarred, but then out slid a panel that continued to extend several inches past its logically reasonable extent. The extra weight came as more of a surprise than it ought to have done – luckily the cocoon of blankets caught the newly expanded box. “Aha! I have it!” At this, Sable jumped up so excitedly that he almost sent the puzzle box flying. Annoyed, Morel hugged it close to his chest, stopping work to rearrange his blankets. Still holding the puzzle box close, he pawed through the open books and loose papers on his workbench. In anticipation of just this result, he’d had a pair of the golems measure up the ballroom in the west wing. Now he double-checked the figures. Just about. Hauling himself to his feet with the aid of his staff, still shrouded in blankets, he produced a key and unlocked a closet. He couldn’t help but chuckle at the way Sable skipped back when he saw the golem waiting there. The golem raised his hand towards the puzzle box, paused, and let it drop when Morel wagged a disapproving finger at him. “Soon, soon,” the Archmage promised, smiling, giddy as a child despite his awful aches and pains. “We will discover within the hour whether you are on the right track, or whether you are incurably wrong in the head.” He sobered at that. He still didn’t like the idea of having to scrap any of his creations once they’d lived: once they’d felt the air on their skin; the stir of the breeze in their hair, fur or feathers; known taste and scent and seen beauty. Call him a sentimental old fool for it, but he knew the prince shared no such sentimentality. “Come along, come along,” he said, making his way towards the ballroom in the west wing, the damaged golem supporting his elbow, the black griffin slinking along behind.
When he set the puzzle box in motion in the middle of the dance floor, it finally began to blossom of its own accord, faster and faster. Morel winced as an arch of dark wood shaved ice from the wall, fine powder raining down on the ballroom floor, but if the golems’ measurements were accurate and his own calculations were correct then she should just about fit. She certainly wouldn’t get away. After the incident with the dragon, Morel would do anything, sacrifice anything, to make sure this wondrous thing didn’t escape into the wild, beyond the reach of his study. He’d never dreamed that he’d see another of her kind in his lifetime. Some said they were born far out beyond the last stars, drifting between realities like dandelion seeds on the wind, until they settled in a world of their fate’s choosing and began to put down their roots. A five-dimensional magical being: her consciousness and perceptions unable to fully manifest either here or in the old world. Fascinating.
Morel’s attention turned to the flow of Argean script that marked her side. “Sharvesh,” he whispered as he approached her. “That’s what he calls you…” He leaned close, spreading his hands against the warm wood of her sides, feeling the energy pulsing through it, closer… closer… the rush of otherworldly magic like blood through veins. “Tell me your true name, being that he calls ‘Sharvesh’.”
The timbers creaked: not an answer, but a shudder that ran through her. It wasn’t a question to ask one of her kind on first meeting, and Morel bowed in apology. “Will you allow us aboard, then?” he asked, running his hands along the timbers. “I mean you no harm, only wish to explore… such a rare and exquisite creation.” When she didn’t answer, he used his staff and his own magic to draw out a square hatch in her hull. She resisted it: when the hatch opened it revealed only a wall of timber, no different than what had been there before. The newly made door fell away, dead wood, and the Archmage repeated the exercise. “No, my beauty, you can’t fight me,” he warned her. Too much of this would do neither of them any good. After the first three attempts, S
able grew bored and wandered off – he had no patience to stay and watch Morel peel a skyship, one square at a time. But, after six more tries, the hatch fell open to reveal a staircase leading up into darkness. Morel, aided by the damaged golem, stepped up.
One false move and she would eat him alive. Inside, it was impossible to ignore that the skyship was a living creature of rare and strange magic, with a temper and passions of her own. Ignoring the golem walking behind him with a candle, Morel drew on his own power to feel his way through the dark inner chambers. He had no need for his eyes here. As the years went by and his vision slowly clouded, he’d come to rely ever more on his sense of magic to get around. Now he felt the pressure of the walls, floors, ceilings; the barely suppressed desire to crush the intruders. It was only his own magic pushing back that stopped her from doing so on a whim, and Morel knew that in his weakened state, he wouldn’t be able to stop her if she became truly angry. Lucky for him she’d spent so many years in the shape of a steadfast and obedient servant, because without a mage exerting his will over her, she had perfect control over the smallest details of her shape. Where water ran in the channels of living wood, magic as fine as spider’s threads flowed through the fibres of every exquisitely shaped timber. Every surface of her, inside and out, was skin that could feel the movement of her passengers. As he explored, the Archmage mused on whether she could feel pain, and what would happen to parts removed. He had many questions on her nature, and he’d hidden the failed hatches away in a nearby storeroom for later study, but he suspected they would be indistinguishable from any natural wood now that they were no longer a part of her. How much of herself could she lose that way? Likely she hadn’t tried to fly here yet, but could she learn how to? Given time, she might. Even here, she could make a maze of herself to hide her secrets. She made corridors that went in circles, chambers that held nothing besides empty crates and sacks of sawdust.
Morel’s spirits sank even as he admired her beauty and her cleverness. Extracting any measure of Sharvesh’s power without destroying her in the process would take months just to plan, and even taking her magic by force might go as badly as his earlier efforts with the white dragon… So much for using her to recall the sun. He’d just have to hope that the hunting party returned soon with the dragon, and that some negotiation could be made. Regeltheus, quick to anger as any of the princes, might still listen to reason, if he could be held long enough for the situation to be explained to him. Even a dragon would give up some of his power if it was that or his life.
Tapping along the base of a wall with his staff, Morel felt the magic ringing back through the wood of the staff and the aching bones of his hands. When he hit a bad note, he drew out a new doorway in that place. “There you are.”
Standing against the wall, bound in chains, stood a figure in dark stone. Without even thinking about it, the Archmage clicked his fingers, snapping half a dozen links of iron. He ought to have brought with him one of the stars and a set of chisels, so that he could reanimate the missing twin if they found him. Now, as it was, he either had to return later with the necessary tools, or order the golem to drag his dormant twin out of the skyship. Sharvesh, feeling so obviously uncooperative, might give them many miles to walk before they were granted an exit. Taking the candle, Morel gave the silent stone figure a closer inspection. Hmm. No apparent cracks or chips…
The timbers rumbled, Morel felt something shift, and the living golem grabbed the Archmage to keep him on his feet.
“Get off of me,” said Morel, batting at the strong steady hands. He grabbed an empty sack from the floor and shoved it at the golem. “Cover your light,” he ordered, and pushed the golem in the direction of a dark corner. “Hide. Don’t allow yourself to be seen until I give the word.”
Sharvesh was opening a quick and easy path for whoever else was on board. Judging by the way the constant pressure eased, she must be deferring to her master. Silent-footed, a bristling figure appeared in the doorway, eyes shining yellow in the dark, and a hideous memory of something with eyes like that almost unmanned Morel completely. The teeth and the claws that came with those eyes, obscured in the darkness…
“I… I… hadn’t expected you so soon,” said Morel, forcing himself to remember that he knew this Argean, that it had never attacked or threatened him, nor any other human that he knew of.
The Argean didn’t speak, only stared. The timbers of the alien skyship creaked and shifted in sympathy with the displeasure audible in its tense breathing.
“Did the griffin tell you where to find us?” Morel pressed. “Can’t trust him, never could, but I had to see what you’d been hiding, and there’s no thief like that creature…” He was babbling, he knew, and he cursed the fear that turned his knees weak.
The Argean’s nostrils flared. Finally he spoke. “I tracked her. I had no help. She smells of warm ocean breezes and the spices of home. She doesn’t belong in this frozen hell.”
“Ah, yes, your kind have no love for ice and snow, I know that. I know that…” Leaning more heavily on his stick than necessary, Morel crept cringingly towards the door, away from the dark corner where the golem hid, babbling as he went, “I find myself less fond of winter year by year. To think of all the snowball fights I enjoyed in my youth, but I’m an old man now, and I shiver at the first breezes of autumn –”
“What were you doing here?” the Argean interrupted. The creaking grew louder with his words.
Morel ought to demand to know what the Argean was doing with one of his creations chained up and hidden like that. He should order that the golem be returned to him. He could threaten the Argean with exile into the endless winter, a death sentence. Standing where he was, with the beast in front of him and the crushing pressure of Sharvesh’s walls breathing behind him, he didn’t dare. “Forgive an old man his curiosity,” he begged instead, bowing even lower. “Your vessel is remarkable, unique. Do you… do you know what she is?”
The Argean just stared.
Morel fell silent. The skyship was not entirely her true form, but it was as close as any mere mortal would ever see. For whatever reason, she’d shaped herself to serve and protect this lowly creature. “She is extremely fond of you.”
“I know,” said the Argean. He hadn’t stopped bristling, and his eyes were still fixed on the Archmage. “Sharvesh, be calm. He means you no evil, he only allowed his curiosity to get the better of him.” At this, the creaking of the timbers subsided, for the most part. The Argean took Morel by the arm, his grip uncomfortably tight but his claws retracted. “Stay close by me, Sir. It would be extremely dangerous for you to venture off alone into Sharvesh’s chambers, and I would not want your death on my conscience.”
Once back in the ballroom, the Argean ordered the skyship to fold herself up again. Then he picked up the puzzle box and tucked it safely into some inner pocket of his coat.
“Oh, but there was so much left to see,” said Morel, his disappointment quite genuine, though he was weak with pain and fear. “I would so like another chance to study her…” And to retrieve those golems…
The Argean inclined his head, his expression politely neutral, his fur settling. “If you wish it, I can arrange to give you a tour of my ‘ship, some time in the future. For now, in this turbulent place, she must rest and be safe.”
21: NO FAIRY TALE ENDING
“Is it possible for a person to die of boredom?” said Amelia out loud. She’d addressed her question to a panpipe-playing nymph carved out of ice, a fact that suggested to her that even if a person couldn’t die of boredom, she could probably go quite mad from it. Harold and the rest of the hunting party had been gone for three days, and while Amelia awaited the return of her Paladin, there was nothing for her to do but fret. How long ought such a thing take? Percival had reminded her that the hunters would have to wear the dragon out: summoning him, fighting him, giving chase if he escaped them and starting all over again. The day the hunting party had set out, when Percival had gone to visit t
he recuperating Archmage, Amelia had hoped to distract herself by tagging along, despite the fact that Percival had not particularly wanted her company. Morel, however, had not been too polite or too ill to dismiss her, reminding her that she wouldn’t understand the difficult topics being discussed. She’d tried sneaking in anyway, determined to learn what she could, but Morel had seen all too easily through her invisibility spell and become so irritated that he’d sent the pair of them away. The old Archmage was still suffering after exerting himself so in fighting the dragon, although not suffering so much that he hadn’t been able to get his hands on Sharvesh somehow. Luckily Bryn had been able to track her down again. Now he held on to his one treasure as if he expected somebody to wrestle her from his arms. Poor thing. But he didn’t want Amelia’s sympathy, not now.
