Conmergence: An Anthology of Speculative Fiction

by Maya, Tara

She cut the ribbon on a large mural beside her. Twenty soldiers stepped out of the painting. Glamours, not brinks, but they would be invulnerable until dawn. They rushed him. He grabbed his kukri and split open the head of the first attacker, then spun and lopped off the arm of a second assailant. He slashed at a third, kicked a forth, but the odds were hopeless. Not only did the soldiers outnumber him, even those he downed would not stay down. The glamour whose head had split open slurped back together, and the armless man reattached his limb. The painted soldiers would always return to the way they had been painted, and they could not be killed. They surrounded him with bows and kukris drawn.

  "I don’t hate you, little brother," said Forthia. "I understand the jealousy that must have gnawed at you. First Drajorian took away Tulthy from you, then he took away Lyadra. Even if you didn’t covet his throne, you would have hated him for that, I think. But you haven’t killed him yet, and that was your mistake."

  "I spit on your pity." He did spit. The glob of mucus struck the cheek of one of the soldiers, but the glamour did not blink, or wipe it away.

  "And you were jealous, ultimately, because Drajorian was better than you. He was a decade your junior, but more of a man than you ever were. You were weak, sulky. All you wanted to do was daydream in a corner and draw dogs. He was a man. He is the perfect prince, handsome, strong, charming—all the things you are not, Othy. But if you will tell me where you are keeping the real Drajorian prisoner, I will spare your life."

  "Ask Tulthy where the real Drajorian is," sneered Othmordian.

  "I did not see her at dinner." Forthia’s eyes widened. "No! You did not!"

  The doors opened and the false prince Drajorian, the glamour, hurtled down the hall, howling. He attacked the soldiers surrounding Othmordian. It was glamour versus glamour. They hacked off his limbs but he regrew them; they smashed in his head, but it popped back out. They finally overwhelmed him with sheer numbers and bound him.

  But Othmordian had not wasted the distraction. He lay about with his kukri, dismembering every glamour in his path to the fireplace. He reached his left hand into the hearth, and, ignoring the pain, squeezed a burning brand. A sketch: quick, sharp lines against the white inside wall of the fireplace, in the shape of a dog; followed by a palm print: blood from his blistered hand to bring it too life. The Smoke Hound jumped from the fireplace and tore into the glamour soldiers. They caught fire, the only thing glamours could not survive.

  He strode to Forthia. She backed away until she was pressed against the wall.

  "Am I weak now, Forthia?" he asked. "My scribbles have learned to bite."

  "Are you going to kill me, Othy?" she whispered. "As you killed our brother and Tulthy?"

  He reached his hand around her throat. She shut her eyes. He felt for the slim gold chain hidden beneath her jacket, and yanked it out hard enough to break the necklace. At the end of the necklace was a miniature of Lyadra, which he dropped on the flagstones and stomped. The shattered enamel cut through the sole of his slipper.

  Behind him, he heard Lyadra gasp the moment the geis was broken.

  "You should learn to look beyond the foreground, Forthia," Othmordian said. "Did it never occur to you to wonder if Drajorian was the perfect image of a prince because he was only that—an image? I cannot tell you where the real Drajorian is because I do not know. Because even the real Drajorian is not real." He raised his voice, "Isn’t that right?"

  A figure in a hooded, crimson cape-coat stood in the doorway at the other end of the hall. She stepped around the ashes of the battle. The Smoke Hound panted sparks at her, but did not stop her.

  "I was young." Tulthana pushed back her dark red hood. "If I had only been content with you as an heir to begin with… It wasn’t that I didn’t love you, Othy. I just wanted a baby of my own so very, very much."

  "I was glad to have a nephew," he said. "I had wanted to become a glamourer for some years, and it seemed an impossible dream. But—Tulthana—what you did—"

  His eyes slid past her to the false Drajorian. There were no windows in the room, but the glamour prince and the Smoke Hound dissolved. A blank sheet of paper fluttered to the ground where the prince had stood.

  "It’s dawn, isn’t it?" he asked. "We must make the blood sacrifice now."

  "Yes," said Tulthana.

  He released Forthia. He waved an invitation tot her and Lyadra . "You are in this deep. If you are not afraid of the truth, come with us."

  "No," said Tulthana.

  "You cannot keep this from Forthia any longer," he said, "And I will not keep it from Lyadra."

  Tulthana bowed her head. "Then come," she said. "See my folly, for which I have paid dearly."

  #

  On the third day, Othmordian stood once more on the dais before the assembled notables and four Officiants. Today, all would learn whether he would next be charged for regicide and high treason or anointed Regent and married to his nephew’s former betrothed. The three women who had stood to challenge him three days before, stood now in a row before him, youngest to eldest.

  The First of the Four Officiants stepped forward.

  "Challenger the First, Lady Lyadra," intoned the old man. "Do you stand fast to your challenge or do you renounce it?"

  Lyadra met Othmodian’s eyes. For a moment, he allowed himself to admire the sheen of her auburn hair falling over a peach gown. Each bell-accented curve of her body tinkled as she moved. She was beautiful, he thought, with a twinge of his old heartache.

  "I renounce my challenge," she said smoothly. The audience of notables shifted uneasily at her response. Othmordian allowed some of his grim satisfaction to show. The rabble had wanted blood. Too bad.

  Even the supposedly neutral First Officiant frowned. However, he continued the formal ceremony without demure.

  "Challenger the Second, Princess Forthia," he said. "Do you stand fast to your challenge or do you renounce it?"

  Forthia stood tall in royal purple. "I renounce my challenge."

  The First Officient glanced sidelong at Othmordian. By now the old man must have known how the rest would go, although from the old man’s angry frown, he’d no idea how Othmordian had convinced all three challengers to back down.

  "Challenger the Third, Queen Tulthana," said the First Officiant. "Do you stand fast to your challenge or do you renounce it?"

  "I renounce it," said Queen Tulthana.

  A vast, almost soundless, yet palpable groan passed through the hall. So. The Pretender was judged no pretender, but the legitimate Voice of the Throne. No one who still suspected Othmordian of murdering his older brother would dare make that accusation openly now.

  The Four Officiants began to chant, resuming the ceremony of investiture as Regent that had been interrupted by challengers three days ago. Othmordian hardly heard them.

  "Prince Othmordian," the First Officient addressed him. "Will you accept the responsibility of Regent until such time as your nephew, Crown Prince Drajorian, comes of age and ascends the throne as King of Cammar?"

  After Forthia had learned the truth, she had agreed with him, that, if necessary, he must kill Drajorian. But if Tulthana’s hope proved right and there was a chance that this entire pretense could be made real? If it required that Othmordian bleed himself, body and spirit, every day for another five years, it would be worth the price.

  "I will," said Othmordian.

  #

  Another dusk. Another visit to Tulthana’s atelier. The difference was that Lyadra accompanied him up the steps of the tower.

  "You don’t have to come with me every time," he said. "Only Tulthy and I have to be there each dusk and dawn."

  "I wished to speak to you," she said. "About our…marriage. When you first proposed it, after my challenge, I only agreed because I thought you would murder Drajorian if I did not."

  "I understand." He sighed. "I release you from that promise. And of course, I will destroy the painting I began of you. I did wrong to start it."

  "I knew you thoug
ht I only wanted the wealth and power of the position. Because I thought you were…you had…well, I didn’t care what you thought of me. But I care now. I don’t…even if we can save Drajorian, I cannot marry him."

  "Of course not. Not now that you know."

  "That’s not what I mean. I am in love with someone else. If he would still have me."

  They came to the top of the stair.

  "You would marry me even if I never became king?" Othmordian asked.

  "Do you still think I ever cared about that?"

  No one could see them. He kissed her. "This will only convince everyone I am after the throne, you know. They’ll be sure I want your father’s gold."

  "Do you care what they think?"

  He laughed, ruefully. They entered the atelier.

  Tulthana waited by the pomegranate curtain, and she pulled it open to reveal large, life-size oil painting with a scenic landscape in the background, and, in the foreground, a blank silhouette the shape of a missing man.

  Othmordian wondered what would have happened if his first attack on his nephew had succeeded. Back then, Othy had been a boy of thirteen, and Drajorian had been three. This same canvas, in those days, had shown a toddler. At first, upon finding the painting, Othmordian had thought that someone had captured Drajorian’s soul. Only the lack of ribbons tied around the painting had revealed the truth, that Drajorian was a brink. Even so, Othmordian had not guessed the whole of the matter, but assumed that some evil glamourer had tried to draw a monster to take the flesh-and-blood Drajorian’s place. How could he have guessed that his beloved aunt and uncle had used magic to create the baby they could never have naturally?

  "Thank you for doing this, Othy," said Tulthana, "It was not Drajorian’s fault that I brought him into this world. He could not help what he was. He could not help that he had no soul."

  Or that, like the monster he was, Drajorian killed his own father, then fled the palace before Othmordian could stop him. But Othmordian did not say it aloud. It had all been said. Most brinks were given the power to cross the twixting by a human sacrifice. Tulthana and Arnthom had been convinced there was another way. They had not killed anyone to mix the paints for his portrait. They drew their own blood, day after day, a little at a time, in the belief that if both a man and woman give one drop of blood each day for twenty-five years to a brink, they could imbue him with a soul. Unfortunately, until then, he was still a brink: picture perfect prince on the outside, soulless monster on the inside.

  Five more years of blood, every sunrise, every sunset, from a man and a woman, was needed to give Drajorian a soul.

  "Do you really think I can take Arnthom’s place?" Othmordian asked. "If my brother’s daily blood was not enough to give soul to the brink, how then a pale substitute?"

  "You promised to try."

  "I know, Tulthana, I know." Secretly, however, he felt a heavy weight inside. He did not think Drajorian would ever grow a soul no matter how much blood Tulthana or anyone else poured out.

  Lyadra touched his arm. Though she said nothing, her trust glowed in her face.

  Othmordian tightened his jaw. He unsheathed his kukri. Then he unwrapped his bandaged right hand, exposing the scars from the previous cuts to his palm. He dug the dagger into his flesh again. Tulthana did the same. Drops like pomegranate seeds fell into an empty paint jar. Lastly, she picked up a paintbrush, and as she had every day for twenty years, began to mix the tiny drops of blood into the still wet oils of the painting.

  Comments on Portrait of a Pretender

  I started this story to revisit an old trope: the murdered king, the scheming uncle with pretensions to the throne, the endangered heir. I wanted to give the scheming uncle’s perspective. The title and Prince Drajorian’s name are a hat tip to The Portrait of Dorian Gray, and the theme of surface versus soul.

  This is another chapter that wandered away from a novel and fell into a short story. You’ll find another installment in this anthology, Drawn to the Brink.

  Refractions From The Neglected Side

  A finger wiggled in front of my nose.

  "What do you see?" asked Dr. Chopra.

  "Your finger moving."

  "Fine, good," said Dr. Chopra. "Keep your eyes fixed on the same spot, the tip of my nose, just like before. Now what do you see?"

  I waited but noticed nothing in particular, so I said nothing.

  "Ms. Link?" the doctor prompted.

  "I'm ready whenever you are, Doctor," I said, a touch impatiently.

  "Ms. Link, don't you see my finger wiggling, just the same as before except that now it is to your left rather than your right?"

  Surprised, I looked again, and saw Dr. Chopra's vivacious digit dancing at the end of his hand.

  "Oh, yes," I said sheepishly. "But surely you weren't doing that before?"

  "Oh, I was, you just didn't notice it," Dr. Chopra said amicably. "Now, I want you to look at these two pictures."

  He took out two flash cards, each with a drawing of a house. He stacked them one on top of the other. The pictures were identical.

  "Tell me what differences you see between the two pictures," he suggested.

  "Ah, well, I was never much for 'Where is Waldo' games," I muttered. I searched the two pictures for absurd little inconsistencies such as upside down porch lights or fish in the bird’s nest in the tree. I finally gave up.

  "Well, but surely there is one you would prefer to live in," suggested Dr. Chopra.

  "But, Doctor, it's the same house!"

  "Humor me. If you had to choose, which would you rather move into?"

  There was something about the bottom house that I didn't quite trust, although I couldn't say why. With a shrug, I said, "The top house."

  "Why?"

  "No reason, Doctor. I just prefer it."

  "Not because the left side of the bottom house is depicted as being on fire?"

  "What? You're kidding. What are you talking about?"

  "I assure you, it's right there in the picture. You failed to notice the left side of the pictures."

  "Am I going blind, Doctor?" I asked anxiously. "I don't seem to have any trouble seeing, but strange things keep happening. My husband says that I only eat half of what's on my plate unless he rotates it halfway around during dinner. People at work have told me that I've come in with my make-up and hair only half done, the other half completely unkempt. But I could swear that in the mirror each morning I curled my hair and put on my lipstick and mascara just as usual. People claim that they have been standing next to me, trying to get my attention and I acted like I didn't see them. I don't understand it."

  "You're not going blind. You simply have a condition known as hemineglect. To state it simply, your brain no longer 'notices' the entire left side of your world. It says here in your case history that you were in an automobile accident and sustained a head injury? To the right hemisphere?"

  "Yes, the right hemisphere," I admitted. I knew that the left hemisphere controlled the right side of the body and the right hemisphere controlled the left side of the body, so I asked, "Doctor, is that why I have lost the ability to notice 'left'? If I had damaged the left side of my brain, would I have lost the ability to notice 'right'?"

  "Probably not, Ms. Link," he said. "When it comes to the elusive job of 'paying attention' the symmetry of our brain is not perfect. The left side of the brain is already preoccupied with language, so it has fewer resources to devote to attention. It covers paying attention to right side of your world, as would be expected. The right side of the brain, in contrast, is the more holistic of the two; it somehow has the ability to focus on both left and right. So, if you had suffered damage to your left hemisphere, you probably would have continued to notice both sides of your world. On the other hand," he spread his hands apologetically, "You might not have been able to talk about it."

  "Is there any cure?"

  "There are no guarantees, but there are options. One is the stimulation of renewed cell growth in the
affected area. But that is experimental, only a last resort if you chose to try it. First, I'd like to try some non-invasive procedures that may help in retraining your brain to see 'left' with out extreme measures."

  #

  At my next appointment, Dr. Chopra asked me to sit in a chair in front of a table. He put a pen on the table behind my right shoulder, then stood in front of me with the mirror.

  "What am I holding, Ms. Link?"

  "What do you mean, what are you holding? A mirror."

  "Do you know how a mirror works?"

  "I may be brain-damaged, Doctor, but I'm not stupid."

  He smiled. "Do you see the pen? Would you please pick it up?"

  I could see the pen on the table behind me, reflected in the mirror in front of me. With no trouble, I reached over my shoulder and picked it up.

  "Very good, Ms. Link," he said.

  Dr. Chopra moved the table away to somewhere else. Then he stood by my right side, again holding the mirror.

  "Do you see the pen?"

  I saw the pen reflected in the mirror. But the odd thing was that it wasn't reflected from anywhere, which meant that it must actually be behind or within the mirror somehow. I put my hands to the mirror, trying to reach through it, then around it and behind it.

  "Don't grab the reflection, grab the pen itself," Dr. Chopra urged.

  "I'm trying," I said, "But the mirror is in the way."

  "Ms. Link, the pen is on your left side, the reflection is on your right side. Just like before, when the pen was behind you and the mirror in front of you, remember?"

  Unfortunately, this case was completely different, because the pen reflected out of nowhere. Perhaps, I thought, the light is bouncing off it very strangely, like colors through a prism. But I couldn't backtrack properly how that would position the pen, except to try reaching under and then over the mirror. Neither tactic worked.