Firefly Island, an Epic Fantasy

by Daniel Arenson

  At least she got to see her home one last time. She could almost smile when she finally saw Grayrock in the distance.

  The stone city was a gray heap of turrets and roofs and steeples. A vast city, larger than ten Woodwalls, built with ancient Stonish magic, the ruling center of the Island. Her hometown.

  Lale stopped his carriage outside the gates, under the great flint wall. He alighted and stepped toward Aeolia’s cage. He held a tray in his hands, full of food. There was a bowl of steaming stew. There were two rolls of bread and butter. There was a jug of milk, and a jug of wine. There was a basket of cherries.

  Lale unlocked the cage door and placed the tray before her. Aeolia stared at it.

  “It’s for you,” Lale said. “Aren’t you hungry?”

  Aeolia blinked at him. Hesitantly, she leaned forward and licked one of the rolls. The fresh, grainy smell tingled her nostrils. Suddenly, the roll was gone from the tray. She had bolted it down and hadn’t noticed. Her stomach ached, and she threw up.

  “Not so fast,” Lale said. “Nibble.”

  Aeolia nodded, trembling. She leaned over and nibbled the second roll. It stayed down. Then she ate the stew, lapping it slowly. It was thick with beef and carrots and mushrooms, and seasoned with rosemary and pepper. She sipped the fruity wine. She drank the honeyed milk. She ate the plump, sweet cherries.

  When she was done, Lale wiped her face clean. “You can come out now,” he said.

  Aeolia wriggled outside the cage, and Lale untied her feet.

  “You may stand up.”

  Aeolia’s arms were still bound behind her back. She struggled on wobbly legs, buckled and fell. Lale was very patient. He stood waiting as she tried again, and again, till she managed standing up. It hurt bad. Her stomach hurt too.

  Lale lifted her wispy hair. He closed a collar around her neck. He chained the collar to the back of his carriage.

  “You walk from here,” he said.

  He turned around, climbed back into his carriage, and whipped his horses. The chain tugged at her collar, and Aeolia stumbled behind. She followed the carriage through a gateway in the wall. They passed under fifty feet of flint before emerging into the city. A crowd awaited them there, bowing before its prince.

  Lale reined his horses. “Rise and behold the fallen queen!” he cried. “Behold the Esiren Firechild!”

  The crowd booed her, and Lale whipped his horses again.

  He pulled Aeolia all day through the city of stone. He pulled her through twisting alleys, through market squares, through busy streets and wide, rich boulevards. He would never let her drag. If she fell, he stopped, and gave her milk, and soothed her, till she could walk again. And she walked, her feet bleeding, her muscles torn. Every window held a jeering face, every road a barrage of filth and curses. At one time they passed through her old neighborhood, and Aeolia saw her childhood house. Men she remembered as boys threw snowballs with rocks.

  The sun was low when they finally reached the Citadel. The seat of the emperor, the grotesque, massive edifice soared into the gurgling clouds. Bird droppings speckled its dank walls and spires. Gargoyles perched on its crenellations, twisted things of fangs and horns, of snarls and claws. Aeolia was pulled across a wide courtyard toward the fortress, through the jeering throngs and barrages of filth.

  The courtyard ended at a stage beneath the looming fortress. The gargoyles glowered down with eyes of jet and frozen leers. Lale stopped the carriage, removed Aeolia’s collar, and pulled her onto the stage toward a barrel. He grabbed her hair and pulled her head down onto the wood.

  The prince faced the vast crowd. He spoke in a loud voice. “The fallen Firefly Queen is guilty of the following crimes: reading minds, threatening the emperor, sparking war....” The crowd booed with every offense announced, and Lale shouted louder. “...causing stillbirths, spreading disease, withering the crops, flooding villages....”

  Aeolia stopped listening. She shut her eyes and thought of Talin, till at last her list of crimes ended.

  “Bring forth the executioner!” Lale cried.

  The Citadel’s great iron doors swung open. The executioner stepped out, wearing a black mask and holding an ax, an ax that could sever a link like a head. He bowed before Lale, received the prince’s blessings, then straightened and approached Aeolia.

  He stood above her, holding his steel, and Aeolia saw his eyes moisten. His tears tumbled through the air, splashed onto her cheek and ran down to her lips. They were warm and salty, and so Aeolia knew it was not a dream, and that he truly stood above her. For a moment all sound disappeared, and she was no longer aware of the crowd, or the city, or the pain. For a moment the world was only her and him again.

  And she whispered, “I never stopped loving you.”

  Joren’s tears splashed down—huge, round drops like the rain that had fallen that night, the night they had said good-bye, and Aeolia smiled because for the first time in weeks she did not feel cold. And Joren grimaced. His eyes winced, and his mouth opened and he wailed, a long, mournful wail of such sadness that Aeolia wanted to cry. His tears fell, and his howl ripped the air, and his ax came down. And with a snap, like the snap of her fetters long ago, Aeolia’s bounds tore.

  She rose to her feet, her arms free.

  The surrounding guards drew their swords and came running toward her.

  “Into the Citadel!” Joren cried. “RUN!”

  Aeolia could not run, but she limped forward. She heard Joren shout behind her as he clashed steel with the guards. More guards came charging from ahead of her, and she stopped in her tracks. Joren whipped around her, and his ax flew, and blood bespattered her face.

  “Take this.” Joren slipped a dagger into her palm. “Come, through the doors.”

  Guards came storming from behind, and Aeolia and Joren hurried into the Citadel. Inside, Joren slammed himself against the doors, grunting and pushing. The doors closed with a deep boom, and Joren dropped a beam into their brackets.

  “Watch out!” Aeolia cried as three guards came charging from within the fortress. Joren ran to meet them. He chopped them down in a berserk rage, suffering a gash to his side.

  “Joren!” Aeolia said. “You’re wounded.”

  “It’s nothing.” He embraced her. She felt him crying again. “Spirit, Aeoly, what have they done to you... ?”

  A boom made them start. The doors creaked, slammed at from outside.

  “Let me in, Joren!” Lale’s shout came through the wood. “Let me in, or by the Spirit, I’ll feed your head to the pigs!”

  Again the doors were slammed at. Splinters flew.

  Aeolia tightened her grip on her dagger. “They’re breaking in!”

  “I know where it’s safe,” Joren said. “Come.”

  He lifted her. Carrying her in his arms, he moved down the hall, and they plunged into a labyrinth of dank, winding corridors and stairwells. The place was mostly empty. Most people had gone to watch the execution. What few servants remained did not challenge the royal executioner. Probably they thought Aeolia was dead already. She watched Joren’s blood leave a trail on the floor behind them.

  A crash came from above, and Aeolia started. The fortress rumbled with footsteps and clanking armor.

  “I’ll drop you into the sewer, girl!” Lale shouted somewhere above. “I’ll drown you in my own waste!”

  “They’ve broken the door!” Aeolia said. “They’re catching up!”

  “We’re going to Sinther’s antechamber,” Joren said grimly. “The guards aren’t allowed in there.”

  Aeolia noticed Joren’s face was pale, his breathing shallow. Blood soaked his shirt, trickling incessantly. She knew he could not carry her much longer. Still he continued running, and they descended deeper, down darker tunnels like the burrows of ants, down and down into the belly of the earth. The soldiers grew louder above them, following Joren’s trail of blood. Lale’s cries echoed through the halls.

  After descending what seemed like miles, Aeolia and Joren rea
ched a bare, dark room. In the flickering torchlight, Aeolia saw a stairwell carved into the floor and a tunnel gaping open in one wall. Joren approached the tunnel but paused before it, breathing heavily. His face was pale and his eyes were glazed.

  “Put me down, Jor,” Aeolia said. “You can’t carry me anymore.”

  Joren looked ready to object, but then he nodded and put Aeolia down. She stood on unsteady feet. Joren took a step into the tunnel.

  “This is... his antechamber?” Aeolia asked, not following.

  Joren nodded. “This tunnel is what makes the room secret. It’s an escape route. Come, quickly.”

  Lale’s shouting echoed above, moving closer.

  “Does... Sinther live down there?” Aeolia asked, pointing a shaky finger to the hole in the floor.

  “Yes!” There was panic in Joren’s voice. “Now come, into the tunnel. Lale’s coming closer, Aeoly; I can’t fight him!”

  Aeolia stood in place, legs quivering. Here the path forks, she knew. One way leads to light, to friends and family. And the other.... Aeolia looked down into the pit. Taya was down there, she knew. Aeolia had to save her, even if it meant her life.

  “Tell my husband I love him,” she said.

  “What?” Joren cried. “Quickly, we must go!”

  “Tell him I’m sorry I didn’t come back.”

  “Aeoly, stop this nonsense! Please, I beg you, come.”

  “Promise me, Joren,” she pleaded. “Promise you’ll do it.”

  He paled and she froze. They both remembered.

  “I swear it!” Joren cried. “By my life!”

  “Then go!”

  He whispered, “I love you, Aeolia.”

  “Go!”

  He vanished into the tunnel. Aeolia stayed in place, waiting as Lale’s thundering grew louder, until he burst into the room.

  “Catch me!” she said and dashed into the stairwell. She limped down the spiraling steps fast as she could. Lale ran but paces behind her. Aeolia saw his shadow in the torchlight, gaining on her. She stopped, grabbed a torch, and spun around. As Lale came crashing down, she tossed the torch at him. He raised his arms to his face, and Aeolia thrust her dagger into his belly.

  His old wound opened, shooting blood. He blanched and clutched his stomach. Blood bubbled in his mouth. His sword clanked at his feet. He fell to his knees, staring at the blood flowing between his fingers. Blood dripped around his knees.

  Slowly, he looked up at her. His face was white. “I never wanted it to be this way,” he whispered. There was pain and fear in his eyes, but also sadness. “We could have run from him together. Oh, Ness, forgive me.”

  Aeolia stared at him in silence for a moment. Then she grabbed the dagger’s hilt, twisted and pulled. It came free with a sucking sound. As Lale folded over, she turned and continued descending the stairwell. She reached the bottom, where stood a stone door, and stopped.

  She stared at the door. Here it all ends, she knew. I was born for now. She shut her eyes and breathed deeply, each breath flowing like a soothing wave. All her pain and sorrows and worries disappeared, melting like sugar in these tranquil waters. She was leaving love behind, but in the cold of now, that love still gave her warmth. Now is the time, she knew, the time to undo all my wrongs, to finally make everything right. Slowly, Aeolia opened her eyes, opened the door, and stepped in.

  In the flickering torchlight she saw him, speckled stone roughly hewn. A man of stone, tyrant of the Island, her childhood king. Shaking with rage and fear, Sinther glared at her, snarling, stone eyes wild.

  Aeolia spoke, soft as summer rain. “Let my friend go.”

  Sinther growled and pointed his fingers. Splinters crashed against Aeolia, jabbing into her flesh, speckling her red. She barely felt a thing. She took a step forward.

  “You cannot hurt me,” she whispered.

  His scream echoed and rang in Aeolia’s ears. He waved his hands. Stones slammed into Aeolia, and she heard her ribs snap. She continued pacing forward. She could not see Taya clearly for the darkness, but in the back of the room, she saw a tall dark slab, and she glimpsed a curl of orange hair.

  “Don’t worry, Taya,” she said. “I’ve come to save you.”

  Sinther howled and frothed at the mouth. He reached out, his hands shaking, and shot a sharp stone cone. The stone slashed Aeolia’s arm, nearly severing it.

  “I’ve come to save everyone....”

  She smiled softly and took a deep breath. She linked to Sinther.

  Like poison in water, his mind mingled with hers, reeking of blackness and disease, twitching with fear. Aeolia winced. So sad... he was so sad.... He fled to the back of the room and cowered in the corner, howling and drooling like a mad beast.

  Aeolia raised her dagger. The blade gleamed in the torchlight, gentle as fireflies’ glow. She took a deep breath and placed the sharp point on her breast. All her friends smiled, the people she cared for, flowers from her wedding, white dresses and silky beds, silver and gold. She gasped softly as she pushed. Red blossomed on her white skin like poppies on snow.

  Her eyes shut, opened cloudy. She saw Sinther clutch his chest, fall to his knees, fall to the floor beside her. Slowly Aeolia sat down, red spilling from her like wine from a cracked jug. She lay back and gazed up at blue skies. As her heart stilled she clung tightly to his mind, pulling him into slow death with her.

  She swallowed weakly. Her eyelids fluttered.

  “I’m sorry, Talin,” she whispered. “I love you and everyone.”

  Her honey eyes closed.

  Chapter Twenty

  Almonds and Honey

  Joren stumbled down the tunnel, huffing and moaning, his hand clutched to his wound. Blood soaked his shirt, and his head spun. He had to see a physician soon, he knew, or he’d die. He quickened his step, but slipped and fell in the darkness. For a moment he sat panting, then pushed himself up with a grunt. He resumed limping forward.

  After what seemed like hours, he saw light ahead. He plodded toward it. The light slanted in beams from the ceiling, falling through the holes of a sewer’s lid. Joren heard muffled chanting above. He pushed the metallic disk aside and heaved himself up. Coughing and shaking, he crawled outside and found himself in an empty alley. He heard the chanting clearly now, coming from around the corner.

  “The king is dead,” cried thousands of voices, “long live the king!”

  Joren shuffled out of the alley. The Citadel loomed ahead, closer than he’d expected; though the tunnel was long, most of its length wound upwards. People clogged the streets, all chanting.

  “The king is dead, long live the king!”

  Joren stumbled into the crowd. Those around him, seeing his blood, recoiled in shock. Joren gruffly ignored their worried offers of help.

  “Tell me,” he rasped, grasping one man’s arm, “is the king dead?”

  The man nodded slowly. “Aye, King Sinther is dead, my friend. And so will you be, if you don’t see a doctor soon.”

  “Never mind me!” Joren snapped, and was overcome by a fit of coughing. The man patted his back hesitantly, and Joren pushed him off.

  “And tell me,” Joren said when he could talk again, “is Lale now king?”

  The man shook his head. “No, Lale is dead too.”

  Joren shut his eyes. It was a moment before he could speak again. “So who is this new king?”

  “Apparently, the prince’s will named his heir his best friend, some fellow named Joren. Hey, hey, my friend, where are you going? You’re hurt!”

  Joren shoved his way through the crowd. They parted to let him through, seeing his blood. Joren ignored the pain, ignored the stares, ignored the offers of succor. Dizzy and shaking, he made it to the courtyard and trudged forward with grim determination.

  “The king is dead, long live the king!” chanted the crowd.

  Joren fell facedown before the stage. He began crawling up the stairs, smearing blood behind him. The guards recognized him and rushed down to help. They lifted him
, half dead, and hurriedly carried him up toward the Citadel’s doors.

  “Leave me!” Joren said. “Let me stand, let them see me.”

  The guards reluctantly obeyed, lowering Joren to his feet on the stage. He stood before the vast crowd.

  “Behold your new king!” cried one guard and raised Joren’s hand. “Bow before King Joren, ruler of the Island!”

  The crowd bowed in a great wave.

  “Thank you, Aeoly,” Joren whispered, tears in his eyes. “I promise I’ll be better.”

  “Hail King Joren!” cried the crowd. “Long live the king!”

  * * * * *

  Taya sat waiting in the small chamber, fiddling her thumbs in her lap.

  It was too quiet. The sounds of battle had mostly faded, Joren’s challengers to the throne having been quelled or driven from the city. Only the occasional boom of a catapult now broke the silence. Taya supposed she should be glad. But instead she found herself wishing for . . . something, some noise, some fanfare. It cannot end like this, she thought. How can everything be so... nonchalant?

  She rose to her feet and began pacing. Her legs were still stiff; they had returned to flesh with the stone king’s death, but it would be a while before they were strong again. Taya did not care. Not about herself, not anymore. She stopped by the window and looked outside. Two colors of light danced lazily in the evening, red and orange, hers and Roen’s. The other two colors of fireflies were gone. Taya felt a lump in her throat.

  The door opened and Roen stepped inside. Taya turned toward him.

  “How is she?” she asked.

  Roen took a slow breath before speaking. “She is sleeping. She will sleep for a long time. Starvation killed her just as much as her wounds did. She might never wake.”

  “She will wake,” Taya said decidedly. “She tougher than she look.”

  Roen nodded. “She really did come for us. I wonder if she knew I was a Firechild when she did.”