Ariel's Tear

by Justin Rose

  Ariel sat down. “Life is bitter,” she said slowly. “It is cold and cruel and full of hurt. I thought I could give them something else, some beautiful little corner where time was cheated.” She gestured to all her sisters and brothers. “They were the weak, the soft, and the gentle. I was supposed to keep them pure.”

  “You did,” Hefthon replied. “And you kept the world that much purer as well.”

  Ariel ran her fingers through her dark hair. “But what is a thousand years in this world? The space between a smile and a tear? I meant to give them eternity, just one beautiful constant in this changing world . . . But I was weak.”

  “Perhaps you don’t need to be strong,” Hefthon replied. “I love this place as well. More than all the glory of the human empire. I cannot promise you eternity, but I can promise you that should Father succeed, for as long as I live, I will protect this city.”

  Ariel looked up at his face. “For as long as you live?” she asked.

  “Yes.”

  * * *

  Geuel woke late. His back lay propped against the wall facing his building’s main archway. He stared for a few seconds, accustoming himself to his surroundings. A light breeze sang in the withered crystal blossoms outside the door. The city looked dull and sickly, the silver buried beneath a gray hue, closer to lead. He picked at the wall at his back and felt it flake off in slivers under his nail.

  Tressa stood nearby at a fake counter, spreading honey onto some bread. She smiled. “Morning, son. The others are outside already.”

  “Did you tell Veil to stay close?”

  “She’s in the building across the street,” Tressa said. “I think Hefthon headed for the keep.”

  “Hope his stomach’s empty,” Geuel muttered.

  “Pardon?” Tressa asked.

  “Nothing,” he said. “I’ll tell Veil there’s food.”

  “Thank you.”

  Geuel walked out into the street. “Veil?” he called.

  Silence. He walked into the building across the way and stopped. Crystal flowers and sculptures levitated around the room, glowing brightly in the dimmed surroundings, the only objects lit by the Fairy City’s usual dreamlike brightness. In the center of the room, the green-dressed fairy floated in the air, shuddering violently with exertion.

  “Randiriel?” he asked.

  The fairy nodded. “You were at the keep.”

  “Yes, when it fell,” he replied. “What are you doing here?”

  Randiriel turned to face him, her skin papery and muted. “I’m holding on. It’s harder without the Tear, but possible.”

  “I thought that fairies never held on.”

  Randiriel laughed. “That’s what the girl said. But we’re hardly fairies now, are we? We’re something different, something new.”

  Geuel sat down on a bench along the wall. “How’s that?”

  “We were the city. We were the Tear. We were each other. Look at the city.”

  “It’s fading,” Geuel said.

  Randiriel nodded. “But I’m not. The others aren’t. The flowers broke. The city’s fading. But I’m still here. There is no we anymore, just I and you and he and she.”

  “Is that why you’re holding on?” Geuel asked.

  “I’m holding on because I want to hold on.”

  “Why did you stay? Yesterday? You stayed when the others ran.”

  “Not all,” Randiriel replied. “Ariel stayed. Ariel will always stay. She’s not like the rest of us. She cries . . . I’ve seen her. Not with tears. We don’t have tears. But in her eyes, she weeps. I wanted to weep.”

  “Most people hate to weep,” Geuel said. “Isn’t that what being a fairy is all about?”

  “Perhaps,” Randiriel replied, “but we’re not fairies. Fairies are pure.”

  “You’re not pure?” Geuel asked.

  “I’ve felt the pain,” Randiriel said. “I don’t know about the others, but yesterday I felt life’s pain. Fairies don’t feel pain. Only Ariel.”

  “Out there,” Geuel gestured to the horizon, “we all feel pain. We consider it the cost of beauty.”

  “And is it worth it?” Randiriel asked.

  “Yes,” Geuel said. “There’s a flag out there somewhere, a Golden Iris sown in sky-blue silk. Men have bled for it, laughed under it, sang of it, and been buried with it wrapped around their shoulders. And every one of them would bleed again, just to see it wave where it has never waved before. There’s nothing more beautiful.”

  “I will see this flag someday,” Randiriel said.

  Geuel smiled. “Tell me then if beauty is worth its cost.”

  Just then Veil came running in through the door. “Geuel,” she said, “Hefthon’s back. Mother says we need to eat now.”

  Geuel nodded. “All right, Veil. I’ll be along.” He turned back to Randiriel. “I hope you can hold on,” he said.

  As Geuel entered the opposing building, a bright, red-dressed figure caught his eye on the counter. Ariel smiled. “Enjoy your visit with Rand?” she asked.

  Geuel clapped his brother on the back in greeting and nodded to Ariel. “Enlightening, at least. I thought fairies drew their power from the Tear.”

  “They do—in a way,” Ariel replied. “The Tear is linked to Innocence. It is her cyntras that we use in wielding it. But our connection to the Tear has left us with some of our own cyntras. That is what we use now. My brothers and sisters, those remaining of the nine, can keep the city standing. But that is all. It will continue to fade.”

  “And the other fairies?” Geuel asked.

  “Frightened, confused,” Hefthon said, “they won’t help with anything.”

  Ariel nodded. “The Tear connected our emotions as well as our power. They do not know how to feel alone. So they are regressing past childhood, almost to an infant state.”

  “Not Randiriel,” Geuel replied. “She seems as strong as you.”

  “Perhaps she is. She is no more a child now than I. She has discovered self and will only grow stronger in isolation.”

  “And why can’t the others grow stronger?” Geuel asked. “What’s so special about Randiriel?”

  “We call this city The City of Youth,” Ariel replied. “But a truer title might call it The City of Innocence. What we save here is not all of childhood. It is just that part which we call most beautiful: the wondering innocence and untainted curiosity that makes the poets write of childhood as if it were godhood. The fairies are not merely linked to Innocence. They are part of her, living manifestations of the Trait herself, governed by their own hearts and minds but saturated by Innocence. Without Innocence, the fairies have no identity.”

  “And Randiriel?” Geuel asked.

  “I do not quite know,” Ariel replied.

  Tressa handed Geuel and Hefthon each a sandwich. “Well, let’s hope that Reheuel finds the Tear then.”

  “For their sake,” Geuel replied, tilting his head toward the city’s center.

  “For all our sakes,” Ariel replied. “The goblins did not take the gem as a bauble. They will use it as a weapon.”

  Hefthon stiffened. “The Tear is linked to Innocence. Surely no goblin could wield her cyntras.”

  “The fairies access Innocence through the Tear,” Ariel replied, “but there are other Passions and Traits who had their hand in its making. You know my story. When my father died, I shed my innocence through my tears. But I felt other things as well: anger and hatred and malice. All of those feelings are bound inside the Tear. And any one might be used by a goblin.”

  Hefthon paled. “There’s only one reason that the goblins would want such a weapon now . . .”

  “Gath Odrenoch,” Geuel said. He glanced to the wall where his sword leaned. “I’m going after Father,” he said. “If the Tear is that important, they won’t leave it with a raiding party for long.”

  Hefthon moved into another room and returned with his longbow. He tossed it to Geuel. “You gave yours to Father,” he said.

  Geuel no
dded. “Keep watch here, brother. When I return, be ready to leave. We ride for home.”

  Hefthon grasped his shoulder. “Be safe.”

  “Always.” He turned to Tressa. “Sorry, Mother, but I must.”

  She nodded. “We’ll be fine.”

  Geuel stepped out into the street and headed for the building where Iridius was stabled.

  Tressa looked over at Ariel. “Why didn’t you say anything before?” she asked.

  “I did not want Reheuel to fear,” Ariel replied. “He would have been reckless.”

  Veil hugged her mother’s waist. “Where’s Geuel going?” she asked.

  “To fetch Father,” Tressa whispered, still staring mistrustfully at Ariel.

  * * *

  The fire smoldered dully in the night, casting dark shadows on the still, silent goblins sitting around it. Their eyes were closed and their mouths set. A slab of horse meat roasted on a sickle over the fire, filling the air with the scent of burning flesh.

  Four more goblins crept into the firelight, nickering and snuffling at the air. They pulled themselves along with the tips of their fingers and toes, scuttling on all fours in silence. The sitters said nothing, eyes closed.

  One of the newcomers approached the edge of the firelight and shook one of the sitters by the shoulder. It slumped stiffly to the ground, uprooting the arrow that had held it in place. The goblin shrieked.

  An arrow hissed in the night.

  * * *

  It was nearly twilight when Geuel reached the site of his father’s skirmish. He had ridden far faster than Reheuel had dared, but still he lagged many hours behind. He found the horse first, dragged behind a stand of poplar and mutilated, a massive chunk of meat carved from its thigh. Next he found the campsite.

  There were eight bodies in all, four sitting stiffly around the campfire, backs propped on logs and arrows pinning their thighs to the ground. Four more lay scattered with their backs to the fire. Arrows protruded from every body. The air smelled of burning meat, and the coals were still warm.

  Geuel traced the arrows in the goblins’ backs to the east of the fire. In a stand of young pine, he found the archer’s hiding spot. Downwind, obscured by the boughs of the pine. Just the kind of place Reheuel would hide. Heavy boot marks, scuffed with shifts of weight, rested in the earth beside one of the trees. He had waited for a long time. Large red slicks covered the trunk where he had leaned. Geuel grit his teeth. He was wounded, and more than once.

  Further into the pines, Geuel found some snapped boughs, several spotted with blood. His father was moving erratically. What footsteps Geuel could find were unsteady and inconsistent. He spurred his horse forward. The tracks led to the east. He had to be heading for the Faeja.

  Chapter 5

  In the Fairy City, Ariel floated in the center of an open room facing Randiriel. “You can’t keep doing this, Rand. You’re wearing yourself out.” She touched Randiriel’s forehead. “You’ve gone cold.”

  “I can’t let go. No one else is building now. I used to feel them, all around, two thousand souls dreaming, yearning, and building. And now—nothing. Have you seen them Ariel? The flowers in the walkways, the moving mazes in the sky, the towers that surrounded the city, the clockwork, diamond monsters that swam in the Faeja . . . they’re all gone.”

  “Yes, I’ve seen. But they can be built again. You don’t have the strength to hold these things alone.” Ariel gestured to the flowers and the sculptures in the room, fewer now than when Geuel had visited. Little piles of colored dust marked the places where those missing had finally faded.

  “What is the point of us if we end now, if nothing remains?” Randiriel asked. “A thousand years we’ve lived in this city. Will one day end it all? We’ve wasted so much time, built so little. Something needs to last.”

  Ariel lifted a crystal flower. In her hand it was the size of a walking stick. It blossomed and glowed as she clutched it, its clear petals flushing with color. “We will last, Rand. And we will build again. But you can’t keep this up. You’ll die.”

  Randiriel stared at the flower in Ariel’s hand. She reached out and grasped it. “Just this one,” she whispered. As she lifted it, the other flowers and sculptures in the room disintegrated, showering the floor in new piles of dust.

  Ariel smiled. “Focus on that one, Rand. And try to rest. Your light is dim.”

  Randiriel sank slowly to the floor and settled onto one of the tiles, letting the flower down beside her. She curled into a ball and stared at the flower’s ruby petals, inhaling the scent of fire and rose. Her voice fell to a murmur as her body resigned itself to exhaustion. “What will happen, Ariel? If he finds the tear?”

  Ariel landed beside her and laid her hand upon Randiriel’s shoulder. “Our sisters and brothers will be reunited,” she said. “There will be great joy and building. The memories of yesterday will fade beneath brighter emotions.”

  “And me?” Randiriel asked. “What will happen to me?”

  “I—do not know,” Ariel said. “You are different from the others. They will forget beneath each other’s emotions.”

  “I don’t want to forget,” Randiriel said softly. “For one day I fought beside the council. I don’t want to forget that.” Randiriel’s eyes flickered sleepily, and her voice droned.

  “I don’t believe you will,” Ariel replied, a slight catch in her voice.

  “Are you weeping, Ariel?”

  “Yes, Sister,” Ariel replied.

  “I want to weep someday. I wept before, you know, when I was a girl. I had forgotten, but I remember so much now.”

  “Perhaps you will again.”

  “I remember my mother, her face.”

  Ariel stroked her head. “You can not, Rand. You were too young.”

  Randiriel shook her head. “No, I see her now. She was beautiful. I was so very sad when she died. I guess I forgot. Maybe that’s why I was able to become a fairy, because I forgot.”

  “Perhaps.”

  Randiriel’s eyes closed. “I don’t want to forget anymore,” she whispered as the last of her consciousness faded.

  Ariel patted her sleeping form. “You will not have to. Only fairies forget.” She stood and fluttered through the door. Her flight dragged, and her arms hung listlessly at her sides. Her eyes pooled with dry sorrow. If fairies could weep.

  * * *

  That evening, Veil sat in the keep. Behind her, several fairies fluttered about, braiding her hair. They giggled as they worked, glimmering brightly. “And then in the Year of Pilgrimage, we all gather in groups,” said one.

  “Nine groups,” interrupted another.

  “One for each of the Council,” the first finished.

  “And we leave on the stroke of midnight on the first day of the harvest.”

  “And fly over all of Rehavan.”

  “Well, not all.”

  “Most, definitely. And we see all the races and people.”

  “We get to sleep in the forests, curled in leaves or hidden in the notches of the diamond trees.”

  “That’s my favorite part, to sleep in the diamond trees. They sing when the wind blows through. Their clear wood fills with light like crystal in the morning, and we wake up inside of rainbows.”

  “I like to see the ocean.”

  “Sometimes we build ships of light and set them sailing for the horizon.”

  Veil laughed. “So, you all love to travel?”

  As she spoke, others of the fairies came and gathered around her, drifting from the alcoves and hidden recesses of the great hall, from their hideaways in the ceiling and their miniature houses in the chandeliers. One of the fairies on the steps spoke up. “Travel is our favorite time.”

  “Not mine,” said another.

  The rest grew silent, as if unsure how to handle dissent.

  “Have you ever seen the dwarves?” Veil asked. “Father says that they’ve hidden away since the Iris was sewn.”

  “Oh, yes,” I’ve seen the dwarves, man
y times, said one of the fairies. “They live in the Khaien mountains. We visit their city of Unkai.”

  “What are they like?” Veil asked.

  “Ugly,” said a younger fairy.

  The others laughed. “They’re slow,” said one, “and proud. And they have big beards.”

  “Ugly,” repeated the younger fairy, delighted with the success of its joke.

  Tressa stood in the archway with Ariel floating beside her. “She has a healing heart,” Tressa said. “Even on the farm she’s always caring for the sickly animals.”

  Ariel smiled. “It’s good to see them laughing. Veil is the best thing they could have right now. A true child to remind them what they are.”

  Randiriel flitted up beside Ariel from a nearby ledge. “Do you know what they are though?”

  Ariel nodded. “My children,” she said, “my innocent children.”

  * * *

  Night fell as Geuel reached the river. It lay, calm and wide in the glow of the waxing moon. He walked his horse south along the bank for a few miles, occasionally spotting footprints in the mud. He found a knot of discarded makeshift bandages, stained deep red despite their rinsing. Reheuel couldn’t have made it far.

  An hour later, he saw a prone form in the grass near the river bank, barely noticeable in the half-light. He leapt from his horse. “Father?” he asked. He approached and placed his fingers on Reheuel’s neck. A faint pulse trickled beneath his fingertips. “What have you done to yourself?” he asked, peeling back his father’s shirt to see the wound. “Brash old man.”

  He dug his hands down under Reheuel’s shoulders and knees. “Sorry,” he said and lifted.

  Reheuel groaned in his sleep and muttered. Geuel lay his body across the front of his saddle and tied his arms and legs into place with bowstrings.

  He then climbed up behind and spurred his horse. “Gently, Iridius,” he whispered.

  The trees flashed by in the night. Rocks occasionally clacked beneath the horse’s hooves in the fields, and logs thudded on its calves in the forests. Every minute, Geuel waited for Iridius to lurch and whinny, to collapse with a broken leg from some root or tree trunk. But still he nudged him faster.