by Kel Kade
Myropa tensed under Arayallen’s powerful gaze. She felt like a mouse caught in a cage, and she began to shake from the intensity of the goddess’s power. Just when it became unbearable, it relented. Arayallen said, “I don’t particularly like you. I don’t dislike you, either, although I think you have poor judgment.” She paused and waited. Finally, she said, “Have you nothing to say?”
Taking a deep breath that she didn’t actually need, Myropa said, “You’ve never spoken to me before. I don’t know what you want to hear.”
Arayallen hummed under her breath. “I see what Trostili was talking about. You’re a timid little mouse, aren’t you?”
Myropa once again wondered if the gods could hear her thoughts. She thought if they could, they surely would have destroyed her already. “I, um—”
“Never mind that. The only reason I’m speaking with you is because you are assigned to Trostili.”
“He has a task for me?” said Myropa, relieved to finally have direction.
“No, I do.”
“But I am not assigned to you.”
“I realize that, but I think you’d prefer to do my bidding. You care about your little world, don’t you?”
“My world?”
Arayallen sighed and spoke as if to an ignorant child. “Aldrea. You were once a part of it. I realize you left of your own accord, but surely there is something there that calls to you?”
Myropa shifted her feet. “I suppose—”
“Good. Then you will want to help me. I want you to report everything to me. Anything you tell Trostili or Axus—anything you don’t—I want to know it.”
“But I thought you didn’t care—”
“Of course I care,” the goddess snapped. “Axus wants to claim all the life I created. It’s an affront to nature and a direct attack on me.”
Myropa said hesitantly, “I don’t think he sees it that way—”
“Whether he does or not is of no consequence. Those are my beautiful creations, not his. If he wants them, he should wait for them to die by the Fates’ design. You serve the Fates. You are from Aldrea. That is why you are ideally suited for this task. It doesn’t hurt that you’re also deeply entrenched within the enemy’s ranks.”
“Enemy?”
Arayallen shrugged. “It is what it is.”
“But Trostili—”
“Shouldn’t know,” said Arayallen with a burst of power that socked Myropa in the gut. “This doesn’t affect him. He gets his war either way. I intend for the outcome to be in my favor.”
“But the prophecy—”
“Yes, yes, the prophecy. They can be so troublesome. You don’t still have the Lightbane’s soul, by any chance?”
“Lightbane?”
Arayallen huffed as if becoming frustrated with having to explain everything. “That is what you called him—what the followers of Axus call the chosen one.”
“No,” said Myropa. “I already delivered it to the Sea.”
Arayallen sighed. “Very well. I’ll have to figure a way around that. Arohnu will feel my wrath if this isn’t resolved. I cannot imagine how Axus convinced him to design a prophecy so terribly one-sided. I’ve always appreciated the prophecies in the past. I thought it intriguing and challenging that once emplaced, they must come to fruition. Our existence is long, and Arohnu makes things interesting, but this one is ridiculous.” She paused and frowned at Myropa. “Well, what is it?”
Myropa abruptly stopped fussing with her skirt. She had too many questions and probably would only get the chance to ask one. Unfortunately, her mind had gone blank under the goddess’s arresting gaze. “Um, why this room?” Myropa chided herself as soon as the words left her mouth. It was a stupid question, and there were so many others more pressing.
Arayallen glanced around the chamber that might as well have been a mausoleum. She frowned at Myropa and said, “I like this room.” Myropa blinked at her, waiting for more. Arayallen rolled her eyes and said, “No other god has stepped foot in here—ever. Do you know how rare it is to find a space like this?” She spread her arms wide. “Everywhere else is saturated with the power of others. I know you’ve felt it. It seeps into you, contaminates you. This is mine alone. This is where I create, free from the influence of anyone else.”
Myropa was shocked. She spun slowly, gazing at every marble block in awe. When she turned back to Arayallen, she said, “This is where all life was created?”
Arayallen pursed her lips. “Not created in that sense. I suppose designed is more accurate. I don’t make life.”
“Still, this is the greatest honor—”
“Enough of that,” said the goddess, waving Myropa away. “Go back to your duties. Don’t tell anyone about this.”
“Of course,” said Myropa as she slipped through the doorway that had opened behind her. As she whispered to the Fates and inhaled, she was suddenly very glad she had asked the stupid question.
* * *
“Yes, I closed it,” said Peck. It was the third time the old man had asked him to close the window, but Peck tried not to get frustrated. Over the past several days, he and Mory had barely left the guild house. During that time, it had become obvious the forgetfulness was genuine. Peck didn’t think the keeper addled. Galobar was sharp as a needle. No, the old man seemed preoccupied to the point that he might forget his own name. Peck watched as Galobar sat on a stool by the open back door churning butter. He could tell that the keeper’s thoughts were far away, though, because his motions would gradually slow until they stopped altogether. After a moment, Galobar would catch himself and go back to churning.
“Would you like me to do that?” said Peck. He hoped Galobar said no. He really didn’t want to churn butter, but he felt bad for watching the old man do it.
Galobar blinked up at him. “What?”
Peck pointed to the butter churn. “Shall I?”
“Oh. No, the work’s easy enough. I’m afraid I’m a bit lost in my thoughts today.”
Taking that as an invitation, Peck decided to further the investigation. He pulled up a chair and straddled it as he rested his arm across the back. “What’s bothering you?”
“Bothering me? No, I suppose you could say I’m nostalgic. I used to sit here with Maralee on evenings like this. I’d be churning butter or sharpening the cooking knives, and she’d sit there reading to me or knitting as she sang. She had a lovely voice—at least while she was younger. It became weaker with age, and she stopped singing. To hear her songs again…”
The old man’s gaze was full of mourning when he looked over at Peck. “I can no longer remember them. It’s like they’re there—just beyond my grasp. Almost … almost, but no.”
Peck didn’t know what to say. He had never been close enough to anyone to feel the pain of their loss. He knew he would be devastated if something happened to Mory, but he refused to think about that. He said, “Do you think about her a lot?”
Galobar smiled fondly. “All the time. I’ve missed her every moment since she passed, but now it’s different.”
“How so?”
The old man began churning the butter again. After a moment, he said, “Maralee and I were content. We had our share of squabbles, as married folk do, but I never had a want to stray and neither did she. You know what kept us going? It was the mission. We had a shared purpose, one that we believed in more than anything else. We were to serve the foresters in their need. Maralee never got to meet a forester. After she passed, I began to wonder if I would share her fate. Well, now I have met one. He came here, and I served him as best I could, and then he left. You see? Two lifetimes of preparation between Maralee and me, all to serve a forester for two days. And now? I don’t believe I’ll be seeing one again.”
“You don’t think Aaslo’s coming back?” said Peck, trying to hide the panic that heated his blood.
“Why would he?” said Galobar. “He’s gone east to see the magi. After that, I figure he’ll return to the forest.”
&nbs
p; “But he could come on the return trip.”
Galobar shook his head. “There’s more direct routes, and he didn’t seem too fond of the city. Although, I suppose he may desire to visit the queen again.”
Peck tipped his chair toward the old man. “Did you say the queen?”
Galobar grinned, then waggled his brow. “According to the rumors, she favored him one night.”
“Aaslo and the queen? I don’t believe it. You’re trying to pull one over on me, aren’t you?”
With a shrug, the keeper said, “That’s the rumor. Take it as you want, but a marquess shows up at my door one day and the royal guard the next. I’d not dismiss the possibility so quickly.”
A sudden crash upstairs was followed by a wail from Mory. The boy stumbled into view at the top of the stairs and then fell backward, tumbling end over end. When he reached the bottom, Peck heard a metallic clatter before Mory began moaning and crying hysterically. Peck rushed to Mory’s side and found that the boy was not only injured from the fall, but bleeding profusely from his right shoulder. Peck pressed his palms to the wound to stop the bleeding and called to Galobar for help. His gaze caught on the shiny edge of a knife that had landed not far from Mory. The blade was coated in blood.
The whole building suddenly shook with a massive blast from one of the upper stories. The forester’s gong began to toll of its own accord, never fading. A man dressed in a servant’s smock came running down the stairs. Before he could reach them, though, large splinters of wood shot from the wall, impaling him in multiple places. He slid the rest of the way on his back, his sightless gaze fixed on the ceiling.
“The enchantments!” said Galobar. “We are under attack. Quickly, now! We must evacuate.”
Peck tried to help Mory stand, but the boy screamed out when he put pressure on his left leg. “No, Peck! I think it’s broken.”
Peck turned at a shout from behind him. Another man, dressed like the first, rushed through the open doorway from the dark yard. Galobar stepped in front of the man, holding his arm up. “Please, sir. I am only an old man.”
The attacker grinned with a feverish glint in his eyes. He raised his arm, prepared to strike Galobar down with a wicked serrated knife. Peck shouted, but he was too late. Galobar stepped forward and shoved a kitchen knife into the man’s chest. He pulled the knife out with a gurgling pop, then paused. More footsteps could be heard stomping around the upper levels and pounding down the stairs.
Galobar said, “You take the boy. I’ll hold them off. The enchantments will help keep them busy.”
Peck threw Mory’s arm over his shoulders and took the majority of his weight as he practically dragged the boy from the Forester’s Haven into the night. Galobar suddenly shoved them both to the ground, and it was only after Peck rolled over and gave his eyes a second to adjust to the dark that he saw the attacker. In that terrifying instant, Galobar was struck down with a sword through his chest.
Running on instinct, Peck scrambled to untangle himself from Mory. He collected the knife from where Galobar had dropped it on the lawn and lunged at the intruder. The knife slipped into the man’s back, but not with sickening ease as he had imagined. The sensation was rough as it collided with bone that crunched under the pressure. Peck stumbled back, startled by the blood that coated his hands. He had experienced violence—he had seen death and witnessed the taking of lives—but he had never committed it himself. It was terrifying—liberating. Although his heart pounded with the danger of the attack and the threat of more, he felt relief that in that moment he was free, safe.
“Peck!”
Peck rushed to Mory’s side. He removed his jacket and shirt and twirled the lighter linen between his outstretched hands until it resembled a bandage. As he wrapped it around Mory’s shoulder, hoping to stanch the bleeding, a rumble began within the house. He could hear the shouts of men and women in pain and terror. The windows began to flicker with golden light that grew brighter, then darkened with smoke. Glass panes shattered, and smoke and flame billowed from the structure, consuming the most majestic-looking tree Peck had ever seen—even if it hadn’t been real.
Peck laid Mory back on the ground and then hurried to check on Galobar. The keeper’s eyes stared toward the stars, which were quickly becoming obscured by the black haze of smoke. Peck jumped when the old man blinked. He turned Galobar’s face toward him.
“Galobar, just hold on. It’ll be okay. Maybe the sword didn’t hit anything important. Stay with me, Galobar. Please—”
Galobar reached up and gripped his hand. The man’s lips quivered as he spoke. “Find Aaslo.”
Peck nodded vigorously and wiped the moisture dripping from his face, not realizing until that moment that he was crying. “You can come with us. We’ll get you patched up, and you’ll be good as new.”
Galobar’s gaze became distant. He whispered, “I remember now. I hear her song. She’s beautiful, my Maralee.” The old man’s grip loosened as the light left his eyes, and Peck realized that something else was in his hand. It was a Galobar’s purse. Although it wasn’t large, it was more than Peck could have hoped for and more than he thought he deserved.
The Forester’s Haven began to groan as the wood broke and shattered. Dust and debris exploded through the doorway when one of the upper levels collapsed, and Peck knew it wouldn’t be long before the rest of the building tumbled to the ground. He peered into the dark, unable to make anything out clearly due to the spots of light in his eyes. A few people had emerged from adjacent buildings and were shouting for buckets and assistance, but Peck couldn’t tell if any were enemies. He grabbed his jacket and threw it over Mory as the boy shivered. He then gathered the boy, who was nearly unconscious and delirious with pain, and dragged him the rest of the way down the path and across the square. Everyone was too preoccupied with the fire to pay them any attention.
Peck could only think of one person he might ask for assistance, and he was loath to involve her in his mess. He knew it was his mess. If he hadn’t clipped a sack from a traveler’s belt, none of this would have happened, and Mory would be safe and well—at least until Jago got ahold of them. Jago was another problem. They had to get out of the city before Jago found out about their misfortune. As Peck stumbled with Mory through the dark alleys, he suddenly heard a whisper in his ear.
“Follow the pretty lady,” said Mory.
Peck paused and surveyed the passage in both directions. “There’s no one here,” he said.
Mory pointed down a pathway to their right. “Follow her, Peck. She knows where we’re going.”
Peck peered down the alley and saw no one, not even a rat.
“Please, Peck. I’m tired.”
Peck took a deep breath, then dragged Mory in the direction of his imaginary woman, figuring at that point one direction was just as good as another. They needed to find a place to hide, somewhere where he might tend to Mory’s wounds. He had never seen anything so bad as what Mory was suffering, though.
“We need to find a healer,” he muttered between heaving breaths. Mory said nothing, so Peck continued. “You’re hurt bad, Mory, but we’ll get you better. Maybe it’s not as bad as it looks. You’re young and strong. You’ll pull through.” As he struggled down the alley, Peck was tiring. Mory seemed heavier than in the beginning, heavier than he had ever been. Mory didn’t talk, and Peck was fine to let him rest. Peck stumbled as his fatigued legs gave out beneath him. He struggled to stand again, but Mory hung limp. Finally, Peck said, “Okay, Mory. Let’s rest.”
* * *
Myropa sat in the dark on a crate beside the young men. The tether was strong. It bound her to the boy, but she didn’t want to heed its call. She had already claimed the kind old keeper of the Forester’s Haven. She didn’t want to take Mory, too. She waited, hoping the tether would fizzle. It happened occasionally, usually due to the ministrations of a healer or apothecary. Peck had neither of them. If what Mage Soter had said was true, there might not be any healers left in Tyellí
—or anywhere outside the Citadel of Magi.
For the rest of the night, Myropa sat beside the young men, refusing to claim the soul that called to her. Mory didn’t see her at first as he sat on another crate across the alley staring at Peck holding his body in his arms. He seemed unwilling to look away from his companion’s pain, as many were when their time came. Myropa didn’t push him, but eventually, he turned his tearful gaze on her.
“Who are you?” he said.
“My name is not important,” she said. “I am a reaper. I am here to take your soul to the Sea of Transcendence.”
“I don’t want to go,” he said.
She nodded. “That’s common.” She followed his gaze to Peck, then said, “I’d rather not take you if I don’t have to.”
He looked back at her. “You mean I’m not dead?”
With a shake of her head, she said, “Not yet.”
“Then, I could get better? I could go back to him? He needs me. If I die, who will take care of him?”
“I understand,” she said. “Shall we wait awhile?”
He nodded solemnly. “Yes, as long as you can.”
They sat for hours in silence, both of them visitors in the other’s realm, neither fully intact. In this place between realms, all was not dark as it was in the living realm. Wisps of light danced in the air, people and animals shimmered with the power of their souls, and the stars shone like beacons, guiding lost travelers and lending them the comfort of knowing they were not alone.
The sleeping world came alive with the orange and pink glow of dawn. Myropa and Mory watched a woman shuffle down the alley to stop beside Peck, who had succumbed to sleep. She bent and brushed a hand across Mory’s face, then shook Peck.
Peck startled and blinked but seemed lost in his fatigue.
“It looks like your friend needs help,” said the woman. “Bring him inside. He has little time, if any at all.”
