by Bruce Blake
At first, she wasn’t sure if she’d woken. The fire had burned down, leaving the room dark. Iana slept, nipple half in her mouth, a line of milk dribbling down her cheek. Emeline pulled her frock over her breast and looked around the room.
The air held a different quality; not just cooler because the fire had burned down, but it felt heavier, pulsed with energy.
She hugged the baby close, rose from the chair and poked the fire, coaxing it back to life before she threw on another log. With the blaze in the hearth casting warmth and light again, she turned back to the room.
The woman sitting on the edge of the bed wore her long, red hair loose down her back and her full lips were set in a smile. Emeline gasped and nearly dropped the baby as she stepped away and felt the fire’s heat on the back of her legs.
“Don’t be afraid,” the woman said.
“Wh--who are you?” Emeline asked side-stepping away from the hearth. “What do you want?”
The woman stood and moved toward her, her long dress hanging past her feet, giving the illusion she floated above the floor rather than walked upon it. Emeline shuffled away until the rocking chair stood between her and the woman.
“Don’t come any closer.”
Emeline looked toward the door, wondering if she could get to it. Even if she could, her parents’ house was a ten minute walk. With Iana in her arms, she’d never stay ahead of the woman.
“I won’t hurt you.” The woman stopped in the middle of the room, keeping her distance. “I’m here to ask for your help.”
“But who are you?” Emeline squinted. The woman’s pale skin and white dress reflected the firelight, making it seem like she glowed dimly.
“My name is Elyea. I’m a friend of Khirro’s.”
“You’ve come to the wrong place. Khirro doesn’t live here.” Iana shifted in her arms and she bounced the baby unconsciously. “He joined the king’s army a year ago.”
“No, he didn’t go, he was taken. You and your parents and his sent him away.”
Emeline stared at the woman, mouth open, and for a moment she thought she glimpsed the bed behind, as though she could see through her. She blinked and the illusion disappeared.
“That’s not true.”
The woman smiled sweetly and shook her head.
“You can’t lie to me, I know all the truths. I told you I’m a friend of Khirro’s. He told me everything.”
“What do you want?” Emeline snapped making Iana mewl. “How do you know Khirro?”
“I died so he might live.”
“Died?” She stepped back two steps until her back touched the log wall. “What do you mean?”
“Exactly what I say.”
The glow around the woman brightened as her form faded, leaving Emeline no doubt that she could see the bed behind her, through her.
“No.” Emeline looked around frantically for a weapon with which to ward off the spirit. She grabbed the stick she’d used to tend the fire and brandished it at the apparition. “Get back. Leave us alone.”
The woman smiled again, though not so broadly.
“I won’t harm you or the child. Please, sit down.” She gestured toward the rocking chair. When Emeline made no move toward it, the spirit kneeled in the middle of the floor, the wide skirt of her dress pooling beneath her. “I’m here to ask for your help.”
“Help with what?”
“Khirro.”
Emeline looked at her, head tilted, and eased away from the wall, bouncing Iana all the while.
“Khirro? Is he all right?”
“Sit.”
Feeling like she had no other choice, Emeline crept around the rocking chair, careful to keep the maximum distance between herself and the ghostly figure. She sat and began rocking to keep the baby calm.
“Your child is beautiful.”
She nodded and hugged Iana closer. “What about Khirro?”
“Khirro’s no longer the man you used to know.”
Emeline’s eyebrows drew together. “What did you do to him?”
“I’ve done nothing. Circumstances have made him evolve and grow. But for him to become the man he must, he needs to know peace, and that means hearing truth from your lips.”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“Yes, you do.” The woman nodded toward the baby.
“He forced me.” Emeline’s gaze flickered around the room, looking for anything to alight on instead of the woman’s green eyes. Her lip twitched. “We drank too much and he took me against my will.”
“There’s no one else here to learn your secret, Emeline. We both know that’s not the truth.”
“But it is. It’s why they sent him to the king’s army.”
“Enough, Emeline.” The woman’s firm tone made Emeline flinch. “Khirro is no longer at the Isthmus Fortress. He’s no longer fighting with the king’s army.”
“What? Where is he?”
The ghost paused as though trying to recall, or reflecting. The flicker of light in her gaze dimmed and a look of sadness touched her eyes.
“The last time I saw him, he was in Poltghasa. He’s probably reached Kanos by now.”
“Poltghasa? Kanos? Why would he be there?” She looked down at Iana, head shaking. A thought occurred to her. “Is he a deserter?”
“No. He’s the savior of the kingdom.”
The words floated between them on the warm air wafting from the hearth, waiting for Emeline to accept them. The woman waited, too.
“What are you talking about?” Emeline sneered. “Savior? Khirro barely knew how to take care of himself. How could he ever have taken care of me, or Iana?”
“The Khirro you knew, perhaps, but much has changed.”
The woman stood and Emeline cowered against the back of the rocking chair, but she made no move toward her. Instead, she grasped the sides of her white dress and lifted them out to the side. Emeline looked at the half-circle it formed hanging from her waist to the floor.
Figures moved across the white surface. She saw Khirro, leather armor on his chest and a sword in his hand, and another man beside him. She’d seen King Braymon but once when she was a child, yet she recognized him.
“I heard whispers of Braymon’s death.”
“The king is dead.”
The scene changed. King Braymon lay on a stone floor, face blood-covered, eyes staring blankly. Emeline covered her mouth. Khirro stood behind the king while a figure dressed in black cloak and cowl leaned over him, a vial of blood in his hand. The hooded man gave the vial to Khirro and the vision faded.
“What does this mean?” Iana began to fuss, so Emeline pulled the front of her dress down and put her nipple in the baby’s mouth.
The ghostly woman didn’t reply, only continued to hold her dress spread before her. After a few seconds, more figures came into view. Emeline recognized Khirro, though uncharacteristic stubble covered his cheeks, and she saw the woman, Elyea, seated with her back against a wall and blood on her hands. She didn’t know the other three men in the chamber. One of them—an old man with a long beard—gestured and chanted as Khirro stood with the vial of blood in one hand extended before him. One of the other men held a bow, an arrow nocked. He released the arrow and it skewered Khirro’s hand.
“No,” Emeline cried and turned her head away.
“Look.”
The ghost’s voice boomed through the small room, raising goose flesh on the back of Emeline’s arms. Want to or not, she looked again at the scene on the woman’s skirt. She saw a second arrow penetrate the old man’s throat, halting his chant. The old man vanished and a curious cloud of red mist filled the scene, swirling around Khirro, engulfing him. The mist pulled away from him, twisting and writhing until it formed the shape of an animal: a huge cat. The mist-beast gathered itself and sprang for Khirro. Emeline sucked breath through her teeth but the thing didn’t drive him to the ground or tear him to pieces, it entered him, diffusing into his flesh until it disappeared. The vision faded and th
e woman dropped the hem of her skirt.
“D--Did this happen?”
The woman nodded.
“What was that?”
“The spirit of the king entered Khirro. He carries Braymon with him.”
Emeline’s eyes widened. “And this makes him the kingdom’s savior?”
“Yes.”
“But what has this to do with me?”
The woman moved toward her and Emeline shrank away, the rocking chair’s joints creaking as she did. A few feet short of the chair, the ghostly visitor stopped and crouched, green eyes intent on Emeline.
“The safety of you and your child, the entire kingdom, rests with Khirro, but some of the old, doubtful Khirro yet remains, fighting his responsibility. If the kingdom is to survive, then he must find peace.”
Emeline shrugged and the woman’s eyes darted from hers to the baby.
“I know what happened. Khirro suspects the truth, but won’t admit it to himself. He prefers to accept blame.”
“We drank too much. He--”
“No he didn’t,” the ghost snapped, eyes suddenly blazing. Emeline flinched. “It’s time for the truth.”
Emeline’s top lip quivered. She readjusted the baby on her lap, shifting Iana from one breast to the other. The fire snapped and popped in the hearth sending flickering sparks swirling up the chimney as it threw heat out into the cabin. She shivered in spite of the fire and the warm bundle pressed to her chest.
“If you tell me now, it will be easier for you to tell Khirro when the time comes.”
She released her breath in a long sigh. “He didn’t do anything to me.”
“I know. Tell me what happened.”
Another pause.
“Khirro’s brother, Lehgan. Iana is his.”
A gust of wind rattled the shutters and pushed smoke back down the chimney but the women didn’t release their gazes from one another.
“Yes?” Elyea prompted.
“My blood didn’t come with the changing of the moon, so we thought I might be with child. We knew what would happen if our parents found out.”
She wanted desperately to drop her eyes from the ghost’s, to look upon her beautiful little girl instead of staring into the accusing green eyes. She couldn’t.
“So you blamed Khirro.”
Emeline’s head bobbed minutely.
“I made him drink until he passed out so he wouldn’t remember. When it became obvious I was with child, I said he raped me.” She paused and the woman continued staring, reading the story behind the words. “What else was I to do? If I told the truth, they’d have sent Lehgan away and Iana wouldn’t have her father. I love him.”
The woman’s gaze held. “As Khirro loved you.”
The room blurred before Emeline and she felt panic before realizing her eyes had filled with tears. She blinked and warm droplets rolled down her cheeks. The ghostly woman finally allowed her to look away and she hung her head, staring past the baby at the thresh covering the floor at her feet.
“I’m sorry,” Emeline said, breathy words carried on a sorrowful sigh.
“It’s not me to whom you need apologize.” The woman placed a surprisingly solid-feeling finger under Emeline’s chin and lifted her head. “It’s Khirro who needs to hear your words.”
Emeline sniffled and blinked to clear tears from her eyes.
“But how can I tell him?”
“Go to the Isthmus Fortress.”
“You said he’s not at the fortress.”
“He will be.”
Iana snored lightly against her mother’s chest, so Emeline removed her still suckling mouth from her nipple and pulled her dress back into place.
“But how do I know this is true? How do I--“
“What does your heart tell you?”
She stared into the fire, eyes stinging with drying tears. “I shouldn’t have done what I did.”
“It doesn’t matter. It’s done.”
“But I feel so bad. I--”
“Emeline.” Elyea’s hand brushed her knee and pulled her attention from the dancing flames. “What has happened has happened. It’s hard to understand, but it needed to be. Will you let it be for naught, or will you help Khirro fulfill his destiny?”
“I’ll go to him,”‘ she said. “I should bring Lehgan.”
“Of course. He’s Khirro’s brother—he has a part to play, too.”
The ghostly woman stood and looked down at Emeline and her baby. The air in the room grew lighter, easier to bear.
“We’ll go.”
The door opened, spilling dim twilight into the room, and the woman disappeared leaving behind a swirl of dust eddying in her place. Emeline looked toward the door, squinting at the silhouette outlined in the fading light. A sense of peace overtook her and she hugged Iana tight against her chest.
“Emeline?” Lehgan said stepping over the threshold and pushing the door closed. “Is everything all right?”
“Yes, my love.” She stroked Iana’s head as she spoke, smoothing the baby's ruffled, silky hair. “Sit down. I’ve something to tell you.”
Urban Fantasy Also Available from Bruce Blake: On Unfaithful Wings (An Icarus Fell Novel #1)
The Kindle Book Review 2012 Indie Book of the Year Semi-Finalist
Chapter One
I stood with my back to the church, much the way I’d lived my life.
Rain poured down the eaves, splashing my shoes. Each drop pattering against the leather felt as though it landed directly on my mood. I tugged my suit jacket tighter and glanced at my watch--almost eleven p.m. If the rain didn’t let up soon, Trevor would be in bed, his belated birthday present another day late. After letting him down again, Rae probably wouldn’t let me give him the gift, anyway. A heavy sigh drew the taste of rain on dry soil into my lungs as I suppressed the desire to call her names in my head, to blame her for everything. It wasn’t her fault.
There I stood, spirit as dampened by the April shower as my clothing, thinking I waited for the rain to stop, not knowing it was something else I waited for, something entirely different.
My death.
I shifted again and the plastic Best Buy bag hidden under my jacket to keep it dry slipped out and hit the stairs with a splash.
“Damn it.”
I stooped to retrieve the bag, feeling unremorseful for swearing outside a house of worship. There was no God to hear anyway and--with the Pope dry in the Vatican--who’d be offended? A plump drop of rain punished my Godly disdain with a direct hit to my left eye as I fetched my son’s gift from the top step.
I suspected the rain might not let up any time soon.
It probably couldn’t have happened any differently. Do we have any choice in what we do, or is it all pre-planned? I used to believe we did, but my beliefs--or lack of them--were about to be thrown into question, along with my opinion of what happens after we die.
I stepped back and shook moisture from the bag impatiently. It had been half an hour since the unexpected downpour began, its torrent catching me unprepared and forcing me from my planned path--to sneak Trevor his birthday present without Rae noticing me--to my current hiding spot at the church. This church of all churches.
See what I mean about choice?
If the rain wasn’t going to let up, I’d just have to get wet. I stepped from under the pathetic cover of the church’s eaves and my foot splashed in an unseen puddle, cold water soaking the Wal-Mart loafer on my left foot. Raindrops pelted my cheek and I bit back another curse as I jammed the Xbox game purchased for Trevor’s birthday into the pocket of my suit jacket and pulled the coat over my head. I felt like an idiot as my saturated footwear slurped with each step down the concrete path.
Halfway across the churchyard, I noticed two men blocking the path ahead. They wore jackets with hoods pulled up to hide their faces, keep the rain from their heads. At first glimpse, the sheets of rain gave them a ghostly quality, a glow, and made me doubt my eyes. My gaze flickered sideways to the graveya
rd beside the church, with its broken, moss-covered headstones canted at odd angles, but I quickly dismissed the thought. A trick of rain and poor light.
There’s no such thing as ghosts.
I slowed, wondering if the men could be avoided. Probably not. Living in the city my entire life taught me to be wary of men hanging out on the streets at night with their faces hidden. But this wasn’t the streets, it was a churchyard, and rain this heavy gave good reason to use a hood. Maybe they’d come for a little midnight prayer, eager for the best pew in the house.
Right.
“Good evening, gentlemen,” I ventured drawing closer to them. “Beautiful night, isn’t it?”
Apparently they didn’t think so. The man nearest me pulled a knife from under his forest-green rain slicker and jabbed it toward me, stabbing the rain between us. Hell of a reaction.
He could’ve just said ‘no’.
“Give me your money,” he growled.
I know you’re supposed to do what a mugger says: it’s your best shot at survival, but I didn’t. Maybe the rain made me hesitate, or the wetness in my shoes, or knowing the boy would be disappointed again; whichever, my brain wouldn’t let my body do what it knew it should. I stood taller than either of them, but they had the knife. All I had on them was fifteen years of poor eating and neglect.
“C’mon guys. It’s a crummy night and I’m two weeks late for my boy’s birthday. Let a guy be, will you? There must be some little old ladies running around practically begging to have their social security cheques stolen.”
“Shut up and give us your money, asshole.”
The man holding the knife remained in front of me as the other circled to my right, presumably to hinder any escape. I watched him out of the corner of my eye, saw rain bouncing off his gray raincoat, noticed that his runners didn’t match, but he quickly passed from view, blocked by the jacket held foolishly over my head, keeping my hair dry in case they killed me. Cool rain peppered my face as I dropped the coat back onto my shoulders and reached to pull my wallet from the inner pocket. The man with the knife lunged forward, brandishing the blade at my nose. My stomach jumped into my chest and I threw both hands up in the air like a good mugging victim.
