by Colt, K. J.
Eraekryst dismissed her question with a fleeting smile. “I am an immortal.” Then, without humor, he said, “They are unnatural, sustained by a life that is not their own. I am unafraid, but I do not trust them.”
“Can I…can I ask you a question?” Miria took another step toward him. “What will you do—if he dies?”
“What can I do?” he countered.
“I mean, will you… He is your friend, isn’t he? You’ve come this far to—”
“My intentions are to return to my people once I am liberated,” Eraekryst said, impassive. “I was never welcomed company, as he often demonstrated.”
Miria nodded and walked back to the temple.
Eraekryst watched her go, his expression softening only after she had disappeared inside. “As it is, Lady Miria, my opinion makes little difference.”
What is this place? The Demon’s mind eddied with the images that bombarded him at every turn, and the only thing worse than not knowing where he was was not remembering how he got there. The marble interior of this building was a veritable labyrinth of fluted columns and velvet curtains. There were tables, pedestals, and cases, all containing objects that nearly vibrated with their magical potency. He stumbled through one small room after another, finding anything from jewelry to weapons, scrolls to astronomical charts, wands to brooms, and all manner of shells, rocks, masks, jars of powder, vials of liquid, and even mounted animals the likes of which he could not concoct in his most bizarre dreams. The only thing he could not find was the exit.
Stranger than the artifacts was the building itself. He could tell it was old—very old, by the smell of it. There were carvings in the column capitals, carvings in friezes, carvings in door and window frames, carvings in handles, and carvings in the vaulted ceiling. The carvings were a myriad of depictions: monsters with fins, monsters with wings, monsters breathing fire. They all had bulging eyes and sharp teeth, and nearly all of them were devouring people. Their empty eyes seemed to stare at him, and his fevered mind did not know better. Braziers of pale blue Wizard’s Fire cast strange shadows that did not seem to fit their origins. If this place was not a prison or a labyrinth, it had to be a product of his delusions, and all he had to do was awaken.
The Demon was certain, however, that he had already been roused. He had opened his eyes to find himself beneath a blanket, upon a velvet-cushioned bench in the middle of one of these cluttered rooms. There had been no one to question—not even a clue left behind as to who had brought him there and why.
Why can’t I remember? He paused to rest, sinking down at the foot of one of the columns. He wrapped his wings protectively around himself, like a child hiding beneath the covers of his bed. This place made him ill-at-ease—so much so that he could almost forget the driving hunger that ate away at his withered stomach. He could also almost ignore the trembling of his body, the quaking and twitching of his hands.
He rested his forehead on his knees. There has to be a way out. There must be. He would not panic. Not yet, anyway. There was time for that if he did not find himself under the open sky sometime soon.
The Demon lifted his head and found a face across from his own.
He gave a startled cry and slammed his head back into the column. The world spun, and spots of light flickered in front of his eyes. The face had become three, and it slowly blurred back into one.
It was a woman—an older woman of maybe forty years. The shadows fell into the lines and hollows around her eyes and cheeks, but her eyes…her eyes were flat, lifeless almost. And she smelled of time and decay, though she was clearly not dead. Her hands reached toward him; he was cornered. Her fingers gripped his shoulders, and something terrible happened. She smiled. He half expected moths to fly from the void of her mouth when she spoke.
“Easy, boy,” she murmured, and though her voice was smooth as marble, it was also just as hard and cold. “I am here to help you.”
I don’t believe you, the Demon thought, convinced more by what his instincts told him.
All the same, she steadied him and smoothed the damp hair from his forehead. “You are in no state to be wandering the Cantalereum.”
She straightened before him and offered her hand to help him rise. He did not accept, but somehow she found his hand and pulled him upright, betraying she was a few inches taller than him. It was not her height but her unnatural strength that further unnerved him.
“I have the pleasure of knowing you, though you were not coherent when we first met,” she said. “I am Neriene Larini.”
Impossibly, his eyes widened more.
“You are the White Demon, otherwise known as Hawkshadow. Welcome to the Cantalereum.” She gestured to the interior of the building, but her dead eyes never left him. “This is not the place to chat. Come. I will see that you are comfortable.”
How did I get here? Why am I here? How did you find me? He could not find his voice to utter a single word.
As if she could hear his thoughts, Neriene said, “I know you must be confused. I have the answers you seek.” She kept her grip on his arm and supported him as they traversed a succession of rooms. In a darkened hall, they came to a stairwell that descended into a spacious chamber lit by a central luminous pool with a tree growing from it. The room was as bright as daylight, and the Demon was able to better see his host.
Neriene Larini was not a comely woman, but nor was she ugly. Her auburn hair was bound in a lengthy braid that trailed to her waist. She was pale but not quite sickly. Her lack of color seemed attributed to something else, and her skin was as lusterless as her eyes. Her eyes… The Demon shuddered and turned his attention to the chamber instead.
Aside from the luminous pool and the tree, there were all the furnishings of a practical living space. There was a hearth with cooking tools and a cauldron, a dining table with cushioned chairs, and two pallets lined with blankets, furs, and pillows. She led him to a chair and seated him at the table. Only then did she release her hold.
The Demon followed Neriene’s focus to the wrappings on his arms. They were soiled and soaked, and because he had been distracted, he had not given a thought to the burns and blisters concealed beneath them. Now, however, they throbbed with renewed pain.
“Let me see,” Neriene said. She undid the wrappings and carefully peeled them away from the pink and pus-covered skin. “Ah. You must have had contact with your Ilangien friend.” She examined his quivering palms. “Old scars. Alethrium shackles. Barbaric but effective. I can clean and rewrap these, but little good will it do while the rest of you is filthy. A decent bath is the remedy, but our first matter is sustenance.”
She left him and headed for the hearth. From the cauldron she ladled a thin, blue liquid into a cup. When she saw his eyes upon her, she smiled. “This will renew your strength and soothe your wounds. While you make use of the bath, we will prepare a meal for you and your companions.”
We? Companions? He hesitated before accepting the cup. It smelled like mint, but he was fairly certain the scent was to make the mixture more agreeable. When he sipped it, he knew it was true. It burned in his mouth, though the liquid remained cool. He nearly gagged as it moved to the back of his throat, then finally slipped down into his stomach.
“Drink it all,” Neriene said. It was not a request.
The Demon did as told, assuring himself that he needed her help. He had to trust her—at least, right now he did. His shaky hand set the cup on the table, and he looked up to find her watching him. It was all he could do not to shrink away.
Neriene sat across from him. “You will relax. Maevia will see to it your friends will join us shortly.” She drew the black candle on the table toward her and tapped the wick with her finger. It lit with a red flame, and she placed it between them. “I have wanted to meet you for some time, Hawkshadow. Only recently did I discover that Hawkwing was your brother. That explains a great deal.” Her eyes fell to where his hands rested upon the table.
The Demon did not notice. Aside from the tingling he felt i
n his limbs, the witch had mentioned his brother. He struggled to find his voice. “Y’ knew ‘im?”
“By reputation. I had attempted correspondence through a letter. You see, I did very much want to meet the troublesome demon-mage of Norkindara. After all, Maevia and I had pulled a few strings to allow the council to look the other way when a notorious bandit enrolled in the school. I had thought, perhaps, that in addition to making your acquaintance, we might also be able to help him.” Neriene toyed with the flame, though it did not reflect in her eyes.
The Demon’s thoughts were reeling. His brother, the Larini… They would have helped him? Obviously the meeting never happened. He wondered why. He took a long breath and eased back in the chair, resting his head against the high back.
Neriene smiled. “Your brother declined our invitation, I’m afraid. How does he fare?”
The Demon turned away.
“Hawkshadow, I am so very sorry. If only we would have had the opportunity to help him.” She paused. “But there is yet hope for you. I am confident Maevia and I can remedy your illness.”
Despite his blistered skin, he gripped the arm rests of the chair tightly. “’Ow?” He forced himself to meet her gaze. “No one could ‘elp them. ‘Ow am I any diff’rent?”
“The Falquirians accepted their fate. It is, I believe, why your brother did not come to us. There is no shame in that, but…” Neriene held out her hands toward him. “You do not have to share his fate, Hawkshadow. You saw what it did to him. I suspect you have glimpsed what it will do to you. The Quake is a terrible plague, a slow and painful way to die.” She shook her head. “You are so young. Do you believe this is what your brother would want for you? Do you not think that if there was hope for a cure, he would want you to embrace it?”
It’s why I came, the Demon thought. He believed I had a future. He started me on the right path. He cleared his throat. “’E died before I…before this…” He set his trembling hands upon the table.
“He did not know. Of course.” Neriene reached over and took his hand.
Her skin was like ice. He wanted to pull away, but if he offended her, she might not help him.
“I can see you want things to be different. You would like to honor Hawkwing’s memory.” She patted his hand and stood. “Maevia and I have conferred upon your malady. The Quake thrives upon a rich source of magic; it is a parasite. Like you, it is a being of Shadow, and therein is the problem. Light repels Shadow. To treat the plague with magic of the Ilán would effectively kill the parasite and you.”
Neriene faced the fire, her back toward the Demon. Her voice softened. “There might be a way… As with any magical treatment, it would be a risk.” She glanced at him. “But you are a creature of risks, aren’t you? You would have nothing to lose.”
The Demon leaned forward, eager to hear what her solution would be. But Neriene’s attention was upon the stairwell and the procession filing into the chamber. He turned to see another witch, who bore an obvious resemblance to Neriene. She, too, was middle-aged, though her hair was black and cascaded over her shoulders in tendrils. She was significantly taller than the familiar council woman who came in behind her. The Ilangien stood above them all, pale and luminous as a ghost in their midst.
“Hawkshadow, this is my mother, Maevia,” Neriene announced.
The Demon blinked. Mother?
“I found our guest roaming the Cantalereum,” Neriene continued. “I thought I would bring him somewhere more comfortable.”
“Of course,” Maevia answered, her voice slightly deeper than her daughter’s. She approached with the others, and the Demon squirmed with his growing nausea. Maevia studied him. “Are you more comfortable?” she asked him.
The Demon’s regard shifted to Eraekryst. “I don’t know,” he said.
Eraekryst stared back.
Miria stirred uncomfortably. “Hawkshadow, you should know that Eraekryst did not betray you. I would like to help you, as would he—which is why you’re here.”
“Yes, we are all so very helpful,” Maevia said. “Now that we are all acquainted, Neriene and I will set to the meal. We have much to discuss concerning magical procedures. One will have his collar removed, the other—”
“I have not yet told him,” Neriene said.
“What is it that keeps you?” Maevia asked, impatient.
“Your interruption.”
The two witches communicated something in their silent stare, and when the contact was broken, Neriene smiled. “Forgive us. With just the two of us to manage this estate, we often quarrel for entertainment. I will take Hawkshadow to the bath. I encourage Medoriate Woolens and Eraekryst to relax in our absence.”
“I should like to accompany you,” Eraekryst said.
Neriene looked at him sharply. “Do you not think your friend would enjoy his privacy?”
“There is a misunderstanding between us that must be corrected,” Eraekryst insisted.
“Very well,” the witch said tightly.
“I suppose I’ll join you,” Miria said.
The Demon could see that she did not want to be left alone in Maevia’s company. He could not blame her. Still, he was undecided whether or not he appreciated their presence. In a room full of strangers, how was he to know who he should trust? Had he been himself, he would have asked for directions to the bath and gone alone. As it was, the mysterious blue drink had eased his tension and given him a boost in energy. His limbs were not quite as heavy and stubborn, and when he stood, he felt as though his feet were cushioned by clouds.
“Can you commence the meal alone, Maevia?” Neriene asked her mother.
“You are more of an inconvenience than our guests. Take your party, and leave me to my work.”
“Very well.” Neriene led the group back up the stairs, through the Cantalereum, and outside into the sunlight.
“’Tis an archive, then?” the Demon asked aloud.
Miria, who was closest to him, responded first. “It’s a Cantalereum. A place where magical items—cantalere—are stored and exhibited. I suppose it is rather like an archive.”
“This is the Cantalereum,” Neriene said over her shoulder. “There is no other like it.”
They passed the stone altar and headed into a grove of fruit trees that had just begun to blossom. They walked down a slight decline where a small building that echoed the shape of the Cantalereum stood in solitude. The pillars were carved into spirals, and the frieze was decorated with images of a woman with a fish tail looming over a fleet of ships on the ocean. The Demon stopped to stare at it.
“This is a shrine to the ancient goddess of water, Qatra,” Neriene explained. “Long ago, before Mystland was established, this land was dedicated to a temple. This was before the Cataclysm, when elemental deities were worshipped. Mages were more common than wizards, and they served as dedicates to the four shrines: air, water, fire, and earth. Each deity had two faces: one benevolent to mortals and one terrible and destructive. To appease the deities was to win their favor and keep the destruction to a minimum.”
Neriene nodded further down the hill, to where the top of a wall emerged from the burgeoning trees. “Below, surrounding the grounds, is the labyrinth. Once it was used as a place of meditation and reflectance.”
“What do you use it for now?” Miria asked.
Neriene smiled. “Privacy. Garmult must guide visitors to the Cantalereum, lest they want to wander for a while.”
“Garmult?”
“You have already met our familiar. He is the footman, our carriage driver, and our messenger.”
“A messenger who does not speak,” Eraekryst mused, and entered the shrine ahead of them all.
Miria mumbled something about his attitude and followed him inside. The Demon and Neriene brought up the rear. Neriene uttered a phrase, and the braziers lit blue. The rest of them gazed at their surroundings in wonder. The ceiling was a dome with shapes cut from the stone. The gaps were filled with glass quarrels of blue, green, an
d every hue in between, and the tinted patterns of sunlight scattered across a circular pool of water. Statues of fish and other sea creatures lined the edge of the pool, the water pouring from their mouths. At the bottom of the pool was a mosaic of a fish-like dragon with fins, feathery gills, a long tail, and pale eyes.
“Maevia and I have taken great care in weaving the spells to preserve these shrines,” Neriene said proudly. “The water is collected and channeled from the top of the hill. I had opened the faucets earlier, anticipating this event. All I need do is stoke the furnace.”
The Demon, the only one barefoot, was amazed by the warmth of the tiles beneath his feet. Had he been alone, he would have sprawled out with his belly to the ground, like a reptile basking on a rock. He restrained himself, however, and dipped a toe in the water instead. This will be good, he thought, now looking forward to the bath.
Neriene gestured to a silk screen toward the back of the chamber. “I have placed towels and clean robes for you behind the screen. If you should want scented oils—”
“You will smell like a spring garden,” Eraekryst finished.
“No, thanks,” the Demon told her.
“When you have finished, you can return to the Cantalereum, and we will dress your wounds.” Neriene looked at the Demon, then at Eraekryst. She opened a small grate in the corner of the room, said a few words, and closed it again. “The water should heat faster now.” Then she headed for the doorway.
“You’re leaving?” Miria asked.
“I’m not in the habit of watching others bathe,” Neriene said over her shoulder. “I think you know the way back.”
Miria blushed and nodded. She nudged Eraekryst. “Maybe we should also go,” she said, glancing at the waiting demon.
“For purposes of modesty and privacy,” the Ilangien said. “I should despise myself should I be unwanted company.”
“I was going to thank y’,” the Demon voiced. “I don’ know ‘ow y’ knew I wanted to find the Larini, but ‘ere I am.”
“They found us,” Miria said, “and Eraekryst was able to find you. I only hope that you—both of you—know what it is you wish of them. Just remember that they haven’t named their price yet.”
