by Colt, K. J.
“Absolutely not,” he returned.
“Half of his being would be gone,” Miria stressed. “You can’t tell me that such a drastic change would not profoundly alter his life.”
“Mortals readily adapt to change,” he said.
“What if he doesn’t? What if he can’t?”
“That is the risk of the extraction,” Neriene interrupted. “It could prove fatal.”
“Though the plague is decidedly fatal,” Maevia added.
“Then ’tis not truly a choice, for only one option will sustain his life,” Eraekryst said. “Time will ease the loss of his Durós; I suspect he will embrace a more fitting identity. Do you not remember the state in which we found him? Why would he wish to continue thus?”
Miria pushed her plate aside. “So if we were to tear the Ilán from you, change who you are—you would come to accept it?”
“You do not speak logically. His change would be physical; the individual within will remain the same. I said mortals adapt readily; an immortal cannot be separated from his inherent abilities. Were I the durmorth, I would accept the offer immediately.”
“What is y’r price?” the Demon asked, barely audible.
Maevia and Neriene exchanged a glance. “The extracted Shadow would be bound to a cantalere. We would retain that cantalere,” Neriene said.
Maevia waved a hand. “The object would be worthless to you anyway. Once bound, the magic cannot be utilized…or returned to its former owner. The change is permanent.”
The Demon nodded silently, his gaze moving to his bandaged, trembling hands.
Miria slid her hand atop his, and he flinched. She looked at him with sympathy, then looked at Eraekryst. “I think you’re missing the point in this.”
There was a moment before the Ilangien could speak, before Miria realized the Demon had slipped away from her, when the air was weighted upon an answer. It was an answer that never came. The Demon stood and started to walk away.
“Consider accepting our help, Hawkshadow,” Neriene said after him. “There is hope in your future.”
He did not turn or break his stride as he disappeared into the shadows.
Eraekryst knew exactly where to find the Demon when he had disappeared that evening. He also knew that his company would be the most unwanted of anyone in the Cantalereum, and so he left the Demon to his solitude. Bored and restless, the Ilangien roamed the building, inspecting the artifacts on display. Humans loved things—especially things with magic and power. Just as mortals valued their short but dramatic lives…or so he had thought. Why, then, was it so difficult for the Demon to make his decision to live? This perplexed and confounded him more so than any mysterious object in the Cantalereum. It was almost more perplexing than the witches’ tree, the presence he sensed in the surrounding forest, and his own hesitation to allow the removal of his collar. And what made it all practically unbearable was the resounding silence. He hated the silence.
He returned to the witches’ living chamber to find Miria was asleep. The witches were gone. He moved to the luminous pool to stare at the tree. You are but the vessel to that which flows within you, he thought. He knelt down and touched the water, only to find it was just that: water. It was enhanced by a few spells, but there was nothing special about it.
Eraekryst stepped into the pool so that he could get closer to the branches. The entire tree was black, from its leaves to the crown of its exposed roots. It shimmered, too, as though tiny pinpoints of dew had come to settle upon its surface. His eyes searched the branches until he found what he was looking for. Then he reached and plucked the ebony-skinned apple, sensing the power within it. Ancient magic. Ilán and Durós. Extraordinary. Humans like powerful things.
The witches had lied, of course. The apples sustained them, kept them timeless, their appearance youthful. Inside, they were as dead and as withered as a winter field. The durmorth knows. He can sense it. Perhaps that was why the Demon was hesitant to accept the witches’ offer. In that case, his reluctance was understandable, but it was still no reason to consider a miserable death over the opportunity to live.
Eraekryst pocketed the apple, and gave the tree a final assessment. Doubtless the Larini would have grown the tree from a seed, but from where did the seed come? It was a question he possessed the audacity to ask, and he had many others as well. It was time to find his hosts.
If the Larini were nearby, he would sense them, just as he could all living creatures, though the witches exuded a very different aura. Miria was surrounded by a halo of vibrant colors, the opposite of the Demon’s shadowy veil. The Larini, however, were something in between. They were enveloped within a gray and muddied pall, and all that surrounded them seemed infected by it. They were also stained by the energy of the black apple tree, which resounded through Eraekryst’s entire being. He had only to follow the vibration to the source.
He left the Cantalereum for the moonlit sky and mossy earth, heading in the opposite direction of the water shrine. The shrubs grew dense with fierce thorns, but they parted way for him as he detected the faint odor of incense. He came upon another shrine, this one aglow with a magnificent bonfire before the altar outside. The flames surrounded the stone table and the objects upon it. He ventured closer for a better glimpse.
Eraekryst’s keen eyes caught the glint of a small, shiny item the size of pin. It was, in fact, a needle, and it was arranged alongside several ornate knives, a glazed bowl, a jar with spiders, and one familiar object: the Demon’s obsidian knife. He watched as Neriene and Maevia emerged from the temple, nude, and each porting a chalice. They bowed before the altar, and Maevia began to speak, her words strange and monotone, but rising to the air like the smoke from the fire. They held up their chalices and sipped from them.
When next Maevia spoke, the blue-gray plumes of smoke turned crimson, and instead of rising, they shifted around the altar like a snake coiled upon a rock. The smoke surrounded the objects, obscuring them beyond sight. The witch fell silent, and it seemed the both of them were waiting.
Eraekryst took this moment to make his presence known. Unfazed by the ritual in progress, he approached the witches with a confident stride. Maevia turned toward him and scowled. Neriene, however, stood tall and calm beside her mother.
“Pardon my intrusion,” he said with a slight bow. “I can see that you are occupied by your diversion.”
“And still you chose to intrude,” Maevia said.
“My curiosity drives me; I am powerless to contend with it,” he admitted. “And so I do not.”
“What do you want?”
“I wonder where it is you obtained your indoor arbor.”
Neriene stepped forward. “You are fascinated by our tree, but maybe it is you who would know better its origin. I would think you might have a sort of…connection to it.” She gave him a slight smile, the loose strands of hair from her braid curled around her face like serpents. The light of the fire illuminated sores and abrasions on their bodies, as though the skin had simply worn away to become threadbare.
“You are very old, are you not?” Eraekryst asked, noticing their wounds. “Mortals were never meant to endure so long a life. What the fruit sustains within you cannot truly renew the flesh. Is it a life you extend or merely an existence?”
“We have earned our immortality, Ilangien,” Maevia said. “And like your kind, we shape our world with it.”
Eraekryst took a step toward the altar. “What is it you shape now? The lives of those who came to you for help?”
“If that is what we wish,” Maevia said. “When we recognize something of value that is unappreciated by its owner, we accept the responsibility of preserving that treasure.”
“At the owner’s expense, I assume.” Eraekryst frowned, his focus upon the obsidian blade. “You possess something that belongs to my companion.”
“We had to borrow the knife,” Neriene said, coming up beside him, “because it is connected to him.” She placed a hand on Eraekryst’s
arm. “It is required for his transformation.”
“The transformation he did not yet agree to,” the Ilangien said, shrugging her away.
“Come, Eraekryst. You know as well as we do that there is no other choice for the boy. He will die unless we extract the plague.”
“’Tis still a choice he must make.”
“A choice we make for him with his best interests in mind.” Neriene smiled and stepped between him and the altar. “What of your best interests? You have asked us a favor. Perhaps now is the time to collect.” She spun toward the altar, thrust her hand into the smoke and the flames, and emerged unscathed with the needle.
Eraekryst took a step back, only to find Maevia behind him.
“Certainly we do not intimidate you,” she said.
“I am not afraid of you.”
“You want your collar removed, don’t you?” Neriene asked.
“What are your intentions?” he asked warily.
“Just to give you what you wish. Freedom—at least, until we have need of you.”
Maevia began to drone her lengthy strands of words while Neriene held high the needle. Without warning, she lunged at Eraekryst and stabbed his hand, drawing a large droplet of golden blood. He sidestepped them both, but they moved after him. He could feel heat rise from the thin band around his neck, and he watched as a thin wisp of white light snaked through the air from his collar and threaded itself through the eye of the needle. Neriene started to murmur words of her own as she moved the needle in a circular motion, winding the thread of light around her arm.
Eraekryst stood immobile, but it was not their actions that locked his attention. As spells were unraveled from his collar, they began to appear. One by one, faint images of people manifested around him. He knew them. They had been with him since their end, but they had been shut out. So many… And he was responsible for all of them. Patiently they stood, waiting for the end of the thread to pass through the needle.
This is a mistake, he thought. He looked around, panicked. They were everywhere. Waiting. Meanwhile he felt the spells slip away like binding ropes that had been loosened. Faint whispers reached his ears, some angry, some pained, some crying. He would catch a word or two, but the rest would be lost as new voices joined the growing din.
He clasped his hands to his ears to shut them out, but they only grew louder. The witches had disappeared; he saw only the needle winding the thread around an arm. The end would soon be upon him, and then….
Eraekryst shut his eyes, but the image of the glowing thread seared through the darkness, not to be ignored. And the voices….
He opened his eyes just as the tail of the strand drifted on the air and through the needle. Everything stopped but for a moment. The air was sundered by a pulse of blazing light and a wall of sound, a wave of kinetic energy that caused the ground to tremble. The barriers of his mind had collapsed to ruin. He was free.
What did you expect? To run and hide forever?
The Demon sat in the shadows in a corner of the Cantalereum. He had been there long enough that his legs had grown numb and his back sore from his bent posture. His thoughts had traveled back and forth and then in circles. Until this point in his life, he could come and go as he pleased, assert himself when he wanted, hide when he was tired of the effort. But he could not escape this.
Change or die.
Neither, he argued with himself. I don’t want to change, and I don’t want to die. He looked at his hands—something he had done at least fifty times in the past hours he had been there. How do I give up who I am? All that I ever was? What does it mean, to be ‘half’, anyway? Is that even possible?
He considered what it meant: the Demon would die. No wings to fly, no claws to climb. Blindness in the dark. No shadows in which he could hide. No slipping through walls and remaining unnoticed. No—
He tore at his hair in frustration. What’s left?
There was a sliver of shame that worked its way under his skin. His brother was Falquirian. It was the blood that connected them. He would still be keen of sight, sound of hearing…he would have all the advantages Eraekryst had listed. The mortal dream: a job, a family, a home. What was wrong with that?
Even his brother had had those luxuries at one time. It was different for him, though. He had lost his family, and he never stayed in one place for too long. His profession had defined him. And his loyalties saw him to the grave, the Demon thought bitterly. Where are you now, when I need you? My only memory is the bloody disease I inherited.
He did not mean it, even as he thought about it. It was the selfish part of himself that resented his brother’s absence. Nothing had gone right since he had died. It had taken one person to convince him of a future, one person to give him the confidence to hope for better, one person to actually care about him. That one person was gone.
He accepted his fate. The Larini could have helped him, but he declined. Was it because of me? Because he didn’t want me to become involved with them? Now that he’s gone, here I am. What am I supposed to do? He would have died from the Quake; should I just let it take me? Or would he have told me to take my chances—to make something of myself with the opportunity I’m given? Would I even be myself?
The Demon sighed and tried to stand. His feet tingled, and his legs moved awkwardly beneath his weight. He braced himself against the wall. His instincts warned him about the witches. There was something about the Larini he did not trust. How could he, then, lay his life before them?
How could he afford not to if he did not want to die a young man?
He eased himself back onto his feet and found the stairwell leading to the lower chamber. There he found Miria asleep beneath a quilt. Despite his mood, he managed a slight smile at the sight of her. Of the Larini and of Eraekryst, there was no sign.
Maybe he’s gone through with it. At least his decision is an easy one. I will be surprised if he returns come sunrise. With that, he lay down a short distance from Miria, hoping sleep would come to him. When it finally did, it was the lasting image of the black tree that followed him into his restless dreams.
CHAPTER TWELVE
LOST
THE DEMON AWOKE TO the rumble of thunder. The resonation was strong enough to shake even the walls of the lower chamber, but there was more to his unrest than the morning storm. He and Miria were still the only occupants of the Cantalereum. He gently shook her shoulder, and she stretched and opened her eyes. When she saw him sitting next to her in his robe, she smiled.
“I actually had a good dream,” Miria said, sitting up. “I was eating an apple when—” She paused. “What’s wrong?”
“I don’t know,” he murmured, his foxlike eyes scanning the room. “Just a feeling.”
“A feeling?”
“The Larini are gone. Erik’s gone, too—since last night.”
“You think they went to take off his collar?” Miria asked.
The Demon shrugged.
“You said yourself he would leave without a word,” she reminded him.
“I said it, but I didn’t really think ‘e would.”
“Yes, you did.”
He gave her a look. “I changed m’ mind.”
Miria sighed and stretched again. “Well, what do you want to do? Wait? Search?”
“I don’ know.”
“Hawkshadow, it helps to make a decision,” she chided gently. “I’ll wait with you, or I’ll help you look for him.”
The Demon met her gaze. “I did make a decision.”
“You—oh,” she whispered.
Before they could say anything more, they turned at the sound of footsteps in the stairwell. The Larini appeared, disheveled and looking strangely weary. There was no one behind them.
The Demon stood, and Miria joined him.
Neriene nodded to them both. “We have a stormy morning ahead of us.” The witches proceeded to the hearth, where they began tidying up.
“Have you seen Eraekryst?” Miria asked.
“Yes,” Maevia said, her voice cold. “He’s gone.”
“Gone?”
“We freed him of his bane, and he chose to leave.”
“He was rather impatient,” Neriene said. She tucked the loose strands of hair behind her ears and brushed off her dress. “But if you do not mind waiting, we can prepare your breakfast. Or is there something else?”
Maevia had ceased her actions as well. “You have made a decision.” Her black eyes fixed on the Demon in anticipation.
He gave a slight nod, though his expression did not change. “I’ll stay as I am.” When the words were uttered, they felt right, but at the same time he felt sick to his stomach. He knew what was ahead of him, but it was something he would have to accept. He only hoped he could accept it as humbly as his brother had.
The witches did not react right away, unlike Miria, who suddenly wrapped her arms around him. “Hawkshadow,” she whispered, burying her face in his shoulder.
The Demon blinked, unsure how to react. A pretty woman had just embraced him. He should be tickled except for the meaning behind her gesture. I’m sorry, it said. Sorry you’re going to die.
When she pulled away from him, there were tear streaks down her rosy cheeks.
“Don’t cry,” he said, embarrassed.
“I will do as I wish,” she asserted weakly.
“Are you certain this is what you want?” Neriene asked, slight disappointment in her voice.
“Yes,” the Demon said, his regard even upon her.
“We regret your fate, but we honor your decision,” Neriene said. She set back to preparing the table. Maevia continued to watch him.
When the Demon felt Miria pull away, he whispered, “We ‘ave to find ‘im.”
“But they said he—”
He looked at her, his expression saying what his lips did not. Something isn’t right.
“All right.” She nodded.
