by Colt, K. J.
“It should taste terrible,” Arythan said quietly. “But I don’t…I don’t taste anything at all.” His shoulders slumped, and his gaze drifted.
“Truly? It has no flavor?” Eraekryst asked, incredulous.
“No. Not to me,” Arythan whispered. He set the bowl down and stood. “I need to be alone.” He began to walk away into the woods.
“I meant no offense,” Eraekryst said, but the mage did not acknowledge the comment. A virtuous deed undone by my ignorance. Durmorth, I am sorry. He cast the remainder of the meal into the ashes, disheartened. ’Tis more complex than I thought, when such gruesome images haunt even a mind at rest. There is nothing that does not remind him of what he once was, though only he can choose acceptance of this new life.
“You will leave him soon,” said a voice in his mind.
I have not yet decided my path, Eraekryst thought.
“You must return to your people to be healed,” said a different voice.
I will return when it suits me, Eraekryst replied. Begone with you.
“She is coming….”
Eraekryst stood and stared in a particular direction in the forest. He could feel her presence, a kindred spirit of Light—only this Light, this energy, was different. It was cold but strong. A slender form moved into view among the trees. Though she was shrouded in black, a blue light paler than Wizard’s Fire surrounded her, rendering her more than a shadow. As she approached, Eraekryst saw that she was not alone. Shapes as gossamer as spider silk trailed her, ghostly images of immortals—Ilangiel like himself. They were silent, but their eyes were upon him, almost envious and longing. Uneasily, Eraekryst held his ground as his visitor stopped several paces from him.
Her skin was the pale blue of the early morning sky, and the rising sun shimmered over her raven hair. Her red-violet eyes were locked on him, and they remained so as she knocked her bow and took careful aim at his throat.
“This is an unusual greeting,” Eraekryst said, “considering this is our first encounter.”
She spoke to him in unaccented common tongue, her voice soft and deep. “’Tis merely a thought I entertain.” She lowered the bow and studied him from head to toe, her eyes returning to his face.
Eraekryst’s gaze, however, kept reverting to the specters that trailed her. “Then you have long been amused, as you have been following me since Norkindara.”
“It is not you who I hunt,” she said, “but strangely you keep him company, and that has won my interest.” She glanced behind her to where he stared. “You see them.”
“Who are they?” Eraekryst asked. “And why do they follow you?”
The female Durangien smiled. “To learn this, you must first know who I am, though I suspect you are too young. Those who once spoke of me have fallen silent with time.” She lifted her head, and the wind moved the hair from her face. “I am Seranonde the Huntress.”
Eraekryst sensed the air stir with the utterance of her name. The faces of the ghosts behind her grew anguished and forlorn. He took a step back. “Why do you seek my companion?”
Seranonde took a step forward. “I intended to kill him, for he was of Shadow. But no longer. The Human witches deprived me of my rightful claim.” She began a slow advance.
“’Twas you who first found him in the labyrinth,” Eraekryst said, his voice cold.
“I drew forth his malady,” she said, “to watch him suffer. The interruption was inexcusable.” She stood close before him, the top of her head reaching his chin. She reached up and touched his face with her cool, slender fingers.
All at once he was lost to a vision, seeing through the Durangien’s eyes. The Larini were there, hideous and shriveled, curled in mourning at the base of their lifeless tree. They had not heard Seranonde’s approach, and when they realized she was standing over them, it was too late. She said not a word as she withdrew her blade. Her actions had been slow and deliberate, and she had delighted in the screams that resulted from their mutilation and their suffering.
Eraekryst reeled backward in horror, unwilling to partake in the rest of the vision.
“You knew I was responsible for their death,” Seranonde said, smiling. “But it was you who had killed them first, when you had taken away their eternal life.”
“I am not a murderer,” he said, his eyes wide in disbelief. “You have broken the immortal law.”
Her smile faded, and her eyes bore into him. “The time has come for change. You, of anyone, would know this, Eraekryst of Celaedrion. Your own ideas were not so traditional. A pity that you were abducted before you could renew the purpose of your kindred.”
“How is it you know me?”
“The famed Mentrailyic prince of Veloria? Do not insult my intelligence, Eraekryst, and I will not insult yours. Something inside you has been awakened since your return. There is a reason for all things.”
Eraekryst stared. “What is your purpose?”
“To confirm my suspicions,” Seranonde said, drawing her hood. “I wanted to meet you, to see what you have yet to acknowledge about yourself.” She turned away. “You have stirred my curiosity, and in doing so, you have extended your companion’s life.”
“You are Durangien. Why hunt him at all?”
“Like you, I think differently from my kind. He may look Human, but he will always be a demon. His torn mind will drive him mad, and his darkness will reemerge. Then I will come to claim him.” She walked into the forest and disappeared.
In a rare moment, Eraekryst found himself confused and speechless. Was this a game? A threat? Who was this murderess? More than disturbed, the Ilangien felt compelled to find Arythan as quickly as possible. Light-footed, he moved amongst the trees in the direction the mage had gone. At last he found him sitting beside a stream, staring into the distance. The knife was in his hands.
Arythan did not turn at his approach, though he spoke first, his words listless and weighted with his grief. “I’m sorry.”
Eraekryst froze and took a moment to find his own words. “For what do you apologize, Durmorth?”
“For everything. I’m lost, Erik. Y’ should go on without me.”
“That is what you believe is best,” Eraekryst said. “Does my opinion hold no authority in my own actions?”
“I won’t chase y’away,” Arythan said, “but I won’t be good company.”
“I expect ’tis company you will need, though I will try not to be an ‘arse’ole’, as you say.”
“Hm.” The mage looped the knife over his head and tucked it away. He looked up at him. “Something wrong?”
Eraekryst wavered, then met his gaze. “Aye, you have a growth upon your face.”
Arythan rubbed his prickly chin. “Yeah. Itches, too.” He muttered something in another language.
“Are you ready to travel?” the Ilangien asked, eager to leave the forest and reach the road.
Arythan nodded. “Need an ‘at.”
“I do not understand,” Eraekryst said.
“An ‘at.”
“Your accent in unintellig—” Eraekryst caught himself. “I still do not understand.”
Arythan patted his head.
“Ah, a hat.”
“’S what I said.”
“Not quite.” Eraekryst paused, struck by a revelation. “You mean to say ‘arse hole.’”
“What?”
“With an ‘h.’ But I do not understand what sort of hole—”
“Stuff y’self.”
They returned to their camp and gathered their supplies before joining the Western Link.
Arythan thrust the map into Eraekryst’s hands. “I know ‘ow to read. ’S not on there.”
“Perhaps Lady Miria was mistaken,” he said, studying the paper.
“Or ’tis an olde map. Doesn’t matter. We’re ‘ere.” Arythan sighed and pulled up his hood.
“The inhabitants of this town might be more apt to converse if they can see you,” Eraekryst said. “You are seeking employment, are you not?
”
Arythan wanted to protest, but he had no argument. Grudgingly, he lowered the hood.
“I wonder what occupations are to be found in a village,” the Ilangien said, taking the lead into the active street. “I admit my ignorance of such societal workings. Given your talents, you should be able to secure whatever vocation you wish.” His eyes were bright, devouring all they saw.
“Against the wishes of my people, I would leave the forest to explore the mortal world. I longed to know what it was they did all day, how their lives differed from mine. Logically, there are those who build these constructs.” Eraekryst gestured to the shops and homes along the street. “There must also be those who make clothes, boots, and the like. Then to feed such a community, there would be those with the ability to cook. Now that I consider it,” he thought aloud, gazing at the market-goers, “I can visualize you in none of these professions.” He turned to look at the mage, only to find Arythan had stopped and was in the process of lifting his hood.
“Off with that,” he said, reaching to pull the material from Arythan’s head. “What is it that bothers you so?”
“They’re staring at us,” Arythan whispered, his blue eyes wide.
“Only because you insist upon enshrouding yourself like a thief.” Eraekryst stared at him. “You have been in such places before. This is nothing new for you.”
“I am a thief,” Arythan muttered. “An’ no one ever stared, ‘cuz they never noticed.”
“You want them to notice you, Durmorth. ’Tis how you will discover your future employer.” Eraekryst almost grabbed his hand, but despite the new absence of Shadow in his companion, he was reluctant to touch him. “Come along, lest you become a spectacle.”
They passed by some women doing their laundry at a well. “Well, now there’s a fine one,” came a loud comment.
“They’re both lovely,” said another, and then there were murmurs and giggles that followed. Arythan’s face heated, though Eraekryst seemed oblivious that they should be the subject of conversation. To the mage’s horror, the Ilangien turned toward the women with a smile and started in their direction.
“Good day, milord,” the boldest of the ladies hailed him. “You must be new in town.”
Eraekryst bowed his greeting, which earned more giggles. “’Tis true, what you say. Thus we are at your mercy if you would be kind enough to assist us.”
“How can we help you?”
“My companion is searching for work,” Eraekryst said. “Might you be able to direct us—”
“Companion?” another interrupted.
Eraekryst looked back to find Arythan was gone.
“He ducked behind the weaver’s stand,” another woman said. “He must be shy.”
The Ilangien frowned. “Verily.”
“You might try the blacksmith. He always talks about finding decent help.”
“The blacksmith,” Eraekryst mused. “I thank you,” he said with another bow, then went to locate the mage. Arythan lingered near the back of the weaver’s stand, his back to the wall. There was a hat upon his head, and a scarf concealed his lower face and neck.
Eraekryst flashed him a look of disapproval. “You are not rising to this challenge with any effort, Durmorth.”
Arythan merely shrugged.
“The blacksmith needs assistance,” the Ilangien relayed the message. “We will find him and boast of your magical talents.”
“Do y’ know what a blacksmith is?” Arythan asked, his voice slightly muffled beneath the scarf.
“Undoubtedly he produces some sort of item of use,” Eraekryst said.
“So does everyone in the market.” Arythan shook his head. “Fine. Y’ll see. Le’s find ‘im.”
“A better attitude,” Eraekryst commended, misunderstanding him.
The mage led the way, stopping across from a barn with its doors open. The sound of metal striking metal resounded through the air. “The blacksmith shop,” he announced flatly. He turned to Eraekryst. “If y’ didn’t guess, ‘e makes things out o’ metal.”
“’Tis what you should have disclosed to me from the onset of this venture.” Eraekryst started for the barn. “Let us not tarry.”
Arythan dragged his feet, meeting up with the impatient Ilangien at the door. They peered inside, and the pounding stopped. The inside of the barn was dimly lit, but it was incredibly warm. A gruff voice from inside addressed them. “Can I help you?”
Eraekryst strode inside without hesitation, though he glanced back to make certain the mage was behind him. “We had heard you were seeking assistance, and my companion is looking for work,” he said, spotting a mountain of a man near the forge.
“Is he?” The smith set down his tools to fold his dirty arms. “Does he have permission from the guild to begin an apprenticeship?”
Eraekryst and Arythan exchanged a glance.
“How would we acquire this permission?” the Ilangien asked, undaunted by the man’s stony regard.
“You pay the guild, and I may or may not take him under my charge.” The blacksmith looked each of them over with sharp eyes that glinted like coals from his blackened face. “Come closer. Let me see you.” He picked up a large mallet. “Hold out your hands.”
Against his better judgment, Arythan did as asked. The blacksmith hefted the mallet and dropped it into the mage’s arms. Arythan nearly tipped forward from the weight, and the blacksmith gave a slight smile.
“Hit the anvil, boy.”
Arythan bit his lip, appreciating the stupidity of the situation. He barely managed to lift the mallet over his shoulder, and when he let gravity pull it down, he went with it. His hands throbbed as the mallet collided with the anvil, and he ground his teeth.
“You have a lot of experience,” the blacksmith mocked.
“It is experience he wishes to gain,” Eraekryst defended.
The blacksmith ignored him. “What is your name, boy?”
The mage hesitated. “I don’t…Arythan.”
“Let me see your hands, Arythan.” He rubbed his fingers over the mage’s palms. “Strange scars,” he mumbled, then said, “Even if you received permission from the guild, I would need an assistant—not a skin-and-bone kid as dainty as a flower.”
“I’m not—” The blacksmith suddenly drew a blade from his pocket and slid it over Arythan’s palms. His eyes wide with shock, he watched the blood well in a thin line, his skin stinging from the cut. He looked up at the man, ready to set him afire.
“See?” the smith asked. He ran the blade over his own hand, but nothing happened. “Toughened from years of experience. I’ve earned these calluses.”
“His strength is not in his hands but in his magic,” Eraekryst said, an edge to his voice. He took a step closer to the blacksmith. “He can harness the flames and cool the metal with but a thought.”
The man’s expression changed to one of disbelief. “You speak of magic.”
“As I said.” Eraekryst glared at the blacksmith.
Without warning, the man shoved Arythan toward the door. He pushed him repeatedly until they were nearly outside. The daylight fell upon them, and the blacksmith gawked at Arythan’s eyes. “You’re a caster!”
Arythan sidestepped the man before he could be shoved to the ground.
“We don’t want your kind here,” the blacksmith growled. He picked a heavy iron rod off the ground and swiped at Arythan’s legs. He narrowly missed his mark, but his backward swing caught the approaching Ilangien in the shoulder.
Eraekryst gave a stunned cry, and the blacksmith turned to see what he had done. In that fraction of a moment, Arythan lunged at him with fire coursing through his veins. Light as he was, he caught the man off balance, and the two of them tumbled to the ground.
Maddened by rage, Arythan tore at the man with claws that were not there. He drove his fist into the man’s nose, an explosion of blood spurting everywhere. The blacksmith recovered from his shock and quickly gained the advantage over his scrawny opponent.
He flipped Arythan to the ground, bearing down atop him. “I’ll beat the magic out of you, bloodrot!” he vowed, and struck the mage across the jaw. He took a strangle hold around Arythan’s throat and began to squeeze.
Frantic, Arythan clutched at the man’s shirt and felt the magic amass around him. When it left him, he was not sure what he had done—only that his vision was starting to dim. He pushed harder, and the man’s grip began to relent. It was not enough.
“I have had enough,” Eraekryst said, his clear voice cutting the air like a sharpened blade. He stood over the two combatants, frowning at the mage’s glassy stare. “Get off of him. Now.”
The blacksmith’s muscles tightened and trembled as he obeyed the order against his will.
Eraekryst knelt beside Arythan. “Durmorth, can you rise?”
With a short breath, the mage forced himself to a sitting position. The world spun around him for a moment before everything stilled. He looked at Eraekryst, then at the blacksmith who had seemed to recover control over his own body.
“I will report you to the Warriors of the Sword!” he shouted through chattering teeth, though he did not advance toward them. His chest was encrusted in solid ice.
“I apologize, Durmorth, for this failed vision,” Eraekryst said, ignoring the grunts and groans from the blacksmith. With his good arm, he handed the mage his hat, which had fallen during the fray.
Arythan’s stare remained upon the blacksmith. He spat on his bloodied hands, wiped them on his trousers and set the hat atop his head. He fixed his scarf and stood shakily to dust himself off. Eraekryst rose beside him.
“’Ow’s y’r arm, mate?” Arythan asked, rubbing his swollen jaw.
“’Twill heal soon enough, but not before we leave this place.” They gathered their supplies in silence, their thoughts yet affixed to their encounter as passersby stopped to stare at the bloodied mage.
Tension built around Arythan as he took the lead along the road they had come, intent on leaving the town behind them. The more he considered the blacksmith’s reaction, the more his bitterness rose like bile in his throat. He did not seem to notice the strengthening gusts of wind fueled by his emotion.
