by Colt, K. J.
Arythan wondered what tales the man knew, that these old gods should be worse than his own. Em’ri never said much about the Northern Kingdoms. He thought it might be the oldest realm in Secramore, but that’s all I can remember. Though his memories shifted in another direction, quite involuntarily. He recalled a face, one beneath water. The image had been created in the tiles of the bath…in a shrine at the Cantalereum.
The Cantalereum. He shuddered when he thought about that dark place, its strange relics, and the dread Larini. Their black eyes still seeped like dark oil beneath his skin.
His skin… He had stared down at his own body and found it covered with…spider webs. He could not break free of them, could not escape. There was the knife, his blood, and inescapable pain. Those black, abysmal, lifeless eyes….
Arythan gasped at the lost memory, shutting it as he would a door he never wanted open. It had come and gone so quickly, but those moments when it had truly happened were the longest nightmare he had ever known. The person he had been would never awaken again.
“Arythan, are you all right?” came a woman’s voice from beside him.
For the first time he saw her there: Miranda. Too shaken to speak, he nodded and turned away.
“You seemed lost for a moment,” she said, still hoping to coax an explanation.
“’M fine,” he said softly. Then he got up and found solitude within the wagon. He knew his life was headed in a better direction. The Larini were dead, and he had found his place. The danger was gone, but somehow he could not leave behind the memories—even after he thought he had lost them.
Arythan drifted into a restless sleep, only to be awakened a short while later by Lyssana. She beamed with excitement even though she was usually the more restrained of the leading ladies. “I’m sorry to wake you, but there is a matter I could not wait to present to you.”
The mage sat up and waited.
“As you know, we are performing before the king and queen tomorrow. Rosie and my audience with them tonight was thrilling—just thrilling.” Her smile was wider than Arythan had ever seen it. “They had heard about us.”
“I thought everyone ‘as ‘eard about y’,” the mage said. Except me, of course.
“Yes, but the regents had heard about you, Arythan.”
Though she could not see it, Arythan frowned.
“Well, not you specifically. No one truly knows about you, for you are our secret. They had heard about your magic. Word is spreading; it has spread well enough that King Gregory and Queen Anabel Denman of Caspernyanne desire a private performance.” She paused. “I’m not telling you this to make you nervous.”
“Y’ did.”
“I’m sorry, Arythan, but be that as it may, this situation could become potentially awkward. No one knows you exist; you have willingly given Dain all the credit for your magic.”
“’S ‘ow I want it,” he said, a hint of stubbornness hardening his voice.
“We, too, revel in the secret. But should the Denmans ask for a private demonstration of your abilities… Do you see where the complications could arise?”
“They might not ask.”
“Yes, but if they do, we must consider our options. The first would be to reveal you to them. The second is to maintain the secret, though it could jeopardize the Crimson Dragon’s integrity.”
Arythan looked at her. “Y’ mean lie to them.”
She frowned but did not answer.
“So y’ want me to make a decision?” He was surprised that they would allow him to choose a path which could directly affect the welfare of the troupe.
“I want you to consider the possibilities,” Lyssana said. “Nothing has to be decided yet, and as you said, it is a decision we may not need to make.”
He nodded, and she patted his hand. “You have no cause to worry, Arythan. Everything will play out the way it is meant to be.”
Arythan turned to her, curious. “Y’ believe in fate, then.”
“I suppose that I do. Are you against such a notion?”
“I believe I make my own decisions,” he said.
“We all do, but that doesn’t mean we don’t have a predictable path we follow.” She gave his shoulder a squeeze. “Go back to sleep. You will need your rest for tomorrow, when we have our flawless performance.”
“Are y’ predicting the future?” Arythan asked.
“I’m just placing faith in it. Good night, Medoriate Crow.”
Perfect, smooth, and sharp. Like a well-polished diamond, every facet of the Crimson Dragon’s show was brilliant and without imperfection. Each performer, when finished with his or her act, would head out of the ring with a sparkling smile. Arythan was amazed that so much pressure seemed to have influenced the troupe in such a positive way. It was not that he lacked confidence in his own abilities; he could use his magic well in accordance to what he desired. But would his act be impressive enough; would he win the regents’ favor and thus bring favor upon the troupe? He did not want to disappoint the women again.
So far, he felt all was going well. Dain did his cues as they had rehearsed, and Arythan’s magic was timely and controlled. The sword-swallower had entered the ring mysteriously in a thick, sudden fog. As the obstruction dissipated, he was revealed standing in a cobalt ring of flame.
The next trick would be the most difficult for Arythan. He had only tried it once during practice, for it had been a last minute idea. It had worked then, and he hoped fervently it would work now. With his control still upon the flames, he focused upon five points around the ring. He pulled at the fire, drew it up, shaped it, and severed it. The resulting effect was the release of five birds of flame, rising to the air with wings flapping until they disappeared in smoke.
The applause was muffled in his ringing ears. Dain would earn him a moment to catch his breath while the sword-swallower bowed and did his trick with the blade. Arythan took off his hat and fanned himself with it as Dain held up the sword for the audience to see.
The applause died as a clear voice broke the din. “Imposter! That man deceives us all!” All fell silent.
Arythan froze, though Dain tried to continue his act.
“You are fraudulent!” the voice insisted, and the sword-swallower was forced to stop.
Dain bowed humbly. “What troubles you, my good sir?”
“Have I not said? You pretend to be a medoriate.”
Several of the other performers came to stand with Arythan, watching the ring. The mage scarcely noticed them as he trembled with mounting rage. First he had been reluctant to believe his ears, but he knew better: he knew this voice. Surprise was fleeting as he watched his future be stripped away by the immortal interloper.
Dain, alone in the ring, tried to placate the dissenter. “I am an entertainer, sir. I do not aim to deceive anyone.”
Stop, Arythan seethed, but the Ilangien did not stop.
“Then bring him forth so that we may meet him,” the voice insisted.
“Bring who forth, sir?”
“You feign innocence, swordsman. Bring forth the medoriate, or I will draw him out!”
Dain was at a loss of words. He merely stood there, his sword useless against the verbal threat. Finally, his horror-stricken eyes turned to the staging area and his fellow performers.
Rosie gave him the sign to wait. She straightened her costume and readied to enter the ring. “This man is ruining everything,” she grumbled, her face flushed with anger. “So much for a flawless performance. We will hear of this for years to come.” She took a step forward, but was stopped by pressure on her arm. Arythan stood there, his sword at his side. “What?”
“Let me meet ‘im.”
“Wha—no. No. Let me contend with this,” Rosie said, her voice hard.
“I know ‘im.”
She gawked at him.
By now Eraekryst had joined Dain in the ring. The performers watched, dumbfounded, as Dain handed him his sword.
“What is he doing?” Lyssana gasped.
&nb
sp; What he does best. Being a bastard, Arythan thought.
“I challenge the true medoriate to a duel in this ring! For the sake of sincerity and integrity, will he not heed me?” Eraekryst asked, facing the audience with arms wide.
“’E knows I’m right ‘ere,” the mage muttered. He took a breath to calm himself and moved forward.
“Arythan!” Rosie called, but he continued on his course. He did not so much as glance at Dain as the confused performer passed him on the way to the staging area.
I won’t let him take this from me. I won’t let him ruin it! Arythan thought, his jaw set, his eyes ablaze.
Eraekryst turned to meet him with a radiant and triumphant smile. “Ah, Durmorth,” he murmured, “there you are.”
Arythan’s sword ignited in blue flame as he lowered his blade to point at the Ilangien. Then he charged.
Eraekryst barely had a chance to leap aside. “You are delighted to see me,” he said, using Dain’s sword to block Arythan’s swipe.
The mage came at him again, eyes set upon his target.
This time Eraekryst was not quick enough, and the blade tore through his sleeve, found his flesh. He glanced down at the golden blood upon his arm in surprise. “Ah! You grazed me! What is your intention?”
Since he was a child, Arythan had been taught not to waste words during combat. “If your weapon is drawn, the argument is over,” his father had often said. So he did not know why it was he entertained Eraekryst’s question. “Y’ challenged me,” he said darkly.
Eraekryst drew himself up. “I did. And either you are out of practice, or you were never a good swordsman.” He poised his blade as if to encourage the mage’s advance.
What is he doing? Arythan wondered, knowing that such a stance might have been impressive to the audience, but it left the Ilangien open for attack. This is ridiculous. He has no bloody idea how to fight.
Eraekryst thrust the blade at him, and Arythan took advantage of the opening, slicing him neatly across the ribs. The Ilangien made a funny noise, and touched his hand to his stained shirt. “I see you have discovered my angle. I am not a swordsman, but I aim to be an actor…if you allow me to survive.”
“Sorry,” Arythan said. He came at Eraekryst and nicked him thrice before the Ilangien made a heroic turn and somehow knocked the sword from Arythan’s hand.
“You are through, Dark Wizard!” he announced for all to hear. But instead of the anticipated cheers, he heard shouting—warnings. He looked down at his feet to find them encrusted in ice, fastening him to the ground.
“Most sinister,” Eraekryst said, delighted. “What else will you do?”
Arythan continued to build the ice, intent on freezing the Ilangien in a solid crystal. You arrogant asshole. This is fun for you, destroying my life. I should kill you. I should chop off your legs and wipe the smile from your face. I should—
“You ought to stop, Durmorth,” Eraekryst said, concern replacing his enthusiasm.
Beg me, Arythan thought, swaying on his feet. He concentrated all the cold air he could find, drew it to the captive Ilangien. He had not considered that such a maneuver would mean his subsequent overheating. He had not even noticed that he had ceased sweating.
“You are intent on destroying yourself.” With a thought, Eraekryst cracked and shattered the ice around him. He gave the mage a shove with his mind as he pretended to tap him with the tip of his sword. Arythan fell backward, and Eraekryst immediately knelt beside him. “Hold still, you fool,” he murmured.
“I ‘ate y’,” Arythan said, ready to pass out.
“I know.” Eraekryst turned to the royal audience. “The Dark Wizard has been defeated! Righteousness and honor have prevailed this day!” He stood and bowed before the regents and their nobles, which won him great applause. Eraekryst bowed again and then directed his gaze toward Dain in the staging area. He gave a slight nod toward Arythan, and the performer quit gawking and hurried to the ring. Rosie came with him, ready to regain control of the show.
“You will find wet birds heavier than him,” Eraekryst said to Dain, and the two of them shouldered the unconscious mage and carried him from the ring.
Arythan awoke on a cot, nauseated and exhausted. There was a cool, wet cloth upon his brow and a larger one serving as a pillow beneath his head. There was also an Ilangien seated beside him. “No,” he croaked, and subconsciously felt for his hat.
“Aye. Hello, Durmorth. Fear not, I have kept your shrouded visage a mystery to your companions. As of now they are meeting with the rulers of this—”
“Why are y’ere?” Arythan asked weakly.
“That is a tale to be told,” Eraekryst said, studying him. “You seem to be recovering from your folly.”
“My folly,” Arythan echoed and licked his dry lips. Eraekryst handed him a cup of water, and the mage sat up to drink it. He looked at the Ilangien humorlessly, finishing the liquid in one gulp.
“It will not serve you to drink too much too quickly.”
“Y’ ‘urt my eyes.” To Arythan, Eraekryst had changed quite a bit. His pale glow was radiant and streaming, and the hollows of his face had been filled. There was life and color to him, from his fair face to his silver-blue eyes to the long golden hair braided behind his back.
“Yea, my health has been restored. The Ilán strengthens me once more.” Eraekryst nodded toward him. “You seem better sustained. And you possess more hair.”
Arythan rubbed his lengthening beard in irritation. “Why are y’ ‘ere?” he repeated.
“I could ask you the same—”
“Out with it,” Arythan snapped, his anger rising again. “Y’ should be ‘ome.”
“I should be wherever I wish to be,” Eraekryst said indignantly. “You did not indicate you were traveling with performers. I would have joined you sooner.”
“Right—because this is all about the prince ‘aving ‘is fun,” Arythan said with a scowl. “Y’ave no idear what it took for me to get ‘ere.”
“You came in a caravan.”
Arythan threw the cup at him, but Eraekryst froze it in the air, allowing it to land gently in his palm. The mage shook his head. “Y’ve ruined everything. The ‘ole bloody performance failed because y’ad to show off. Now they’ll ‘ave me leave.” His anger now bordered grief. All he could think about was roaming the streets, starving and stealing.
Eraekryst had watched the change in his expression, and he turned away. “I had not thought my intrusion the cause of your doom. ’Twas not my intention to compromise your fortune.”
“’S never y’r intention, is it? But ’tis always the same with y’. Y’ jus’ don’ care,” Arythan said, his gaze unwavering upon the Ilangien. He shook his head and lay back upon the cot.
“That is not true, Durmorth. I do care. ’Tis the reason I am here.” He glanced up to see the mage was still watching him. There was the warning—the warning he had vowed to relay before he would return home. Seranonde the Huntress was following her quarry, and he was the only one who knew of the danger. Yet, something kept him from saying her name, from revealing the hidden threat to the mage’s life. Before Eraekryst could say anything at all, however, Arythan spoke again.
“’Twas y’,” he murmured in revelation.
Eraekryst looked at him questioningly.
“The one the Red-‘anded sent to kill me. Y’ killed ‘im first. ’Twas y’r arrow, wasn’t it?”
“I know naught of what you speak,” Eraekryst admitted, though he tried to hide his growing unease.
“Sure y’ do. Y’ve been following me.” The amazement in Arythan’s voice turned to conviction.
“Not following—tracking. I had not the slightest notion where I would find you.” Then he leaned closer to the cot. “Who is the ‘Red-Handed’, and why would he desire your ending? What manner of trouble have you found in my absence?”
“Fine. Ignore m’ question. I know ’twas y’.” Arythan scratched his chin and grimaced at the texture. “Anyway, what�
�s my trouble to y’? Y’ left me in the middle o’ the road, remember?”
Eraekryst frowned and drew back. “You ordered me to do so.”
“Do y’ take everything so lit’rally? I was miserable. What did y’ expect me to say?” Arythan realized his mistake only after he had spoken.
“Then you did not truly wish for me to leave?”
“Look, do y’ know the trouble y’ cause me?”
“You have not answered the question.”
“An’ y’ still ‘aven’t told me why y’re really ‘ere.” They stared at each other without expression, without sign of relenting.
Then, remarkably, Eraekryst sighed, and his features softened. “I was betrayed.”
Arythan’s brow furrowed, but he said nothing.
“My homecoming was not so joyous for my part.” The Ilangien’s voice quieted. “Aye, there were those grateful for my return…but there were truths upon which I had stumbled. One who I had trusted throughout my youth may very well be responsible for my imprisonment.” His gaze fell to the ground. “I had once considered him my closest friend. Now there is only distrust and bitterness between us. That I were wrong, my heart would rest easier.”
“Could y’ be wrong?” Arythan asked quietly. “Why would ‘e betray y’?”
“He has not admitted his guilt, and no sure evidence has presented itself, but logic supports my suspicions.” He held out the cup. “As to why…” The object lifted and turned in the air before it returned to his hand. “The power I possess frightens him.”
Arythan nodded in agreement.
A flash of anger crossed Eraekryst’s face. “’Tis not a reason to ensnare and abuse one for nigh a century. I had done nothing—nothing to deserve such a fate!”
“I’m sorry, mate,” Arythan said. “What y’ can do—‘struth, I don’ even know what y’ can do—but ’tis a scary thing. Reading minds, moving things with thoughts, seeing the future. People like to think they’re in control o’ themselves. I know I do.” He held onto the knife around his neck. “But y’re right. Y’ shouldn’t ‘ave been inside the mountain.”
Eraekryst looked up at him appreciatively. “I could not remain there, Durmorth. I could not stay in Veloria knowing of my betrayal.”
