by Colt, K. J.
“Michael!” Ladonna whispered, flashing her husband a look of disapproval.
Banen’s expression had not changed, though his betrothed beside him had caught Michael’s excitement. The king’s interest, too, was piqued, but for other reasons.
“These are true medori and not petty magicians?” he asked his son.
“Genuine medori, Father,” Michael said with a knowing wink.
“You have not told Cyrul of this?”
“Not a word.”
Garriker gave his son a smile. “Then perhaps I will look forward to this troupe’s performance.” He glanced at the servant behind him. “More wine!”
“Your performance was stunning, Durmorth, but the smoke was in excess. I feel it shrouded the dynamics of my heroic victory. I had rehearsed the final thrust of my weapon, executed the stroke with a perfect flourish, but I fear the audience could not appreciate that climactic moment. Could you not conjure a breeze to clear the smoke away? Or perhaps a stronger wind would be better suited for a grand finale. I would end thus…” Eraekryst demonstrated a proud stance, his gleaming eyes cast skyward. When the mage continued walking without so much as a glance, he strode to catch up to him. “You are not paying me attention.”
“We were told to follow ‘er,” Arythan said, his eyes fixed upon the back of the tall, broad-shouldered woman walking ahead of them. He had barely had a chance to wash his face after their performance, and the drying sweat was sticky beneath his scarf, making his beard itch something fierce. He refrained from scratching it, however, too intent upon their destination.
This surprise engagement was something he could have done without. He and Eraekryst were the only members of the Crimson Dragon invited to the exclusive gathering after the performance. What could they do but accept? Of course, the Ilangien was eager to attend, but all Arythan wanted to do was find a quiet place to rest. The exertion from the show left his limbs heavy and weak, and there was a dull ache in the front of his head.
“If there is a chamber called a ‘solar’, do you think there exists an opposite room—a ‘lunar’?”
Arythan rubbed his brow.
“Never mind a response, Durmorth. I forget your ignorance in such matters.” Eraekryst gazed around them with wide eyes that glittered in awe. “Never have I set foot in so immense a structure.”
“I found y’ inside a mountain,” the mage reminded.
“That was completely different,” Eraekryst said. “This castle was built where none was before. It is a consummation of imagination, skill, and physical labor. It speaks for the Human desire to master the environment. Why seek shelter when one can build one? This is a self-sufficient entity, a marvel in form and function.”
“I was in a place like this once,” Arythan said quietly.
“Was it so grand?” Eraekryst asked, intrigued.
“’Twas a dungeon.”
The Ilangien cast him a disappointed glance. “You crushed my flame with a mere pinch of your fingertips.”
“Sorry.” Words came back to Arythan from months earlier. “It’s the Shadow in you,” his brother had said regarding a time when the mage had been particularly mischievous. There’s no Shadow in me now, he thought, so what is my excuse?
When they came upon a stairwell, Arythan wondered if he would be able to lift his feet, let alone scale his way to the top. He noticed that the Ilangien was exercising some restraint; otherwise Arythan was certain he would have soared his way to the summit as though he had eagle’s wings.
The mage hesitated for reasons other than the physical. He knew what awaited him in the solar, and it was every reason to turn back and flee. King Garriker had arranged for a private performance, and now he was capitalizing on the mage’s presence. This was likely to be a performance after the performance, only now he would be unable to distract himself with a mock battle. He would be expected to talk to people, answer questions, and muster demonstrations of his abilities. Arythan saw the vague smile upon his companion’s face, and a futile thought passed through his mind like a breeze. Send Erik instead. He wants to be here.
As if Arythan had said this aloud, Eraekryst paused to reassure him. “I have concocted a story that will represent both our histories, should anyone inquire about our past experiences. I also ask you not to make light of my abilities.”
“Fine.”
“You might consider leaving the conversation to me. During my imprisonment, I had read a great many Human texts. My vocabulary and presence are more refined than your—”
“Y’ saying I’m not proper,” Arythan interrupted, “jus’ because my etiquette is foreign. Nigqor-slet.”
“I intend to learn your language one day, to know just what vulgarities you are using against me—”
A throat was cleared, and the two of them looked up to find the woman was waiting for them, her arms folded. She was not any fair damsel to be certain, her tunic embellished with tiger fur—something she had probably killed and skinned herself—and a sword at her side. Though her skin was dark, her hair was white and tied tightly back from her face, enhancing the austere expression she bore. Apparently she was unaccustomed to waiting. Eraekryst nudged Arythan forward, and they continued up the stairwell in silence.
The corridor at the top was alive with the sounds of merriment. Laughter and chatter bubbled out of an open room—the solar—which was illuminated by a roaring hearth and a great many torches. No sooner than the two strangers peeked inside the doorway, their escort left, to be replaced by a young man in his mid-twenties. Like most Cerborathians, his pale complexion looked paler beneath his black hair—hair that was most likely not his own. Northern fashion, it seemed, favored wigs and painted facial hair. More than well-kempt, this man was in rich attire: a frilly chemise with a brocaded vest that bore gold buttons. Arythan felt every bit the vagrant he was, despite the quality of his own costume. But unlike Eraekryst, whose silver-blue eyes could pierce a person, this man’s blue eyes were warm and smiling.
If the man’s eyes smiled, then the rest of his expression was pure enthrallment. “My guests,” he said with a bow. “Please join us. You may call me Michael.” He ushered them into the spacious chamber and allowed them to take in their surroundings. The twenty-some occupants in the room were as well-dressed as Michael, and everyone seemed to be holding a cup of wine. Some were lounging, some were chatting casually, and some were obviously flirting. All were too engaged yet to notice the appearance of the not-so-lavish strangers.
“I am so pleased that you accepted our invitation,” Michael said. “Allow me to introduce you to everyone.” Rather than guide them around for more intimate formalities, Michael cleared his throat to make a grand announcement.
Arythan shrank back a step; Eraekryst moved forward.
“My dear friends and family, please welcome the talented members of the Crimson Dragon, the medori Erik Sparrow and Arythan Crow.” Michael stepped aside and presented them with a flourish.
The gathering was suddenly rapt upon them, and they all began to clap. Eraekryst gave a grand bow, and Arythan tipped his hat. The applause was replaced by whispers and murmurs, though the gaze of their audience never wavered.
Michael’s voice rose again. “You have seen what our guests can do—the amazing feats of magic they performed for our entertainment. I am sure their story is enticingly more profound than that of the hero and the villain.” He turned to the pair. “Won’t you tell us a little about yourselves?”
Arythan looked at Eraekryst, certain he would not have to utter a word. The Ilangien scanned his audience, readying his next act. “I tell two tales, one false and one true. The fanciful and the believable are not always one in the same.” His melodic voice had snared every ear in the solar, but Arythan was the only one uncertain if he wanted to hear the exposition.
“I invite you to draw your own conclusions,” the Ilangien continued, searching every face before him. He smiled and snared a cup of wine from a servitor passing by. “Which tale would you
prefer to hear first?”
Murmurs sprung like waves amongst the guests, rolling across the room with excitement. “First tell us what you want us to believe,” someone voiced. “The fanciful!” came another.
Eraekryst turned to Michael, who had not diminished in his delight. “What says our host?”
Michael tried to judge the crowd, rubbing his chin in thought. “Myself, I dare not decide. I submit, as always, to the will of my loving wife.” He motioned her from the crowd. “Ladonna, my dear, what shall we hear?”
The beauty who joined his side studied the two performers before answering, “The fanciful before the believable,” she said.
“A lady who knows what she wants,” Michael told his guests, and they applauded.
Eraekryst sipped his wine and started to stroll around the room. “’Tis a tale of two princes. One was the prince of a dark and perilous land—a land of demons. The demon-prince fled his land when he learned that he was afflicted by a terrible illness. He hid amongst strangers and lived an impoverished life as he sought a cure for his malady. His desperate mission intertwined his fate with that of the second prince.
“The second prince had been abducted from his homeland, betrayed by his people. He suffered in his prison for many years until the demon-prince chanced upon him and thus liberated him. They journeyed together, evading their enemies until they discovered what they hoped would be the solution to the demon-prince’s fatal malady.”
He spun on his audience, though he did not spill a drop of wine from his cup. “Two witches!” he exclaimed. “Two witches who promised to purge the sickness from the demon-prince…at a price.” Eraekryst paused and closed his eyes. “The price,” he said in a low voice, “was his darkness, his demon form.”
“What did he choose?” someone asked, and he was immediately hushed by his peers.
“He did not choose,” Eraekryst said, opening his eyes to stare at the one who had spoken. “The witches deceived him and tore the darkness from him for their own ill intentions. They left the demon-prince nigh dead, no longer a demon but a Human.”
“What of the other prince? Did he not try to save his friend?” asked a woman.
“Ah, yes. Too late, however. All too late.” The Ilangien’s grim tone warranted silence. “’Twas all he could do to retrieve his companion and escape with their lives.” He paused again—long enough that the guests looked at one another in question, wondering if the tale had ended.
Finally, Michael spoke up. “So what became of them, Medoriate Sparrow?”
Eraekryst sipped his wine, lifted his head, and smiled. “They traveled,” he said lightly. “Until, of course, they came upon a particular group of entertainers, with whom you are now acquainted.”
“A strange story, indeed,” Michael said, uncertain of the abrupt and vague resolution. “What of the other tale?”
The Ilangien downed the remainder of his cup and cast it dramatically into the hearth. “’Tis simpler, this version,” he admitted as though he had done nothing unusual. “We have two men. One was born in poverty, an orphan on the streets. As he grew, he learned of his magical abilities, but he could not escape his life as a thief and a vagabond.
“The other man was wealthy and was in want of nothing, but there was treachery and deceit amongst his family. He was cheated of his title and his land, and so he left in search of a different fortune. His path crossed with the thief when he discovered the pickpocket picking his pocket. They became fast friends, traveling as they might until…” Eraekryst gave a wave of his hand, indicating the same ending. When he received only expressions of puzzlement, he sighed. “…until, of course, they came upon a particular group of entertainers, with whom you are now acquainted.”
Michael clapped his hands together. “There you have it—two stories! And you say one is true.”
“’Tis what I said, verily.”
Michael turned to the gathering. “I think we can distinguish the fact from the fiction, can’t we?” He motioned to the Ilangien and stirred an applause. “A true entertainer!” he commended. He allowed the people to disperse and resume their activities before giving the two companions his full attention.
“You are a noble, then?” he asked Eraekryst.
“As you see it,” the Ilangien answered, expressionless.
“You have no magical gift?”
“None upon which I can elaborate.” Eraekryst gestured toward Arythan, who was but a shadow against the wall. “He is the medoriate.” Then, without another word, he walked into the gathering to mingle.
Michael looked after him, his brow furrowed. “He is a strange fellow.” He turned back to the dark and shrouded man before him. “I confess that it is you with whom I wanted to speak.” He scratched his chin when he received no immediate response. “Er…you can speak, can’t you? I do not mean to assume—”
“I ‘ave a voice,” Arythan answered dryly. His humor had plummeted further after Eraekryst’s stories. Not only was one a painful reminder of what had happened to him, but he had not expected his private affairs to be thrown before an audience—even if the audience did not know the truth. “Neither was true, by the way.”
“Your pardon?” Michael asked.
“’Is stories.”
“Oh. Well. I…” His eyes widened in sudden revelation. “You are a southerner! I dare say you are a long way from home. You might find companionship in a member of our elite force. Dagger is from the Firethorne Shore…” Michael rubbed his painted chin. “Then again, you might be better not meeting him. He is a brute, in all honesty.”
Arythan waited for him to return from his tangent. Michael, however, had momentarily left his glassy stare upon the wall. Too much wine, the mage thought, and brought his host back to the conversation. “Y’ wanted to speak to me.”
“Oh! Yes, I did. I wanted to ask how you have enjoyed your visit to our kingdom thus far.”
“’S bonzer.”
“‘Bonzer,’” Michael echoed. “You mean ‘good,’ right? I should have Dagger here to translate,” he joked.
Arythan stared.
“Right. Well, it is important to me that you are treated well.”
Why? Arythan wondered.
“Come with me,” Michael invited, drawing the reluctant mage toward a circle of chatting nobles. The chatting ceased as they entered the circle.
“A fine performance, Medoriate,” a man with a long face said, and the others nodded. “It is a rare treat to have such unusual entertainment.”
“Quite a treat,” agreed a young woman with a painted face. She stepped forward, and Michael took her hand.
“The lovely Lady Kalissa,” he said, passing her to Arythan. She was lovely, from her shaped eyebrows to her delicate chin and the rosy patches of color upon her cheeks. She was also well-endowed, a trait made obvious by the taut, plunging neckline of her dress.
Arythan had no idea what was expected of him. He tipped his hat and blushed, averting his gaze uncomfortably.
Michael suddenly handed him a cup of wine. “We should have a toast to you,” he said.
“Er…no, thanks,” Arythan said, declining both the toast and the wine. He did not want to remove his scarf.
“He is modest,” Lady Kalissa said. “This is too much for him. Come, Medoriate, I wish to know more about you.” She waited for him to take her arm, but when he did not, her eyes turned to Michael.
He gave a nod. “Please, Medoriate Crow, go and enjoy yourself.”
What is going on? Arythan thought, ill at ease.
She took his arm and pulled him through the gathering to a velvet-cushioned couch away from the activity. She sat first, and when he positioned himself an arm’s length from her, she sidled next to him. “You are shy for a performer,” Kalissa admitted. She reached to take his hand. “I imagine it must be difficult to face all those people.”
This is worse.
“You certainly wear a lot of clothes,” she said, studying his gloves.
�
�’S cold ‘ere.” It was not a lie. Cerborath was as far north as he had ever been, and it seemed like spring had been delayed here where it was at its pinnacle throughout the rest of the continent.
“This is fair weather for us, Arythan. The warmest days still warrant a light cloak.”
Sieqa.
“Though it is not so cold in here.”
He looked at the hearth, but she drew his attention back to her by touching the brim of his hat.
“Do you mind if I remove this?” she asked.
Arythan froze. “Yes,” he blurted, and she moved back in surprise. “Sorry. I can’t. Scars,” he said vaguely.
“Forgive me, I did not mean to make you uncomfortable,” she said, though she seemed less inclined to touch him. “May I ask how you—?”
“I was a demon-prince, remember?” he mumbled.
It took a moment before her expression changed from one of confusion to one of amusement. She laughed. “You are an entertainer,” she said, her hand now upon his knee. “I admire a man who has a wit about him.” She pressed closer still.
That’s enough. Something is amiss, and I need to know what it is. “I’m not like other medori.”
Her red lips spread wide. “I am sure you are not.” Her fingers walked his shoulder.
“Hm, right.” He felt his face bloom with heat. “I mean to say, I’m a mage, not a wizard.”
“I did not know there were different medori,” Kalissa murmured, though her attention was upon his eyes.
“Y-yes,” Arythan said, trying to keep his composure as she massaged near his neck. “Mages can only work with elements like fire, water, earth…” He took a breath. “Wind.”
“So you couldn’t, say, turn me into a slug,” Kalissa said. “Your eyes are incredible. They are so intense.”
“Er, thanks.” He looked down at his hands. “M’ magic is by thought, not by action.” He pulled away from her to point to a particular torch. “Y’ see that fire?”
