by Colt, K. J.
She nodded, her interest shifting toward what he was about to do.
“I can take control of it. Like this.” The flames flared a vibrant blue, grabbing the attention of nearby guests. “When I let it go, it turns orange again.”
Kalissa’s large eyes moved from the torch to him. “I always thought you had to say some special spell or wave some kind of wand.”
Arythan shook his head. “Not a mage. ’S different.” He regarded the torch flame and it assumed the shape of a snake. By now, everyone was watching the spectacle.
“I ‘ave to focus.”
The snake reared high before it reached out to strike at the empty air. Then it fizzled and died. The guests erupted in cheers and applause.
“Arythan, that was amazing,” Kalissa said, watching him stand.
He held onto his hat and gave a slight bow, first to her, then to his audience. The distraction had worked, though he could see Michael making his way toward him. The young man clapped him on the back. “I had so hoped you might do a trick for us.”
“I’m full o’ tricks,” Arythan mumbled. And I bet you are too.
“Walk with me, Medoriate,” Michael invited, crossing the room to stand near the hearth. “I confess I have traveled little beyond the kingdom. I can only imagine what you have seen with the Crimson Dragon, moving from village to town to city. You must meet all kinds of people, hear all manner of tales.” He paused to finish his wine, then set the cup upon the mantle.
“I am certain you have heard stories about this land, the people, my father,” Michael said, his voice and expression becoming more serious. “I would like to dispel all of them as that: stories, works of fiction.”
Sieqa. I am a fool. This is the prince, Arythan realized. “I don’ put much faith in stories and rumours, sir.”
Michael looked at him skeptically. “You do not need to convince me of anything, Medoriate. As your friend demonstrated the differences between fact and fiction, I know the workings of both. My father has been called a scoundrel, our people primitive, and our land worthless and barren. For this, we have few visitors, and Cerborath remains unrecognized as a true Northern Kingdom. My father has fought diligently to see that we are acknowledged, and often his bold ambitions are misinterpreted as brazen, but we cannot afford to be delicate. Our people are hardy and strong of will and heart. Our land has rich forests, the thick furs of bear and wolf, and hidden treasures as well.”
At the mention of hidden treasures, Michael lowered his voice. “The earth is black, Medoriate. Rich with magic that, when extracted and refined, enlivens the body and mind. It is an Enhancement, a marketable product of which you may have heard: Black Ice. It is quite popular amongst the nobility, and as of now, only they can afford it. But we hope through our alliance with the Merchants’ Guild to offer Black Ice to all of Secramore. Through the Enhancement, Cerborath might finally achieve some favorable recognition.”
Arythan searched Michael’s face. Why is he telling me all this?
“There is opportunity here,” the prince continued, as though he had heard Arythan’s thoughts. “Cerborath will grow and prosper. We are on the brink of a golden era.” He gave a short laugh. “Though we do not suffer now. Do we seem lacking?” He nodded toward his guests, the wine, and all the luxury of which the solar and its occupants boasted. “One can lead a good life here…a good life that will be even better in the near future.”
Michael turned back to him. “For one born into poverty, it might be difficult to envision the wealth, the power, and the esteem you could achieve.” He gripped Arythan’s shoulders, and the mage stiffened. “What I am asking, Medoriate Crow, is if you will join the family of Cerborathian nobility. Serve our king as his revered medoriate, and you will cease to remember any hardships of the past. You would be required to assist us in harvesting the Black Ice, to use your talents in refining the Enhancement. From what I have seen of your magic, the task would be no effort at all.” He let go of the mage’s shoulders and gave him a sincere smile. “What do you think of my offer?”
The mage looked past him to see Eraekryst watching him intently. He held back a scowl. To serve a king… The notion, to him, was unappealing. He would have to give up his wandering, his freedom. He would be bound to a master, and who knew what stipulations would be impressed upon him. Would he take an oath? If he did not like his role, would he be able to leave? If he made a mistake, would his head adorn a pike atop the castle crenellation?
He was happy now. Happy to be amongst people who accepted him, happy that he still had the freedom to go where he wanted, happy to remain in a role that kept him hidden. Why would he want to change all that?
“All y’ say, ’s a generous offer,” Arythan said, “but I’m not good at following directions, an’ I’m even worse at staying in one place.” He shifted uncomfortably before forcing himself to meet Michael’s gaze. “So thank y’, but I ‘ave to decline.”
The prince blinked. “Truly?” He rubbed his chin. “I had not thought you would refuse, let alone answer so quickly.”
Arythan shrugged.
“Perhaps you might consider it anyway. I will let the offer stand.”
I am not going to change my mind, the mage thought, but he gave the prince a nod to humor him. “If y’ don’ mind, I’m knackered, an’ I—”
“You would no doubt appreciate some well-deserved rest,” Michael said. “It was a pleasure meeting you and Lord Sparrow.” He smiled when Arythan extended his hand. “Do not forget to think on my offer,” he said, accepting the gesture. They shook hands, and the prince escorted him to the door. “Shall I call an escort to return you to your troupe?”
“I remember the way, thanks.”
“Good night to you, Medoriate.”
Arythan had not taken five steps before Eraekryst appeared beside him. “Did you accept?” he asked.
“Y’re a bastard. Y’ knew the ‘ole time what this was about,” Arythan said, his agitation surfacing from where he had buried it.
“Did you not? I had thought it obvious.”
“Nigqor-slet.” Arythan pounded down the steps ahead of him.
“You are cross with me…again,” Eraekryst said.
The mage stopped at the bottom of the steps to glare at him. “Nice stories. Next time, leave me out o’ them.”
“I cannot. You are now part of my tale,” the Ilangien said innocently. “Besides, you will not disclose to me your history, and so I had to create one from what I knew.”
“Y’ lied to them.”
“They will never know the difference. As you saw, they chose to believe the more plausible tale. It will not be put to question again.”
“Damn right.” Arythan turned and strode down the hall, the Ilangien on his heels.
“You declined his offer.”
The mage said nothing.
“’Twas a wise choice. I support your decision, Durmorth,” Eraekryst tried.
“I don’ care.”
“But if you are content with your decision, why are you so angry? You are charring the stones near the torches, so large do they flare.”
“Why can’t anyone be bloody ‘onest?” Arythan demanded. “All o’ y’ play games to get what y’ want. Y’ don’ think about anyone but y’selves.”
Eraekryst frowned and turned up his nose as they walked. “You place me in a category with others you despise. I should think you hold me in higher regard. I am not so petty.”
“I know what I know. If y’ don’ like it, y’ ought to change.”
“A little inner reflection would not cause you harm, either,” Eraekryst said.
The guards opened the doors to allow them outside the keep and into the bailey.
“Ah, ’s my fault now,” Arythan said, his strides lengthening across the open space.
“Fault? To what are you attributing blame?”
Arythan rubbed his brow, his headache having returned. “Jus’ shut it. Please.”
Eraekryst rounded on him.
“I will not be silent, for I have committed no transgression. Perhaps you should ask yourself why it is your response is always angry.”
“Keep pushing me,” the mage warned. He brushed past the Ilangien to the gatehouse, and one of the watchmen opened the gate.
“Everything is a push to you.” Eraekryst’s voice came from behind him. “Everything that I say and all that I do is somehow offensive to you. I begin to wonder if you cannot be placated, for certainly nothing pleases you.”
Arythan stood rigid, waiting for the first moment he could leave the Ilangien behind. His fury smoldered inside him, waiting to ignite. He set his sight upon the carriage waiting outside—the carriage that had brought them there, and the carriage that would return him to the troupe. He can find his own way back.
When at last he was free of obstacles, Arythan made straightaway for his escape. Eraekryst crossed his path yet again, cutting him off. “Leave me alone,” the mage seethed, his tone quiet and dark.
“I will not.” Eraekryst folded his arms. “If you think you can evade this confrontation, you best consider another option. I know what enrages you, and ’tis not me. ’Tis the fact you have not accepted this new life, but you must, Durmorth, for you will never be what you once were.”
Arythan charged him as though he intended to run straight through him to the carriage.
“Not this time,” Eraekryst said softly. His hand thrust forward to halt the mage, and Arythan did stop several feet away—but not of his own volition. With the flick of his wrist, the Ilangien sent him reeling backwards, and an invisible shove slammed Arythan to the ground, breathless.
The mage gasped and stared after the retreating Ilangien in shock. The carriage rolled away, down the mountainside and to the encampment below. It would take him a couple hours to return to the troupe now, and he was not certain that he wanted to return. Not so long as the arrogant bastard of an Ilangien remained with them.
“Sir, are you all right?”
Arythan, still speechless, gave a slight nod to the guard. He was grateful when the man went away, and only then did he make an effort to pick himself up. A chilly breeze tried to lift his hat, made him shiver. Then it came: the initial spattering of droplets from the sky.
Nigqora. Arythan gave an empty sigh and started walking.
Whether Eraekryst had disclosed to the troupe the nature of their conflict, or whether the members of the Crimson Dragon had simply sensed Arythan’s mood, they did not approach the mage when he returned to them, soaked and chilled. They did, however, regard him with concern, though he did not speak to any of them. Rather than warm himself by the fire in their company, he chose isolation.
Even in the days that followed, he said next to nothing and was seldom seen. The only clues to his presence were a cough or a sneeze from the back of a wagon. Eraekryst, for his part, did not speak of him or to him, and though he kept the company of his fellow entertainers, he lacked his usual vivacity. This went on as the Crimson Dragon traveled out of Cerborath and back to the Northern Link.
Rosie and Lyssana worried that their star performers would not be prepared for their next destination. Both of them had approached Eraekryst and Arythan, and the result was the same in every instance: a quiet and short response that all was well.
Arythan was not surprised at all one evening when he received a visitor. In an effort to breathe out his stuffy nose, he tried to sleep sitting upright. This was how Miranda found him, in the dark of the wagon, against the wall, buried beneath a heap of blankets. “Do you mind if I talk to you?” she asked softly.
The mage did not open his eyes, but he did shake his head.
Miranda gathered her skirts and sat across from him. “You, ah, probably think Rosie or Lyssana sent me, but it’s not true. I’m here because I want to be here.”
“’M sorry,” Arythan croaked from beneath his blanket-hood, then broke into a deep, grating cough.
“I’m not. I admit…I’m worried about you. We all are.”
“Don’ be.” He lowered his scarf and gulped at the air. “I’m an arse’ole, ’s all.”
Miranda’s brow furrowed. “You don’t have to tell me anything, but maybe it would help. I can be a good listener.”
“What’s to tell?”
“Well, it’s obvious you and Erik have had a disagreement. He is just as miserable as you are, I’m certain.”
Arythan’s snort was either a sneeze or a reaction to her last remark.
“You don’t see what we see,” Miranda said. “You’re always in here, in this stuffy, dark wagon. I know you don’t feel well, but this won’t get any better if you both continue to be stubborn.”
There was a span of silence that followed, where the only audible sounds were Arythan’s noisy breathing and the rustling of Miranda’s dress as she shifted uncomfortably.
At last the mage opened his eyes and regarded her. She was beautiful, even in the shadows. Hints of gold from her hair caught the limited light of the lantern, defining the soft contours of her face. He took a breath. “I’m not what I should be.”
He had spoken so quietly she almost did not hear him. “Pardon?”
“I’m diff’rent from what I was. I don’ know if I can stand it.”
“Everybody changes, Arythan. I’m not the same person I was years ago. Or even the same person I was before I met you.” She turned away, bashful.
He blinked in surprise. There was next to nothing between them; how could he have affected her? “What do y’ mean?”
“Do you remember when you showed me your face? Well, I realized I had misjudged you. I thought you were some ratty criminal trying to use us for protection.”
“I was a criminal,” he admitted.
“Hush, will you? When you let me see you, I saw something more. I…I’ve been watching you since then,” she confessed. “I see this funny, kind, amazing person….”
“Y’ sure y’ weren’t looking at someone else?” he asked. “Like Erik, maybe?” He imagined her blushing even though he could not see it.
“He is nice,” Miranda said lightly, “and very handsome—both of you are very handsome—but he, uh, talks a lot. I don’t always understand him. It seems like he must come from somewhere so completely different….”
“’E does.” Arythan stifled a sneeze, only to have it strike twice as hard a moment later. When he caught his breath, he continued. “’E makes me angry, but I know ‘e’s right.” He sighed. “Everything makes me angry; I don’ like ‘oo I am. ’S not me.” He gestured to the whole of himself. “All that I am was taken from me.” Though she could not see it, he clutched at the obsidian knife beneath his shirt. “An’ there’s nothing I can do about it.”
“I’m not sure I understand, Arythan.”
He did not expect her to understand, but he could tell from her voice that she wanted to. There was no plausible way to tell her his story, and he did not want to. What he wanted was something he could not have. “’M sorry,” he said. “I’m not the best bloke to be around right now.”
“That’s why I’m here,” Miranda said. She reached out and touched his knee. “We’re a family, you know—the Crimson Dragon. We all help each other. Maybe you need time to work through this, but you won’t be alone—not if you let us stand beside you.”
Arythan thought back to his first surrogate family: the Prophet’s clan of thieves. Despite his appearance and his magic, they had taken him in as one of their own. Every now and then he was reminded how much he missed being part of something greater. Maybe he was not so alone. He let go the knife and took her hand.
Miranda’s blue eyes gazed into his, and she moved closer to him, resting her head upon his shoulder. They sat there for a while in silence, and he wondered if she had fallen asleep. But then she began to hum, and the humming shaped into words that her soft and lovely voice brought to his ears. The words themselves were unimportant, lost to him as he gripped a greater truth: she was singing for him. It was a rare moment when he opened his
heart to those around him—as he did so now—a moment he would return to time and again when darkness found him. Maybe it was time for him to try again.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
YELLOW AND BLACK
ERAEKRYST STOOD just beyond sight of the Crimson Dragon’s encampment, sword in-hand. It was not the same, practicing alone. There was no fun in it, no challenge, though he would confess to boredom before he would confess to loneliness. But there was something else….
He took a fighting stance, then a few swings. “Yellow,” he muttered, falling back into the recently-acquired habit of talking to himself. Anything was better than silence—even his own voice. “Pending yellow. Ominous yellow.”
He stabbed at the air. “You move too quickly.” He drew back, eyeing an invisible foe. “Slow down, that I may pierce your flesh with my blade.”
Frustrated, he suddenly threw his weapon down. “What is it?” he demanded. “Why do you persist in haunting me?”
Arythan stepped out from behind a tree, and Eraekryst turned on him in surprise. “Sorry,” the mage said, taken aback by the outburst.
“’Twas not you,” the Ilangien said, his tone gentler.
“There isn’t anyone else ‘ere,” Arythan said hoarsely.
Eraekryst frowned. The mage looked worn and pale beneath the honesty of the morning light. The blue-violet aura that surrounded him was faint and patchy, though the dark hole where the knife resided was the same. Of course, ever since Arythan’s transformation, Eraekryst had noticed such imbalances. “You are unwell, Durmorth.”
Arythan shrugged. “I’m not the one talking to m’self.”
“Perhaps you will volunteer to fill the silence, then.” Eraekryst waited for him to approach.
“Yeah, I mean to,” Arythan said. He sat down wearily across from the Ilangien and cleared his throat. “I’ve been a bastard, I know. ’S not an excuse, but I can’t seem to… I don’ know ‘ow to live this way.”
Eraekryst joined him upon the ground. “Acceptance is never immediate, but ’tis your fury you must mind lest you never find peace.”
