by Colt, K. J.
Arythan could almost feel its dark wings overshadow him as they ascended the winding road to the royal city just beyond the Crown’s walls. When he had first traveled into Cerborath with the Crimson Dragon, he had scarcely taken note of the landscape, scarcely paid attention to his surroundings. It had been just another stop in the journey, but now his stay would be longer, and he viewed the kingdom with different eyes and a greater attentiveness.
The city had its own walls, high and foreboding—not unlike the labyrinth at the Cantalereum. These walls, however, were taller and steadfast, though Arythan wondered if misfortune might await him here too. A break in the clouds allowed the fading sun to hit the windows of the not-so-distant castle before them, and they glinted red like the eyeshine of a great spider. Arythan took a lasting look behind him as they passed through the city gate, and the barrier closed.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
SIDE STOP
THEY WERE NOT taken to the castle. Rather, they were abandoned by the dark company at a cottage on the outskirts of the royal city. The dwelling bore no sign but was marked by a well-tended garden within the confines of a crudely fashioned fence. Eraekryst had inferred the purpose of their destination almost immediately, and though he was eager to share his insight with his companion, Arythan seemed anything but receptive.
Now the mage lay upon a cot with his eyes closed, what was visible of his face tense with pain. His caretaker, one Lady Diana Sherralin, was occupied with concocting a dwaile. Surrounded by a wall of silence, which Eraekryst suspected she erected with the sheer austerity of her presence, she worked methodically at her table, her back toward them. Tall, slender, and straight-framed, she was her own fortified tower, complete with a pale regard that threatened anyone to speak against her. Try to crack her exterior, and you would likely be dashed upon the sharp angles of her cheeks, shoulders, and hips, skewered by her eyes. Diana Sherralin was not one for idle chit-chat.
Eraekryst did not suffer the silence well. For a short while, he had been distracted by his curiosity, drawn to the contents of this cottage and the mysteries bottled upon its shelves. Colored glass vials sparkled like fragments of a broken rainbow in the firelight. Herbs as fragile as burnt paper hung upside down from the rafters, their lingering scents swirling as a stew inside the confines of the room. There were glazed bowls of varying sizes, tools for smashing, cutting, and mixing. Jars contained roots suspended in water, fine powders, withered mushrooms, and dried leafy flakes. There were numerous worn books that stood among these items, and several had bits of paper or pieces of pressed plants jutting from the pages. The hearth bore a cauldron that steamed with a savory fragrance of its own.
All of this Eraekryst had poked and prodded, unmindful or simply uncaring of Lady Sherralin’s wary glances. She said nothing, however, of his intrusion, and continued her work without a sound. For the Ilangien’s part, he was as curious about her as he was about her shop. She was surrounded by cool, pastel hues of green and blue, with golden sparks that lifted from her like fireflies. Magic. Undiscovered or unacknowledged—she had a gift, though he could not begin to speculate the nature of her ability.
The Ilangien plucked a blue jar from the shelf and sat down on a cot next to the mage’s. “I often wonder at the effectiveness of Human medicine,” he mused, holding the jar up to the firelight.
Arythan’s eyes snapped open, and Lady Sherralin made a sound suspiciously like a snort.
“I had read about practices employed by the Jornoan culture, and many of them are similar to the techniques utilized in torture.”
“Erik,” Arythan whispered, shaking his head.
Eraekryst ignored him, turning the jar slowly against the light. “I had often wondered how many had perished on account of ignorance and crude methods.” His gaze shifted from the jar to the woman, but she continued to work.
“I can imagine,” she said, her expression unreadable, “that a great many died. Fortunately, I am not a Jornoan, though you, sir, seem to have experience in both medicine and torture.” She strained the contents of her mixing bowl into a cup.
“I have experience in a great many subjects,” Eraekryst said, a slight smile turning the corners of his mouth.
“You are the performers, aren’t you?” she asked. “‘Sparrow and Crow.’ Dueling medori of the Crimson Dragon.” She hefted a heavier jug from the floor and uncorked it.
Eraekryst watched her decant the liquid into the cup and mix it slowly with a spoon. “Until recently, aye, when misfortune found us.”
Arythan gave a sigh and closed his eyes again.
“I am sorry for what happened,” Lady Sherralin said, bringing the cup to the mage. “Drink this.” She stood with her hands on her hips and waited as Arythan inspected the contents. “It’s not poison. And you will have to lower your scarf…unless your magic powers allow you to absorb liquid by looking at it.”
The mage gave her a dark look, but Eraekryst’s smile expanded. “Ah, Durmorth, she matches your attitude. Best not hesitate, lest she share your temper as well.” As he said this, the medic held out her hand for the stolen jar. With some reluctance, he returned it to her.
“What is it?” Arythan asked, trying to smell the odor his nose refused to acknowledge.
“Oh, are you a medic as well?” Lady Sherralin asked. “What it is will mean little to you. It will help with the pain, and that is all you need to know.” She tapped her foot impatiently. “You can drink it now. The sooner you do, the sooner I can see to your foot.”
“Ankle,” Eraekryst corrected.
Arythan stared at her. “Go a’ead. I promise I won’t cry.”
Lady Sherralin frowned. “How old are you, Medoriate Crow?”
“For certain he is more youthful than you,” Eraekryst said honestly.
The medic reddened but kept her gaze upon Arythan. “You see, only the boys ever feel they need to prove their strength. The men know better than to question me and my expertise. I am the medic, you are the patient. If you knew more than me, you would not be here.”
“Except that we were brought here by the thugs in black, without disclosure of our destination,” Eraekryst said.
Diana shot him a narrow-eyed glance, then turned back to Arythan. “Drink it or not. I will not help you unless you do as I say.”
Now it was Arythan who was red. “Y’ don’—” He stopped himself and took a deep breath, lowering his scarf just enough that he could down the drink as quickly as possible. Then the scarf was up again, but it was clear from his pinched expression that the concoction had not agreed with him.
Eraekryst looked on, fascinated. “I am impressed, Lady, for you have done what no other could achieve. My companion has heeded your words without argument.” He gave her a bow from where he sat.
“All right,” Lady Sherralin said, her tone sharp. “Performers though you are, I will not be mocked in my own shop. Another outburst, Medoriate Sparrow, and I will ask you to leave.”
“I intended no insult,” Eraekryst protested.
“Then you clearly have no recognition of your own words or how I interpret them.” She took the cup from Arythan’s hand. “What I am doing is a favor; I do it of my own will. You would do well for your sake and your friend’s to remember that.” Lady Sherralin turned her back on them and headed to her table.
“Yet what you claim is not entirely true,” Eraekryst started, despite Arythan’s strong head shake. “The favor you do is for the king, and the king is not one to be disregarded. He intends to see us as his guests.”
Lady Sherralin had paused in her actions, just long enough to hear him. Then she tended to the cauldron as though he had not spoken.
Eraekryst watched Arythan lay back in the cot and cover his face with his hands. “I am merely speaking honestly, Durmorth.” When the mage did not respond, he sighed. “Lady, though you are an unwilling party in this service, I do appreciate your assistance.”
“You will be escorted to the castle tomorrow,” Lady Sherralin
said without acknowledging his gratitude.
“Your potion will have mended his injury?”
“I am not a witch,” she asserted. “I do not work in potions, spells, charms, or,” she nodded toward Arythan, “medical miracles.”
Eraekryst had snatched another jar from a nearby table and was absently turning it in his hands. At her response, he looked up at her, searching her with his eyes. “The nature of your profession and your inherent magic are unrelated, then?”
“I will repeat myself—”
“No, do not do that,” the Ilangien said, interrupting her with a wave of his hand. “You indicated you are not a witch, but there are medori other than witches.”
“I have no magic,” Diana said flatly. “My skill is through knowledge and experience.”
“Interesting.”
She moved to collect the second jar from Eraekryst’s hands. “You cannot seem to sit still Medoriate Sparrow, and I would appreciate if you fidgeted with objects that did not belong to me.”
Eraekryst seemed insulted. “I am not fidgeting; I am exploring. And, unlike you—though you seem to be convinced otherwise in regard to your own innate talents—I am not a medoriate. My companion alone answers to such a title.”
“Yet you are glowing,” Lady Sherralin insisted.
Eraekryst stared at her wide-eyed, but only for a moment.
“’M going to be sick,” Arythan announced weakly, and both heads turned toward him. Even behind his scarf, his pallor was evident, and he stretched half over the side of the cot.
“Oh, I should have known,” Diana muttered, hurrying to fetch a bucket. She brought it just in time as the mage lost the minimal contents of his stomach. She brought him a wet cloth when he had finished, but her expression had not changed…unless it had softened slightly.
Eraekryst, however, was disgusted. “Excessive and dramatic as always.” He studied the mage, peering into his colorless, sweat-beaded face. “Your eyes are strange in their appearance.” Arythan’s pupils were but pinpoints, even in the darkness of the room.
“It is the work of the medicine,” Diana said.
“What manner of remedy sickens the patient rather than aids him?”
“Remedies will have their influences as well. The pain will abate, but he will experience—”
“I swear I’m lighter,” Arythan blurted, his voice muffled by the bucket. “Floating o’er m’ chunder…’cept my wings are gone.”
“Chunder?” Eraekryst queried.
“M’ guts,” Arythan said, straining as Diana helped lift him back into the cot. He closed his eyes, and when he caught his breath he said, “Y’ don’ ‘ave guts. Y’ don’ eat anything. Y’ don’ ‘ave wings, either.”
The Ilangien gaped at him in a rare bout of astonishment, and then it was over, like the passing of a falling star. He closed his mouth.
“The laudanum is taking effect,” Diana said, having glimpsed Eraekryst’s expression.
“As I have gathered,” Eraekryst said, “though you have not indicated what the ‘effect’ entails.”
“I feel much better,” Arythan said. Abruptly he swung his legs over the side of the cot and tried to stand.
Diana made a startled sound and moved to stop him, though an unseen force gently shoved him backward, causing him to sit upon the cot again. The medic stood, dumbfounded. “What—?”
“Told y’ I could fly,” Arythan said. He lifted his injured ankle and tried to shake it with his hands. He frowned. “I feel it now,” he murmured. “I think it split into two. Two ankles.”
“Stop. Just stop,” Diana scolded. She pried his hands from the joint. “Lie back, and do not move.”
“All sense has abandoned him,” Eraekryst said as if to blame her. “His usefulness has been reduced to one redeeming quality: my entertainment. As much as he amuses me now, I cannot endure it. Give him back his mind.”
Arythan threw himself back into the cot. “What if I don’ want it back, y’ pointy-eared nit? I feel good.”
Eraekryst drew closer to him, as though he would whisper to his friend. “I would be convinced but for your sickly pallor, sweat-soaked brow, and annoying respiratory gasps. And your insults are completely unwarranted. You once had pointy ears.”
Diana rubbed her brow and turned her attention to Arythan’s injury. “Are you sure that you want to humor him? It seems rather cruel given his state.”
“A state in which you placed him, Lady,” Eraekryst reminded.
“Ah, mate,” Arythan said, “y’re just jealous o’ my lady.”
“I am not your lady,” Diana muttered. She had cut away the boot and surrounding material to stare at the swollen, purple mass that was the mage’s foot and ankle.
“She is not your lady,” Eraekryst repeated.
“Then why is she staring at me?” Arythan insisted, lifting himself from the cot.
“Down,” Diana ordered, and he lay back again.
“Perhaps because she finds you utterly repulsive. She is not staring but gawking in her revilement.”
Arythan’s expression cast itself into one of grave concern. “I don’ usually look like this,” he told her.
Diana glanced at him, then rose to retrieve what she needed.
“Nay, he has been noticeably hairy and tinted for some time now,” Eraekryst said, resting his chin upon his hand.
“I was a demon,” the mage said. “I was.”
“And I a prince from a woodland paradise,” Eraekryst added.
“’Struth,” Arythan said with a nod. “Can’t forget where y’ came from.” He gave a grand yawn.
“Nay,” the Ilangien said suddenly. “You cannot. And from where, Durmorth, did you originate?” He held his breath, awaiting the usual tight-lipped response. But there was a part of him that fervently hoped the mage would give him something more—something upon which his hungry mind could feed for a while. When Arythan closed his eyes, Eraekryst wondered if he would speak at all.
“On a mountain on an island in an ocean,” Arythan murmured. “No, y’ve never been there. No one ‘as, an’ ’tis better that way.” There was a pause where Eraekryst dared not speak lest the mage not continue. “’Twas warm. Always warm. Even at night, when we came out. Not like this bloody place.” He shuddered and shifted in discomfort as Diana began to soak his foot and ankle in a bowl of cool water. Still, his eyes remained closed.
“I would run along the rocks, into the forest,” Arythan continued after a moment. “’Twas like the ‘unt, but they were looking for me. ‘Quolonero, veriq! Veriq taz!’ As if I’d come.” He lips curved into a slight smile. “’Struth they never found me.”
“‘Quolonero,’” Eraekryst repeated, mimicking the inflection, the accent. “Qwoh-low-ner-oh. ’Tis a name, is it not? Your name?”
“Birth name. M’ father’s birth name, then mine.” He opened his eyes to stare hard at the Ilangien. “’S an insult, to call a bloke by ‘is birth name.”
Eraekryst blinked. “’Tis no longer applicable, then?”
“Try it, an’ I’ll break y’r nose again.” Arythan gestured weakly to his own nose and took a labored breath. “I don’ ‘ave a name. I never chose one, never will.”
Diana cleared her throat. “Your ankle is wrapped. See how you’re laying here, your foot atop this bundle?” She waited until Arythan’s eyes had focused upon the blanket folded and propped beneath his concealed foot. “This is how you must begin your stay at the castle. No walking for a week, and then you may use a crutch to hobble your way around as you will.”
Arythan’s eyes widened. “A week?”
“Alas, he cannot remain sedentary for so long a duration. His temper will be the death of us all, save me,” Eraekryst said, also surprised by the verdict. “Yea, the death of all of you. Envision flames engulfing the castle, lightning splintering the towers into rock dust. Oh, he will be so very intolerable.”
Diana rolled her eyes. “Well, unless he wishes to further injure himself for a longer s
tay, I suggest he do as I say.” She walked to the hearth and retrieved a bowl and a trencher with bread. “It is getting late, and I wish to get some sleep. You may eat if you are so inclined.” She placed the food on a nearby table. “I will see to you in the morning.”
“Thank y’,” Arythan said, but Eraekryst was not finished.
“Are you not intrigued by the exchange you have witnessed?” he asked.
“Medoriate Sparrow, the both of you are entertainers—one of whom has been given a potent medicine. How seriously do you expect me to listen to your conversation?” she asked, hands on her hips.
“You cannot understand the importance of this revelation,” Eraekryst insisted, gesturing to his friend. “For what I have heard this night—”
“It is also not my habit to eavesdrop. I mind my own affairs, Medoriate. Good night.” And with that, she disappeared into the adjoining room and shut the door.
Eraekryst sighed and returned his attention to the mage. “‘Eavesdrop.’ Explain this to me.”
“What?”
“Eavesdrop.”
“’S that what she gave me? ’S making me tired.” Arythan yawned again.
“No, no,” Eraekryst murmured. “Not yet. Stave off your sleep, Durmorth. I am not finished, nor are you.” He snatched the plate and offered it to Arythan. “Satisfy your hunger.”
Arythan waved it away. “Not ‘ungry. Tired.”
“You are always hungry,” Eraekryst said desperately. “Observe.” He took a piece of the bread and ate it, chewing it with an exaggerated smile. “Delightful!”
