LEGENDS: Fifteen Tales of Sword and Sorcery

by Colt, K. J.

I won’t drink anything that wizard bastard has concocted, Arythan thought, making a face. I don’t care if I never speak again.

  “To ease your reluctance,” the Ilangien continued, “I had the cook devise something special.”

  Nothing is special enough. Arythan sat down on the rug and started to dress with the clean clothes that had been left for him. He frowned when the cup hovered in the air beside him. He chose to ignore it.

  “I know I have bestowed upon you the choice of our duration here, Durmorth, but there is much to consider aside from your recent turmoil.”

  He wants to stay! Arythan thought, incredulous. We nearly died, and he wants to stay.

  “What I did not have the opportunity to impart to you was the result of my exploration—which you had said you would rather hear than indulge in a sexual diversion.”

  The mage could almost see him grinning. As if I could stop you from telling me. Out with it, already.

  “I have been assured that the royal medoriate will be justly chastised for his treachery, and that he will bother us no further. Accompanying that promise was a second invitation to Summerfall.”

  Summer. Fall. Two seasons.

  “You must heal, lest your injury worsen. Lady Sherralin foresees that we will still be necessary guests here when the festival begins.”

  This is about a bloody festival? Arythan finished dressing and set his hat atop his head. He noticed someone had cleaned it for him. But where was his scarf?

  Eraekryst did a half turn. “Did you drink yet? Or are you merely hoping I suffer the quiet?”

  Arythan took the cup and pretended to drink from it.

  “I am not a fool, nor do I deserve such neglect.” He faced the mage, and Arythan nodded toward the tray of food.

  “Very well.” Eraekryst rose and brought the tray to him, then sat on the floor across from him. “Summerfall is a festival with music and dancing and Human traditions which promise to intrigue me. Already I am intrigued, and I have only heard of them.” He popped another grape into his mouth. “Therefore I think ‘twould be to your benefit to participate in the masquerade.”

  Arythan dropped his knife.

  “As of yet, no one—save myself and the lady in your bed—has seen your face in totality. You are virtually masked all the time, and ‘twould be no grand variation to attend this diversion.”

  Arythan pulled his hat lower and shook his head. He ate another piece of fish—how he hated fish. Truly he must be famished.

  “Why do you refuse?” Eraekryst demanded.

  Arythan ignored him.

  “You have no sound reason to decline. I will, then, accept the invitation on your behalf.”

  The mage stopped eating and stared at him. “No,” he mouthed.

  “Durmorth. Quolonero. You must—”

  In a fury, Arythan flipped the tray up at him, covering him with bits of fish and greenery. The cup was toppled, its sweet and steaming contents soaking a brown stain into the rug.

  “Must you be so brash? In that single gesture, you have ruined your meal, my attire, the rug, and the opportunity to regain your voice.” Eraekryst began picking the bits of food from his vest and setting them upon the tray.

  Nigqor-slet, Arythan thought. He grasped the chair-crutch he had placed against the tub and painfully stood. He knew Eraekryst was watching him as he limped his way to the bed and struggled to get into it.

  “’Twas the name that offended you,” Eraekryst inferred. “’Tis more personal than ‘Durmorth.’”

  Arythan rolled onto his side, his back toward the Ilangien. Even that name is a lie, he thought, his mood spiraling downward.

  Eraekryst abandoned the mess, stood, and fished in his pocket. “Though since I am bound to the habit of applying your descriptive name, I have crafted this for you.”

  The mage felt a light weight land on his side, and he reached over to pull it in front of his face. It was needlework, a square piece of material with a fancy letter “D” stitched at its center.

  “To remind you,” Eraekryst said, “that nothing about one’s true self is superficial.” He finished dusting himself off. “Now I must change into fresh attire and find some unfortunate servant to burn the rug.”

  For a long while Arythan stared at the letter until his eyes finally closed and liberated him into a world of dreams.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  LINGERING

  ARYTHAN’S BIG AND COMPLICATED world had grown much, much smaller in a matter of days, and a blanket of melancholy began to smother him. Confined to the bed in his room for a week, he grew listless and miserable. Eraekryst delivered him meals fit for kings: rich food flavored with spices, elaborate desserts, and quality beer and wine. The mage could not be enticed by their aroma, and his declining appetite had him pick at the platters, but nothing more. He opted, instead, to share them with the women that Michael occasionally sent to his chamber for “entertainment.” There was nothing physical about their encounters, though Arythan did find small comfort in listening to them talk and share their stories.

  Nothing more was heard or seen of the royal medoriate Cyrul Frostmeyer, and Arythan could not care less. Nor did he have any reaction to the news that Cerborath’s king had returned from his excursion. Arythan had yet to meet the man, and to him King Garriker II was just a name and hardly his host.

  His most consistent visitor, of course, was his neighbor. In addition to his meals, Eraekryst brought him books, drawings, and gossip from his castle adventures. Arythan was glad someone was having fun, though he knew the Ilangien was growing frustrated by his depression. Arythan was growing frustrated with himself, but he could not shake the sense of futility that rested in his undecided and looming future.

  One evening, after a half-eaten chicken leg and a dissected tart, Eraekryst announced that he had had enough. “I cannot understand this mood in which you have cast yourself. I know that mortals have a range of emotions, but your color has not varied for a week. There is no remedy I can employ, and so I have sought the help of another.”

  Arythan regarded him warily. “I don’ need a visitor,” he said, though he reached for his hat and pulled the new scarf from the nightstand.

  Eraekryst jumped to his feet. “You can speak again!” he cried, delighted.

  “For two days now,” he admitted.

  “But you said not a word!”

  “I ‘ad nothing to say.”

  Eraekryst shook his head, incredulous. “If not to me, I hope you will speak to our guest.” As he headed for the door, Arythan sighed and covered up.

  Waiting beyond the barrier was Diana Sherralin, a smile upon her austere face, and a folded bundle in her arms. “Hello, Medoriate Crow,” she said. “I have come at Lord Sparrow’s bidding.” She set the bundle down in the broken chair. “He has been quite concerned about you.”

  Arythan turned a dubious expression toward the Ilangien.

  “She lies, Durmorth. I was merely curious about your condition, for it is boring and intolerable,” he insisted, his arms folded in defiance.

  Diana moved to the bedside. “Tell me, Medoriate, is there more to this ‘condition’ than being boring and intolerable?”

  “No,” he said quietly. “Tha’s it.” Reluctantly he allowed her to unwrap his bandaged hands.

  “They’re healing quickly,” she said, noticing the heavy scabs and fading bruises. “And what about your ankle?” She moved to his equally bandaged foot and conducted the same examination. “Can you move it for me?” When he complied, she gave a nod. “Swelling is down, color is returning to normal. Judging by your range of motion, you might be able to leave this bed and hobble around.”

  “That is favorable news, Durmorth,” Eraekryst said brightly.

  Arythan expected rainbows and sunshine to pour out his mouth. “Yeah, ’s good.”

  The Ilangien’s smile faded. “Do you see, Lady? This is the behavior of which I speak. His life has been drained by some unseen monster, an invisible foe who feasts upo
n his spirit.”

  “He does seem pale,” Diana admitted.

  “Go away,” Arythan said.

  “Should I present him with your idea, Lord Sparrow?” Diana asked.

  Eraekryst considered. “I do not expect much from him, but perhaps now is the time for the introduction. At least then he can prepare himself.”

  Arythan made a half-hearted effort to sit up. “Prepare for what?” he asked, irritated.

  She quit the bed and made for the bundle on the chair. After carefully unfolding it, she held it before the mage to gauge his reaction.

  A costume. For Summerfall. There was a black cape with a black-feathered mantle, a dark blue shirt with a collar and cuffs, a black satin vest and an overcoat, and a pair of black trousers. Wrapped separately in the bundle was a wide-brimmed, black hat with a blue band, complete with a plume of iridescent black feathers. Eraekryst held up a deep blue silk scarf and a simple black masque to complete the outfit.

  “I wasn’t going,” Arythan said weakly.

  “With this you can,” Diana said, producing the last item: a black, polished cane.

  “Everyone is going,” Eraekryst said.

  “’Ow did y’ do this?”

  “Our princely host insisted upon this gift to compensate for your ordeal,” the Ilangien said, admiring the costume himself. “Of course, I dictated the appropriate components.”

  “I don’ know what to say,” Arythan murmured. He truly did not want to attend, but no one had ever bought him anything so elaborate. He had no excuse, and even if he did, he was certain Eraekryst would dispel his logic.

  “You need not say anything,” Eraekryst told him. “But you will have to finish your meals if your attire is to fit you.”

  “And you will need to strengthen your ankle by walking.” Diana looked at him sternly. “Do not overdo it, Medoriate.”

  “Fine, already,” Arythan said. “Since I ‘ave no choice but to go.”

  Eraekryst smiled. “Lady, I do believe he is improving.”

  Another week passed, and Arythan’s spirits did improve the more he was able to limp around. Summerfall was merely days away, and the castle was bustling with activity. The walls and floors were scrubbed, wreaths and festoons were hung, and the kitchen staff stocked their stores until they could hold no more. While the servants worked, the nobility chatted excitedly about their own concerns. Who would come, what would they wear, what did they wear last year, would the food be as lavish, and what scandalous rumors could be spread? The mage now understood how it was Eraekryst had brought him so many frivolous stories.

  As much as Eraekryst delighted in his friend’s mobility, Arythan refused to take part in the Ilangien’s expanding social circles. He kept himself covered and slipped through the halls relatively unnoticed. Those who did notice him were eager to add him to their rumors—a fact Arythan did not learn immediately. Some thought he remained concealed because he had been severely burned and scarred in a fire. Others thought he was not a man at all but female, and virtually no one had heard him speak to know better. Still others thought he was an imposter, a jester planted in the castle to play some antagonizing role at the festival. There were those who believed in his magic, believed, in fact, that he was a dark and sadistic wizard from a distant land who could speak to and raise the dead. Then there were those who recalled the tales Eraekryst had related when the pair had first been introduced after their performance: a demon-prince turned Human or an orphan-thief.

  Eraekryst neither confirmed nor denied these rumors, for unknown to Arythan, he had grander plans in the works. He was not the only one. Prince Michael, who purposely kept the mage within his awareness, approached Arythan with a proposal: a carriage ride beyond the castle. Arythan was too eager to seek new surroundings to consider the prince’s motive for such a venture. Only when they were traveling down the winding road from Crag’s Crown did Michael spark conversation.

  “Ah, the mysterious Medoriate Crow,” he said, rubbing his penciled beard and studying the slight, shrouded figure across from him. “I am delighted that you accepted my invitation this afternoon. I hope Lord Sparrow takes no offense at his exclusion.”

  “I never told ‘im,” Arythan admitted. He readjusted the blanket covering his legs and pulled his coat tighter.

  Michael smiled. “It will be our secret, then…aside from the captain, of course.” He gestured to the black-clad rider in front of the carriage.

  “’E’ll find out,” Arythan said with a sigh.

  “He seems to have adapted to castle life quite readily,” Michael admitted. “Though I wonder about you, Medoriate Crow. The women I have sent you, they say you are the quiet sort. Do they not pleasure you? Or do you have a different preference?”

  Arythan’s brow furrowed. “No, sir, the ladies are nice.” He turned away, uncomfortable. “I jus’ ‘aven’t felt the need, if y’understand me.”

  “I think I do, but I admit that I have no difficulties appreciating the women,” Michael said with a laugh, and Arythan looked at him in surprise. “I feel I can be honest with you… May I call you Crow? It sounds very intriguing, that name.”

  The mage nodded.

  “I feel I can be honest with you, Crow. I am a man of passion, and I love women. The way they look at you whether angry or in love, the way they flirt—you know the way, toying with their hair or batting those lashes.” He sighed. “Most of all, I enjoy the feel of a woman. Delicate and vulnerable in your hands but sometimes slippery and coy.” He grinned. “I am certain you have experienced many women in your travels.”

  Arythan blushed beneath his scarf, though he declined an answer. There was only one woman he had ever “experienced,” and he imagined she was a world away if she was anywhere.

  “Do not feel you need be as open as I am. I uphold my formalities when necessary, but I am hoping we can move beyond that, into the realm of friendship. You see, for as many ‘friends’ as it seems the nobility keep, very few are truly worth their weight in gold. You and Lord Sparrow seem to tend a genuine relationship, and I admire that.”

  “We argue more than not,” Arythan said.

  “That, too, is a sign of honesty. My wife and I, we never argue. At times I wish we would, but she is too much of a lady.” Michael waved the thought away. “What of the food? I would think there’d be a change in you, given the richness of your meals.”

  Arythan shrugged. “Everything y’ve done for me ‘as been bonzer, ‘struth.”

  “Yet you are not enjoying your stay,” Michael said, his expression serious. “Do you yet harbor fears about Cyrul? My father has been informed of his actions, and you can be assured that he will trouble you no more.”

  “’E ‘asn’t,” Arythan said. “’S not ‘im. Not really.”

  “Tell me, Crow. Confide in me. I have the power and the authority to do virtually anything I can to help you. You need only tell me your concerns.”

  Arythan stared into Michael’s eyes, trying to read his sincerity. He had to admit there was something less formal about the prince—an agreeableness and an honesty that he liked. There were so few people he liked, but trusting anyone was a timely process. “I don’ know why I’m ‘ere,” he said at last. “Nothing to do with the Crimson Dragon or the Warriors of the Sword.”

  “You mean this in a deeper sense,” Michael said. “Fate, for example. Has fate placed you here for a reason?”

  “I don’ believe in fate,” Arythan said. “I jus’ don’ know what to do with m’self.”

  Michael nodded slowly, thoughtfully. “Your troupe is gone, and unless I am mistaken, you have no place to which you can return.” He leaned closer. “Have you considered my offer from before?”

  “Y’ave a medoriate, an’ ‘e doesn’t like me.”

  “It does not matter who Cyrul Frostmeyer likes. My father and I are looking to hire another medoriate for our project. We can accomplish so much more with two of you to assist in the production of the Black Ice.”

  “I d
on’ know what that means,” the mage said bluntly.

  “Allow me to show you, Crow. We are headed to the Ice Plains, a place where the earth is black with the raw material it bears. Let me show what we are doing, and you can decide for yourself if this is a task you are capable of. I believe you are the just the wizard—”

  “Mage.”

  “—mage for the project.” The prince reclined in his seat. “By the way, I am happy that you are attending Summerfall. I think you will enjoy our festival.”

  “Thank y’…for the costume,” Arythan said, though he could not meet Michael’s eyes.

  “Oh, it was a trifle. But I do hope you like it. And I do hope it fits. Lord Sparrow had—”

  “Yeah, ‘e told me. Several times now.”

  “He is quite excited, and I dare say he will snare the attention of all the ladies. I may have to challenge him.”

  Arythan shook his head and smiled wryly to himself. “Jus’ let ‘im talk to them a spit, an’ they’ll ‘ead back in y’r direction. I promise.”

  Their conversation remained light and pleasant as they passed through towns and villages to reach the outskirts of the settled territory. Once they reached the countryside, they were like a tiny vessel cutting through undulating waves in the landscape. The hills grew steeper, less rounded, as they headed for a jagged line of small mountains. The road climbed upward and vanished into the seemingly impenetrable wall of rock; the obscure pass through which they traveled opened into a primitive road that skirted the perimeter of a large crater.

  Arythan could feel the magic beneath the earth; it could have been a constant hum in his ears or ceaseless vibration that stirred his own magical energy. The magic of the land, however, was subtle compared to the oddities along the road. Black trees that reminded him too well of the Larinis’ unique arbor grew along the crater’s edge and even along the sides of the basin. They sparkled in the afternoon light, and the prince misinterpreted Arythan’s unease for awe.

  “Welcome to the Ice Plains, Crow. Beneath the earth is Cerborath’s treasure. The rock is black, full of magic. Before we drained the lake, it was inaccessible to all but the trees.”