LEGENDS: Fifteen Tales of Sword and Sorcery

by Colt, K. J.

  Eraekryst remained impassive. “Your pardon, have you been there?”

  “Oh no, Milord, but I have heard many tales.”

  “Have you? What sort of tales?” he asked, reining in his curiosity.

  “The sort that entertain children and the fanciful,” she said lightly. “Therein Saladron dwell spritely creatures with dragonfly wings and fairy dust, unicorns with manes of gold, and those born of fallen stars who know not death or illness.”

  Eraekryst granted her a pleasant smile. “‘Those born of fallen stars,’” he mused. “Fanciful, indeed.”

  “Yes,” she agreed. “To imagine such a being swathed in ethereal light, graced with unearthly beauty that never tarnishes with the passage of time. One touch can spark new life, erase the wears of time, or purge sickness from those who suffer.” She dropped her voice. “It is said that you can feel the energy of their Light like warm sunshine beneath your fingertips.” She drew nearer and pressed her hand into his.

  “You paint a pretty picture, Lady, though I would imagine so perfect a place might also be rather dull.” He drew back gently.

  She looked at him in surprise. “Dull? I would not consider the thought.”

  “Because, perhaps, you do not dwell there.” Eraekryst took in the entirety of the room before returning his sight to her. “Imagine a land where giant bears of straw are burned in a roaring inferno, where a sacred beast is slaughtered and eaten and commemorated annually as the founder of that kingdom.” He bent to whisper in her ear as the music slowed to a stop. “Imagine dancing in disguise with a stranger on so magical a night….”

  She reached up and smoothed his golden hair behind his delicately tapered ear. “What are you doing here?” she demanded in a quiet, trembling voice.

  “My Lady.” He stared back at her so that she could see beyond his masque, beyond his eyes to the forest of his homeland. “Even star-folk grow bored of paradise.”

  At first she said nothing, mystified by his words. Then she gathered her thoughts and cleared her throat. “A most intriguing piece of information,” she admitted as they walked arm-in-arm to the outskirts of the open floor. “So do all Saladronians randomly attend royal masquerades?”

  “’Twould seem I may be the first with that distinction,” Eraekryst said. He was stopped by Prince Michael, who was leading his wife to the next dance.

  “Cousin,” Michael said, acknowledging the woman in green with a bow. He turned to the Ilangien. “The imposters are in place. All is proceeding as planned.”

  Eraekryst gave him a nod and watched him walk away. “You are his cousin?”

  “You will find most of the nobility are related to the king and his family. But I’ll not tell you my name until the unmasking,” she said, smoothing her dress. “Prince Michael is fond of diversions, though I see now that this latest ruse is not entirely of his creation. I have no doubt he is challenging every woman in this room to find the mysterious medoriate—your companion. Has he earned such treachery, sir?”

  Eraekryst straightened, and he searched the wall for where he had last seen the mage. “’Twill do him good. A social favor, as it is.” Now where has he gone?

  She followed his gaze, then turned to watch as the dancers began moving to a new tune. “I find it amusing that you should betray him to the public eye when you yourself are able to hide amongst us. Is it a spell you have cast that shields their sight from your radiance or…” She paused, and suddenly raised a hand. “No, I know it. This, too, is from the fairytales. Only those who believe in you can truly see you.”

  “I do not attempt to hide,” Eraekryst said as though insulted. “The glamour blinds those who choose to be blind.”

  “Everyone but me,” the woman whispered in awe, more to herself. “It is incredible. I could be a little girl again with her favorite storybook character come to life, and no one sees you but me.”

  “A favorable situation, as I see it, and one I prefer to blatant exposure,” Eraekryst said. “You will, then, keep this our secret?”

  “Why would I wish to share?” she asked. “And who would believe me? Already I have a reputation for eccentricity… What would they think of me if I proclaim that an elf from Veloria has come to visit Cerborath? And that he chose to appear only to me, to dance exclusively with me? Oh, the nobility would have entertainment for years to come.”

  “‘Elf’?”

  “Is that not what you are?” she asked, confused.

  Eraekryst drew himself upright with pride, his radiance streaming from him. “My Lady, I am an Ilangien. One of the Ilán, the Light. I would sooner you name me one of the stars before you grant me the ambiguity of some Human folkloric character.”

  “Forgive me, then,” she said, amused by his dramatics. “Though I have no name for you yet. I do hope you will share it with me when the moment comes.”

  “’Twill be an even exchange,” Eraekryst said, “but there is time to revel in mystery. Teach me another dance, if you wish. I rather enjoyed the first—too much to make it the last.”

  Her lips spread into a joyous smile. “It would be my pleasure, Milord.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  SUMMERFALL, THE ENDING

  ARYTHAN STARED at his empty cup, then back at the man in the crowd. He could swear the gentleman was wearing his exact costume. Everything from his hat to his scarf and even the style of his cape—all of it the same. Perhaps his attire was not so unique after all. Maybe, for the very first time in his life, he was wearing something of popular, high fashion. High fashion? Me? Blood of Oqrantos, what am I doing here? He rubbed his chin and decided he had had enough wine for the evening. He wondered if there was a hidden door through which he could escape and retreat to his room.

  He limped a couple paces and nearly fell into the wall. Sieqa. He glanced up at the sound of snickering. A nearby couple was watching him, enjoying the entertainment at his expense. “Yeah, it’s bloody funny,” he said with a mock smile. “Y’ know what’s funnier? Y’r costumes. Y’ look like a garden threw up on y’.” Frilly-arse bastards. He glared at them until they grew uncomfortable and turned away, then he set forth again, using the wall as his support.

  So much for not being noticed. I’m not that drunk, it’s my damn leg. Maybe if I take my time, I can fake it… He pushed away from the wall and straightened his posture. One step at a time. He focused on his feet, trying to hide his limp and maintain his balance as he walked. He was reluctant to venture too far from the wall, but for as slow as his progress was, at least he was heading in the right direction. One step at a—

  Something plowed into him from behind, and he was sent sprawling forward. Next he knew, he was on the ground, his cup clattering before him. He looked up in time to glimpse a petite woman in a black dress dabbing around her masque at her eyes. What was visible of her face was reddening by the moment as onlookers began to whisper. “Watch where you’re going!” she snapped at Arythan, then hurried away.

  The mage muttered some choice comments, but he did not rise immediately. He retrieved his cup and sat with his back against the wall, waiting for the throbbing in his foot to abate.

  “Sir, are you all right?” someone asked.

  “’S a great party,” he grumbled without looking to see who had addressed him.

  “Can I help you?”

  Arythan lifted his empty cup, hardly aware when it was taken from him. He stared at the crowd, wondering how it was he had ended up in this situation. In the course of a few weeks, he had gone from popular entertainer to a lame guest haunting a castle. A jealous wizard had made an attempt on his life, and somehow he was now here—at a celebration, in a silly costume, inebriated and on the floor. At some point, someone handed him back his cup.

  He took a long drink, then a deep breath. Then another long drink. The cup was empty again, meaning it was time to go. With some effort he rose to his feet. Stop trying so hard. If this is all as ridiculous as it seems, then you’re just a fool playing a part, he told himself. H
is anger subsided, and with a sigh, he altered his course for the garderobe. The door was closed; someone was already inside.

  Arythan waited patiently, trying to focus on the positive experiences of the evening. The food and the wine were the best he had had in some time. In fact, he was stuffed. All those delicious things were suspended in a solution of wine inside him. And just as he realized how very full he was, he heard the sound of vomiting from inside the garderobe. He bit his lip and tried not to listen.

  Another minute passed, and his own stomach began to churn. Should he knock on the door? Just keep waiting? How much longer can he be? You can only eat so much, and once you’re out, you’re out.

  Something threatened to creep back up his throat, and he swallowed it back down with a grimace. His mind made up, he tapped lightly on the door.

  “Go away!” came a miserable, choked voice. A woman’s voice.

  Arythan swallowed again, delaying the inevitable. “Y’alright, luv?” he asked. Truly, he did not care if she was all right. He needed to get inside before his insides worked their way outside.

  “I said go away!”

  Arythan looked around anxiously, but no one seemed aware of his plight. “There’s a line out ‘ere, luv. We’re all waiting.”

  He heard what he thought was a groan. “Just a…just a moment,” she managed. This was followed by the rustling of skirts and material. He wondered exactly how the ladies did what they needed to do in such large and cumbersome dresses.

  He moved to the side of the door when he heard the handle turn, and the petite woman in black stepped out, expecting an audience. She paused in her confusion—a moment too long—where she glimpsed Arythan as he slipped inside the garderobe and shut the door behind him.

  “You! You fiend! You cur!” she hissed through the wood. Then it was her turn to draw back as the mage had his turn battling an unsettled stomach.

  Arythan interpreted the silence as a good sign. And he was feeling much better than before. Even his leg barely troubled him as he straightened himself and readied to face the crowd again. He opened the door to find the petite woman in black still standing there, her arms folded as she glared at him through her masque.

  “Thanks,” he said with a nod, and moved past her.

  “What do you have to say for yourself?” she demanded, still rigid where she stood.

  Don’t be an asshole, Arythan thought, dismissing the first words that came to mind. “I’m sorry…you tripped me.” He knew he should not have completed the thought, but he did, and there was no rescinding it.

  Without fully facing her, Arythan could feel her strained silence, could imagine the tears welling in her eyes. “Look, I—”

  She spun on him. “You’re just like every man out there,” she said, gesturing to the crowd. “You are all the same—all selfish, arrogant brutes!” She stalked to a dark corner, flung herself down, and buried her face in her hands, sobbing.

  I didn’t do a bloody thing, and somehow I feel like I just killed someone. Arythan stood there a moment, his gaze alternating between his escape and the woman in distress. Reason told him not to become entangled in this situation, but his conscience left him torn. I am going to regret this….

  He walked away, knowing she had lifted her head to watch him leave. He returned a moment later with two cups of wine. Gingerly, he eased himself down next to her without spilling a drop. “I’m not really like all them,” he said, handing her the cup. “I don’ even know y’.”

  She lifted her head and hesitated before accepting the drink.

  “Don’t you?” she asked.

  “No.”

  She studied him as if to make certain he was speaking the truth. “Well, you are better for it.” She took a hard drink.

  Easy! Arythan thought. Or you will end up back in that little room. He watched her out of the corner of his eye as she pulled free a handkerchief and dabbed beneath her masque. She had a fair, rounded face with a delicate nose now reddened from her crying. Her eyes could have been green, but the shadows made their color difficult to determine. Pert little red lips were set in a pouty frown, her small chin jutted forward in an expression of defiance or defense. Her hair was piled in a black and curly heap atop her head, and he wondered how so small a neck could support all that weight. He also wondered how her dress did not slip down her shoulders, for it seemed she had made every effort to exhibit her natural endowments—which were ample. His eyes had just lingered a moment in that area when he realized she was also assessing him.

  “I’ve seen you before,” she said.

  “Y’ tripped—”

  “No, no,” she interrupted quickly, blushing again. She gestured to the crowd. “You were dancing.”

  “Then ‘twasn’t me.”

  She gave him a sidelong glance. “I am fairly certain I saw you dancing.”

  “Someone else ‘as m’ costume.” He drank from his cup, and she did the same.

  “No one wears the same costume,” she said matter-of-factually.

  Arythan shrugged. “’E’s right there.” He pointed to a taller man on the outskirts of the dancers.

  “No…” She moved forward as if straining to see. “He’s too tall! I saw… No—there!” She pointed to the heart of the hall, where a woman in white was coupled with another look-alike. “Jedinom’s Sword, how many of you are there?”

  “One’s enough,” he said, his suspicions rising again. He tried to spot Eraekryst in the crowd, but the Ilangien’s telltale glow was lost amongst all the people, their colors, and their movement. Giving up, he turned to her. “So why the tears?”

  “You’re a man. You would not care or understand,” she said, turning away.

  Well, that pretty much names the problem. “Y’re fighting with y’r ‘usband.”

  She immediately turned back. “I’m not married…yet. Like all men, he has to wait until—”

  “Wait. I’m jus’ one stranger ‘oo’s trying to be nice. Put y’r dagger away.”

  She polished off her drink and stared at him. “What do you care, Mr. Nice Stranger?”

  “I don’t. Just thought the idear was to ‘ave fun at this party.” He shrugged again.

  “You don’t seem like you’re having fun.”

  “I’m working on it.” He lifted his cup. “So do y’ want to feel better or not?”

  Sullenly she nodded. “What do you propose? We drink ourselves to stupidity?”

  “I’m already ‘alfway there, but I ‘ad another idear.”

  “All right,” she sighed. “Tell me.”

  “So you left your family to become a performer?”

  Eraekryst and the woman in green stood apart from the other guests, chatting quietly near the hearth. They had danced until she became breathless, and he insisted they stop so she could regain her strength.

  “Is that idea truly so incredulous?” he asked.

  “Much like finding a blossom in the dead of winter,” she said. “You have quite a tale behind you, though I suppose you are a great many years my senior.” She sipped from her cup. “Unfortunately at my age, I have little endurance to keep pace with the likes of an immortal.”

  Eraekryst lifted his head and glanced around the hall, distracted. “I would say you have done quite well, Lady…” He turned away, his hands fidgeting with his own cup.

  Noticing his anxiety, she leaned forward. “You have barely tasted your wine. Is something the matter?”

  The intruding presence was cold but somehow vibrant, alerting him with low and ominous tremors through his being—much like the reverberations of distant thunder. He had felt this way before, and a creeping dread took hold of his instincts. She is here.

  He turned to the woman in green as though she had not been there the whole time, as though she had materialized from a dream. “Forgive me,” he said with a bow, “but I must find my companion.” He handed her his cup and disappeared in the sea of guests.

  “You treat me like you do your sword—always at your
side when you need it; otherwise ignored, sheathed and hidden and beyond your notice,” she spat.

  “Y’re an angry poet,” Arythan said with a grin.

  She laughed, then hiccupped and covered her mouth in embarrassment. “No, no, no. He would never say that. He’d say, ‘I take care of you, see to all your needs. How dare you speak to me in such a way!’”

  “An’ y’ would say what?”

  “I’d say, ‘I’m not some dog to be fed and watered.’” She pushed out her chest and lifted her chin. “I am a woman, and I deserve respect too!”

  “Tha’s right,” Arythan agreed. “Y’ tell ‘im, luv.”

  “I will. I will tell him.” Her serious face held for a moment before it shattered and she snorted with laughter. “Mister—Mr. Nice—” she gasped, handing him her cup. “Get me another.”

  “I dunno. Y’ seem kind o’ silly.”

  “Oh, pleeeeeease,” she giggled, resting her head on his shoulder. “Just one more.”

  “Alright. One more.” He motioned to the cupbearer, who had purposely stationed himself nearby. Arythan wondered why he catered to them; it seemed there were other guests who demanded just as much attention…unless, of course, this woman was someone special.

  Both cups were refilled. He had lost count of how many he had had since his encounter with the garderobe. And she—she must have had at least… He tried to count on his fingers, but more fingers kept appearing and blurring. “Sieqa.”

  “What?” she asked, stroking the cup like it was a kitten. “What’s wrong?”

  “Nuthin’,” he said. “Except we’re drunk.”

  “No, we’re not.”

  “Pretty sure we are, luv.”

  “You talk funny, you know. Like a…like a….”

  “Like what?”

  “Like a guy who talks funny.” She erupted in laughter again. “Oh my, it’s warm! We should dance, Mr. Nice. I would like to dance with you.”