LEGENDS: Fifteen Tales of Sword and Sorcery

by Colt, K. J.

  Now it was his turn to laugh. “I’d fall on m’ face, ‘struth.”

  “I would help you. I’m strong.” She tensed her slender arm. “I would pick you up.”

  “Mmhm.”

  “I would!” she insisted, flinging the contents of her cup over her shoulder. They stared at each other a moment before they both launched into fits of laughter that left them gasping for air.

  Arythan gestured to the cupbearer again, but looked up and found the servant was gone. He handed the woman his own cup. “Take mine,” he insisted.

  “But then you will have no drink,” she protested.

  “Tha’s alrigh—” He was cut short when a servant stooped beside him with a new vessel.

  “For you, Milord.”

  Arythan stared at the cup stupidly, finally accepting it.

  “Courtesy of the lady yonder,” the servant said, indicating the woman in question a nod in her direction.

  The mage froze at the sight of her. She was tall and slender, dressed in a flowing black gown that matched the color of her raven hair. Her skin was the pale blue of snow beneath the morning shadows. She wore a masque of a dead crow—its head upon her brow with beak agape in a silent cry. Its wings were outstretched over her penetrating eyes which bore into him from where she stood a distance away. She was enveloped in a cold blue light that seemed to reach him from where he sat. His skin prickled in gooseflesh, but the obsidian knife burned against his chest. He felt as though his very breath had been stolen from him.

  “Who is she?” his companion demanded.

  Arythan shook his head slightly, his eyes unable to leave her. Who is she? The question echoed in his mind. I know her somehow. I know her, but I don’t. How—

  “You can stop gawking at her, you pig,” his companion said. “Pale, bony woman. She’s eerie, if you ask me.”

  Arythan turned away for a moment, and when he looked up again, her haunting figure had vanished.

  “Well,” the woman in black demanded, “are you going to drink it? You wouldn’t want to offend her.”

  “N-no,” the mage said, still dazed. Unthinking, he raised the cup to his lips.

  “So sorry,” Eraekryst said from out of nowhere, deliberately dropping an acorn into the vessel.

  Arythan wiped the splatter of wine from his face with his sleeve. He glanced at the Ilangien in irritation.

  “You have had enough, have you not?” Eraekryst asked.

  “I know when I’ve ‘ad enough,” Arythan said, setting the cup down and staring at the acorn at the bottom.

  “Do you? I will not be the one to have someone else transport you to your room.” He cast a curious expression upon the woman in black before striding away.

  “Who was that?” she asked, bedazzled.

  “M’ mother,” Arythan grumbled.

  The woman gave him a strange look. “He is not!” Then she spied his cup. “Will you be drinking that?”

  “Not partial to nuts,” he said, looking in the direction Eraekryst had gone.

  She plucked the acorn out and tossed it over her shoulder. “To Mr. Nice,” she said, her unsteady hand threatening to spill the drink as she lifted it to him. She smiled and downed the contents.

  She was waiting for him by the blackened husk of the straw bear, her cool aura rivaling the moonlight. “Are you enjoying Summerfall, Eraekryst?” Seranonde asked in her velvet voice.

  “Why are you here?” he asked, keeping his distance.

  “I might ask you the same.” She sat upon the bear’s platform and gestured for him to join her.

  Eraekryst took a few steps forward and stopped, eyeing her train of ghosts.

  “You have rejected your homecoming for the company of the demon,” she said, intrigued. “Is this a strengthening of friendship, or is it the consequence of loneliness?” She studied him head to toe. “Or perhaps you are running from the truth. The Humans are a fitting distraction.”

  “If it is the durmorth you have come to claim, I will not allow you to take his life,” Eraekryst said, though he felt no strength behind his words. If even Chierond seemed disturbed to know of her presence, what sort of power did she maintain? And would she see beyond what he hoped was not an empty threat?

  “Ah, you mean ‘Arythan Crow, the Dark Wizard.’ It is too soon for him, Eraekryst.”

  “You attempted to poison him.”

  “The substance in the wine is consumed readily by the other mortals. You know it as the same that had sustained the Larini. They consume our ancestry, but they have not unlocked the secret to our immortality. The Humans seek pleasure in euphoria, but they will learn there are always consequences to meddling with forces one does not understand.”

  She lifted a piece of straw and smiled darkly. “He will come to believe himself one of them, and this delusion will destroy him. When the cracks of his torn being begin to surface, that is when I will come for him.”

  “You will cross me first,” Eraekryst said.

  She laughed. “Perhaps you will be the one to destroy him.”

  “I do not take lives as you do,” he said, his voice ice.

  “But you have, my prince, you have. Do not delude yourself as your friend has done. I know you are wiser than that. What happened when you returned to Veloria? What did you find? What did they say when you spoke of me?”

  The strength of her energy sent chilling ripples of power through him, and he could not suppress the shiver. “What does it matter if I was deceived or not?” he asked. “My life is my own to make of it as I will.”

  “Of course it is, Eraekryst. You will make your choices. We all make our choices. I wonder if you will embrace who you are, if you will seek the truth they hid so well from you. Why did your people betray you? Your mother, your father, your beloved friend, and even your brother.” She cast the straw away.

  “Atrion did not betray me,” Eraekryst said, a tremor in his voice.

  “Such plots of deception run deep. You confronted them, did you not? Did they not tell you that fear drove them to conspire against you? Fear of your power, of your ambition?” Her red-violet eyes glinted as she stood and approached him.

  Eraekryst remained immobile, his thoughts reeling back to his encounter with Chierond. Had he not come to the same conclusion about the elder? Chierond wanted him to hide his gift, to reject it as he had rejected himself. His family’s actions reeked of fear. But was fear enough to turn them against him, to destroy his life on the chance that he would abuse his power?

  Seranonde peered at him as though she could see his thoughts. “You have not yet discovered yourself, Eraekryst. You do not know who you are. You must ask yourself if you are content living this life of mortal amusement—” she glanced back at the keep—“or if you will allow yourself to become who you are meant to be.”

  “What am I to you?” he demanded. “Another of our kind to be murdered? Some naïve child to be manipulated to suit your purposes?”

  “I have not suggested any idea that you have not already felt in your own heart. You are no fool, and as for me, you are merely an interest. You call me a murderess, but you have not heard the tale in its entirety. You listen to the words of those who betrayed you, but I have no role in your life. I can destroy you if I wish, but to what avail? When you are ready to know my story, I will tell it to you.” She drew near him and traced the contours of his masque. “For now, I will leave you to your festival.”

  She lifted her own masque to regard him fully, then cast it to the ground and trod over it as she walked away into the rising mist of the night, her ghosts trailing behind her.

  Seranonde’s chilling presence yet lingered when he felt a warm touch upon his arm.

  Prince Michael stood upon the dais, his arms outstretched. “It is time,” he projected to the crowd, “to discover the identity of our mystery guest this night!”

  There was a murmur amongst the guests as the music fell silent, and they gathered around their host. “Before the grand unmasking, I set t
he lovely women of Cerborath to the task of learning the identity of our special and mysterious guest, the Medoriate Arythan Crow….”

  “What’s going on?” Arythan asked warily from where he sat upon the floor. He could have sworn he heard his name.

  “Shh!” the woman in black said, pressing her finger to her nose as she missed her lips. “Michael is talking.”

  Arythan made an effort to stand. His leg no longer bothered him, but his world was a dizzying mess. He braced himself against the wall and offered a hand to help his companion to her feet. Once she was up, he did not believe she would remain so for long. He redirected his attention to the prince, trying to focus on what he was saying.

  “Which lovely lady has found him? Which lovely lady has found Medoriate Crow?” Michael asked, scanning the crowd.

  “I have!” someone shouted. She pointed to the man beside her, an imposter in the mage’s costume. The man shrugged and lifted his masque.

  “Are you Medoriate Crow?” Michael asked, playing up to the game.

  The man frowned and shook his head dramatically.

  “My apologies, Milady, but you were deceived.” He searched the hall again. “He is here somewhere, and someone has seen him. Who has found Medoriate Crow?”

  Arythan, from where he stood in the shadows, could feel the heat rising to his face. So this is what they planned. They wanted me to show myself in front of everyone. Ah, Erik, you’re behind this. And you will pay for it.

  He glanced up to see another imposter had been ruled out. It was time to make a hasty retreat. He started to slip along the back wall, searching for an exit.

  “Where are you going?” the woman in black said, swaying on her feet. “Wait. Wait!” She pointed after him. “You’re him! You’ve been him all along!”

  “Are y’ sure?” Arythan asked, hoping to instill some doubt.

  But it was too late. “Here he is!” she cried, nearly toppling over. “He’s right here! I found him!”

  “Quiet,” Arythan grumbled, her shrill voice threatening to shatter his ear drums. She had latched onto him, and even if he could pry her fingers from him, she would fall without his support…or so it seemed. In the next moment, she was skipping through the crowd and dragging him her with inhuman strength.

  Just when they reached the center of the hall, he lost his footing and hit the floor.

  The woman continued to point to him, and the crowd moved away, leaving him in a circle of exposure. Eraekryst was nowhere in sight, but Arythan was now beneath everyone’s gaze.

  “A little too much to drink, Medoriate?” Michael asked, and the crowd laughed.

  The heat was unbearable, as were the stares. And then something happened as he sat there, feeling stupid upon the floor. Nigqor-miq. It’s over. He threw off his hat and shrugged. “Y’ got me.”

  Everyone applauded, though he was not sure why.

  “Lady Victoria Ambrin has found our medoriate! Lady Victoria, please unmask him!” Michael said and waited until she was crouched beside him. “Behold the mysterious, the yet unseen, Medoriate Arythan Crow!”

  Arythan felt the masque slide off his face, and his scarf was torn away. Here I am. Go ahead and laugh. He had never felt so naked—not even when Miria had watched him bathe.

  But the crowd did not laugh. They continued to applaud, and amongst the applause were whispers of surprise. “He’s so young!” or “Why would he hide a face like that?” Even Michael seemed confounded by the revealing of the blond, bearded youth who sat upon the floor of the hall. He had no hideous scars, nothing frightening to speak of. He was, after all, just a man.

  The attention dispersed as the unmasking began, and the identities of the other guests were revealed. Michael, his own masque gone, helped Arythan to his feet. “A pleasure to finally meet you, Medoriate,” he jested. “I hope you will forgive me.”

  “I ‘ave to; y’re the prince,” he said. “But Erik ‘as to die—wherever ‘e is.”

  “I have not seen him recently,” Michael admitted, “but when you find him, you may want to spare him. He did have your best interests in mind.”

  Arythan made a sound. “Did ‘e?”

  “Of course.” Michael looked at the floor, where Lady Victoria was humming to herself with her eyes closed. “What happened to her?”

  “She likes wine. A lot.”

  “Hm. I think perhaps it’s best she retire.” Michael smiled slyly. “Why don’t you assist her to her room, Medoriate?”

  “I…” Arythan looked down at her. She had opened her eyes, and now she was pointing at him and giggling. “She ‘as a room?”

  “Yes, of course,” Michael said. “On the second floor, turn left down the hall, then right. You will want the third room on the left.” He saw Arythan frown and reconsidered. “All right. Take her to my room. You know where that is.”

  “Yeah, but—”

  “Trust me, I will not be retiring anytime soon, Crow. And when I do, I will find an alternate place to sleep.” He winked at the mage, and Arythan merely stared back, perplexed. “Trust me.” He patted him on the back. “Say, you haven’t seen my wife, have you?”

  “No.”

  “Ah, good. Good luck, Crow.” And the prince walked into the crowd.

  Lady Victoria smiled up at Arythan and stuck out her tongue.

  “Are you all right?” the woman in green asked him. “You are trembling.”

  “The night has a chill,” Eraekryst said, his eyes still set upon the darkness where Seranonde had disappeared.

  “Who was she, that she has upset you so?”

  “I have not yet decided,” he answered. He came to face her. “You do not know me, nor I you. Why should you be troubled?”

  She did not keep his regard. “I sensed something was wrong, and I did not know if I could be of assistance. I…” She shivered. “I did not intend to eavesdrop; I heard nothing of your conversation.” She shifted awkwardly under his steady gaze, then turned to go. “I will leave you—”

  “No,” he said, then added, “not unless you wish to leave.”

  She hesitated.

  “The durmorth, he knows me,” Eraekryst said more to himself. “Often it is nice to have the company of those who know you.”

  “I imagine so, Milord,” she said, moving closer to him.

  He saw that she was shivering and placed his cloak around her. They turned toward the keep at the sound of applause.

  “They have begun the unmasking,” she said.

  “Then they have discovered my companion,” Eraekryst mused. “I am certain he is thoroughly devastated.”

  “I am sorry you had to miss it. We can—”

  “No, ’tis best he not see me ’til later.”

  “Milord, if I may, I would like to see you now.” She gazed up at him in earnest, and he allowed her to reach up and carefully move the masque from his face. “You cannot be real,” she breathed. “This night cannot be real.”

  “Ah, but it is.” He lifted the masque from her face as well, though she tried to shy away.

  “I am not some young maiden fair to look upon,” she said, a glimmer of a tear in her eye. “Had you come years ago….”

  “You would not be the same woman I am meeting now,” he finished. She was middle-aged for a Human, with wide-set, gray eyes and a pale complexion. Lines had nestled around her mouth and eyes, and streaks of silver ran through her black hair like moonlight through the night sky. He smiled at her modesty. “Were I mortal, my years would be far more telling. But as you have said, time earns us our stories.”

  “Catherine,” she said. “I am Catherine Lorrel, Countess of Silvarn, cousin to the king.”

  “Lady Catherine, I am Eraekryst of Celaedrion, firstborn to the emperors of Veloria.”

  “Milord, you do outrank me,” she laughed. “An immortal and a prince.”

  “I would prefer you address me as ‘Erik Sparrow,’” he said, “so that I may not stand apart from the others here.”

  “Stand ap
art?” she asked, as though the notion was ridiculous. “Blind they may be, but believe me, Erik Sparrow, you will always stand apart.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  AN INVITATION BEST NOT REFUSED

  Arythan awoke on the floor in the prince’s room. He shivered in the cold of the early morning, for the fire in the hearth had long-since died, his cloak had been shed, and the top buttons of his shirt had been undone. He had reached a temperature unknown to him the previous night. Between the wine, his embarrassment, and assisting a drunken woman to bed, he had worked up quite a sweat.

  He twisted and tried to sit, and something cracked. It was not until he started to stretch that he realized just how swollen and sore his ankle was. Well deserved, he thought, then glanced at the fireplace. There was some unburned wood remaining, so he drew some flames and crawled closer to enjoy them.

  There was a soft moan from the bed, and he glanced back to see if Lady Victoria was ready to rise. She lifted her head and looked around through squinted eyes. “What?”

  Arythan watched her, amused. Her hair—which had been revealed as a black wig—sat crooked and disheveled atop her head. Her real hair—a deep and wavy chestnut—jutted in random strands from beneath the wig. He wished he could have seen her with her hair down, framing that lovely, rounded face. Her eyes were bloodshot now, but he had opportunity enough to determine their true green-brown color before she passed out. He turned away when she sat up, for though he had covered her with blankets, she had adamantly stripped away her top the night before.

  “Oh, by Lorth,” she groaned. She pulled the blankets around her protectively when she realized Arythan was there. “Who are you? What—what?”

  “Long story made short, y’ad too much wine.” He smirked to himself. “So did I.”

  “You—you were at the masquerade,” she said, trying to piece the puzzle together.

  “Right-o.” He would let her reason this out on her own, and when she needed his assistance, he would provide it. For as inebriated as he had been, he remembered everything quite well.