Ciarrah's Light

by Lou Hoffmann

  They’re not, he insisted, and shook himself fully awake. He stood and turned away from the too-bright sun, but he found no comfort. A cold shiver swept through him as he remembered that he’d had a dark, horrifying dream. Which was absolutely not a vision. I am not having visions again! He stood for a minute, trying to recall the dream’s details, but they only teased at him from just beyond his conscious awareness.

  He consoled himself with silent sarcasm. At least I know I’m still fifteen. The evidence: I can’t sort out my brain, my body feels all wrong, and I can’t even focus on one feeling. Same as always since that last crazy birthday.

  Right now, the mixed-up feelings were the worst part. All at the same time, the aftereffects of the dream left Lucky vaguely frightened, he felt frustrated with his brain keeping secrets from him, and he was sick from the effort of trying to force it to spill them. Or maybe what got to him was the sum total of everything that had happened since his fifteenth birthday—starting with the moment he’d met Thurlock and Han. Making things even more confused, he was glad he’d met them! Han was his actual uncle, and before he’d known him, he’d been stuck back there in Earth with no family at all. And Thurlock… well, the old man… really old man could be a pain, but he’d been there for Lucky in so many ways. They’d talked about important things, and Lucky had to admit the wizard was pretty smart. And they’d fought together too—fought a magical battle so dark and horrific, Lucky never really let himself think about it. And then, when the fighting was through, Thurlock had helped him find his true home—this strange world called Ethra, Earth’s twin that had grown up so differently, separated, so to speak, at birth. Taking it all together, the whole year so far, it was great, it was awful, it was exciting, it was scary, but mostly it was all too much.

  He ordered his mind to shut it all out. “Normal,” he chanted in a whisper. “Normal, normal, normal.” It was an old trick he’d used to calm himself when he’d been homeless and alone in Valley City. And it worked at least a little.

  Calmer, he remembered where he was, and why, and who he was with. “Han,” he said. But then he noticed… could that be the smell of cooking meat? He turned to find that Han, looking somewhat revived but still pained and drawn, sat at the small fire with his bad leg stretched out, laying tiny strips of meat on stones at the edge of the flames. Lucky was hungry, and the smell made him notice.

  But where had the meat come from? Lucky looked around and saw a small pile of rough gray fur and other bits lying a fair distance away outside the stone circle, currently being picked over by noisy birds that looked like the black-and-white crows he’d occasionally seen back in California. He narrowed his eyes, squinting to get a better look, trying to identify the fur. He couldn’t, though it looked a lot like….

  “Don’t ask,” Han said. “We need to eat. This is food. When it’s cooked it won’t matter what kind of meat it is. We’ll eat and then get on our way.”

  Nevertheless, Lucky’s stomach heaved, thinking of small rodents, but he knew his uncle was right. He shook off his too-delicate-for-the-moment sensibilities and stepped away to heed nature’s call. On his way back, he was surprised to be greeted by K’ormahk. He reached up to hug the horse’s neck, and the huge animal lowered his head to nuzzle Lucky’s shoulder in response. Lucky laughed at the warm tickle, for just a moment feeling like a carefree kid again.

  During the meal, K’ormahk waited just outside the stone circle, a friendly presence that set Lucky’s mind at ease. He and Han talked in low tones as twilight formed a dome over them.

  “How’s your leg, Uncle?”

  “It hurts,” Han said after swallowing a mouthful. “But it’s better, and I’m not feverish. You did a good job, Luccan.”

  Lucky’s heart lightened a little, both with the news and the praise, although it made him feel a little awkward. In an effort to get past that, he chewed attentively for a moment, noticing the meat was either surprisingly flavorful or well seasoned by hunger. He swallowed, took a sip of water, and returned his mind to practical matters. “You think it’ll be okay until we get back to the Sisterhold?”

  Han took a deep breath. “With Behl’s help, yes.”

  Lucky pushed his hair back and scratched at the back of his head to help him think. After a quiet moment, he spoke up to share what was on his mind. “Han? Uh, you know…. K’ormahk is magic, right?”

  “Well, yes, in a way. I mean, the winged horses are a natural species, but like dragons—some dragons—they have a magic of their own. What are you thinking?”

  “You know when we were on the ridge? I called him somehow, and there he was. All the way from Morrow’s lands—which aren’t even part of Ethra, really, from what Morrow said. So, if K’ormahk could do that, maybe if I asked him to he could just, um, transfer us to the Sisterhold. What do you think?”

  “Makes sense,” Han said, his warm, dark amber eyes crinkling with his smile. “Worth a try!”

  K’ormahk proved even more magical than Lucky had suspected. After they loaded up, before Lucky even had a chance to put his request into word or thought, the huge black horse turned his head back to flash a suspiciously twinkling eye at Lucky, and they were off.

  The time they flew certainly was no more than minutes, but the flight was so breathtaking Lucky felt it was worth an eternity. They rode straight through stars clustered in colorful nebulae—Lucky was sure that was true, though he would have been at a loss to explain how they could do that and never even have trouble breathing. Stars were born all around them like the greatest-ever fireworks display in slow motion. Lucky even heard a kind of music, a wavering and weaving discord like battling electric guitars but eerie and enchanting.

  Yeah, K’ormahk was magic—absolutely no doubt about that, and the whole ride was magnificent. But when they landed on the hard-packed earth of the road just beyond the Sisterhold’s orchard, the jolt was hard, physical, and ordinary, and it caused Han to grunt in pain. Lucky dismounted and led Han on K’ormahk’s back into the village surrounding the manor.

  It was late evening, Lucky guessed, maybe an hour after sunset, and the enclave was quiet. The dark shop windows reflected the moonlight, but the windows of the homes shone through their glass or waxed-hide coverings with golden firelight, candles, and magical lamps. Most of the chimneys released thin streams of woodsmoke, turning the air sweet with the faint tinge of pine, applewood, and occasionally even sehldar. But the evening was mild, and some of the homes had their inner doors open, only the wooden screens closed to shut out the buzzing insects that came seeking the light. Spring, Lucky realized, was in full flower here in the valley that cradled the Sisterhold, far south from the cold mountain where he and Han had so recently—a day ago?—fought the black dragon. His mind registered then what he’d seen in the orchard as they’d passed—the apple trees had been in leaf, with only a few blossoms remaining. He had been gone half a year.

  Soon, it would be Midsummer. Another birthday. For any other boy, that might be an exciting thought. For Lucky, not so much. His birthdays tended to be… momentous.

  As Lucky passed by leading the great winged beast upon which the famous Sunlands warrior sat astride, people began coming out of their houses. No one greeted them directly, but a bright, joyful chatter followed in their wake, gaining in volume and excitement as they neared Sisterhold manor.

  Rosishan, Lem, Shehrice, and Cook emerged from the manor’s open door and descended the steps from the veranda. They stood waiting, great, hopeful smiles on their faces. When Lucky stopped before them, Shehrice and Cook embraced him all at once, tears streaking Cook’s face.

  “Ah, boy,” he said in his gruff voice. “I’d begun to fear we’d never play skippers again.”

  Shehrice batted Cook away and nearly dragged Lucky into the house. “Let’s get the young man some food, now Cook. And he’ll need clean clothes. We’ll need a fire in his room and the pillows fluffed and….”

  She went on talking, or babbling really, but Lucky twisted around
in her grasp, aware that K’ormahk, too, needed tending.

  Lem was helping Han toward the manor, but he met Lucky’s gaze and said, “No fear, lad. I’ll care for that great, beautiful beast of yours.”

  Grateful, Lucky still worried that it was a task he himself would need to see to. He turned his thoughts to K’ormahk’s mind, though, and he sensed the horse wouldn’t object to Lem’s care.

  Han said, breathless with pain and effort, “He’ll be fine, Luccan. He told me.”

  That settled it.

  Feeling more exhausted than he’d ever felt before but strangely at a loss for purpose—it felt so odd to have no great, pressing thing he had to do—Lucky let Shehrice take him inside. But if he thought he could rest once he got past the threshold, he soon learned he was wrong. At the long dining-hall table, surrounded by the most important people left at the Sisterhold, he and Han ate and answered endless questions about their travels and trials. Lucky felt the absence of Thurlock acutely, because he was sure the questioning would have been kinder at the very least had the wizard been there to supervise. Amazingly, though, they got through everything except for their flight from Gahabriohl on K’ormahk’s back before Han weakly held a hand up and said, “No more.”

  Han made it clear he wanted to go to his own small home, but Rose would have none of it, and she won. He was taken instead to the infirmary, a section of rooms upstairs in the Sisterhold’s east wing. Lucky was allowed to accompany him there, and with the last of his energy he bid his uncle good night.

  “And Han? Thank you. I mean for everything.” He meant everything too, and that included a lot. Han had rescued Lucky—along with Zhevi and L’Aria—and been his guide through the wilderness. He’d nearly died for Lucky, then miraculously come back just in time for another rescue. Then, when Lucky had insisted on climbing the mighty mountain Gahabriohl, convinced by visions and dreams that he must, Han had helped him do it, stayed with him through it, and then killed the black dragon—the hugest, scariest beast Lucky ever wanted to see—saving Lucky’s life in the process. That was a lot to be grateful for, and Lucky’s gratitude was heart-deep.

  “Thanks are not needed, lad. But for form’s sake, I’ll say you are welcome. You truly are, anyway.”

  Lucky turned to leave but pivoted a few steps away. “I love you, Uncle,” he said.

  Han had fallen back onto his stark white pillows, while a small crowd—Lucky noticed Han’s friend Tennehk among them—moved around him doing nursely things like removing soiled clothing, bathing him with sponges, and removing the crude bandage from his wound. Han’s eyes were closed. Lucky thought maybe Han hadn’t even heard him, but after a moment, his lips twitched into a small, sleepy smile.

  “Not more than I love you, nephew. Not a jot more. Never forget that.”

  SHEHRICE MET Lucky at the bottom of the stairs as he headed, at last and longingly, for bed. As politely as he could, he let her know he wanted to be alone. He felt too tired to deal with even his own thoughts, much less the presence of someone else.

  “Oh, my dear boy, of course,” Shehrice said, but she hugged him hard before letting him go. “We’ll see you in the morning, then. Breakfast will be everything you love.”

  Lucky smiled and even kissed her cheek, surprising himself. When he got to the room he’d only just begun to think of as “his” before he’d ridden away from the Sisterhold and into the snow in his misguided but, in hindsight, possibly fated rebellion, he closed the door behind him and leaned against it, letting out a long, relieved sigh. The house staff hadn’t been idle while Lucky and Han had been at the table; they’d readied the room to welcome him. He found a hot bath waiting, along with clean towels and clothes, a fire in the small hearth, and a crisply made bed already turned down and warming with heated stones.

  Briefly, he fought the urge to just toss the stones out and fall into the bed as he was, but he couldn’t bring himself to do it. The sheets would end up so muddy and stinky, they’d have to tear them into rags, because they’d never truly be clean again. He bathed, and though he’d decided ahead of time to do it as quickly possible so he could crawl into the bed, he found himself letting his mind drift as he soaked, and he didn’t emerge until he noticed the cooling temperature of the water.

  After donning the nightshirt he still thought of as “old-fashioned,” though in Ethra it was quite current, he removed the warming stones to the hearth, and then gratefully—so very gratefully—sank into the deep pile of feather ticks that made up an Ethran mattress, covered himself with a floaty down comforter, and closed his eyes. He felt sleep coming, and, sure he’d not waken until the smell of bacon roused him in the morning, let himself slip into it.

  Bliss.

  Until it wasn’t.

  LUCKY WATCHED himself sleep in his bed, and he saw the room around him and the Sisterhold around that, and outside, the darkest of starless nights. Shadows hung thick everywhere, but nowhere so black as in the corners of his room. The only light came from a figure—a tall, thin woman—standing over his bed.

  “Isa,” he croaked, because the cold blue glow that surrounded her—a light that felt darker than shadow, somehow—was like the Witch-Mortaine, like her magic, like the torch-flames she’d lit in her tower. But he knew it couldn’t be Isa, because he and Thurlock had defeated her nearly a year earlier. They’d destroyed her.

  He lay strangely frozen in his bed, icy cold, unable to move, even to shiver. He had a sudden sense, “I’m dreaming,” and he wanted to move, to open an eye, twitch a finger, take a breath, anything, because if he could move at all, he would certainly awaken. But he couldn’t move, and without his own direction, his dream-gaze shifted until he looked directly into the face of the woman by his bed. Recognition dawned.

  “Mom,” he said in his dream-voice, just as he had so many times before. But this time it wasn’t longing that filled him, but dread.

  Her beauty shone despite the macabre blue light, despite the falseness of her smile and the coldness in her green eyes. Her long and lustrous golden hair, every perfect feature—they seemed like sacrilege. It made Lucky want to cry like the child he had been the last time she had loved him purely.

  “Mom,” he said, anguished.

  “Luccan, son,” she answered, her voice hollow, reaching out a hand to him. “Come. We must hurry!”

  Lucky wanted to recoil, but he had no say over his limbs, and his hand came up as if to grasp hers. In the flash of an instant, he called up a memory of Zhevi’s strength of will, and how it had gotten them through when it had seemed death was imminent. He took hold of that strength now and with nothing but will resisted the movement of his hand, stopping short of touching her.

  “Luccan!” Her voice scalded him with cold ire, but still it seemed she wished to pretend. “You must trust me, son!”

  Fury rose up and took possession of Lucky, and it grew stronger still when he saw his mother smile at it, heard her whispered “yes.” He could move then, in his dream, and he sat up and reached his hands for her throat, determined to strangle her, to rid himself of her awful haunting for good.

  But then he stopped. He saw her face reflected in the wall mirror, and it wasn’t beautiful at all. She was all shadows and rot.

  Choking on horror, he whispered, “Go.”

  HE WOKE from the dark dream sweating in his hearth-warmed room as the full, rising moon filled his east window. He didn’t sleep again until the dark hour after moonset, and he woke once more in the darkest hour before dawn, scared out of sleep by an inkling of the dream’s return. By the time breakfast was served, he’d been awake for hours, trying simultaneously to forget and to recall the frightful images that had filled his night, and heartily wishing for the wizard to help him sort it out.

  Chapter Three: Hold the Mind to Match the Man

  THURLOCK, THE Premier Wizard of the Sunlands, stood in the middle of a wood he didn’t recognize holding what remained of his robes after what was—the last time Thurlock had checked—a ghost cat, had
shredded the cloth with very physical claws.

  “Well,” he said, but that was all, because really, what could one say in the situation? Which included, thankfully, fairly warm afternoon sunshine and nobody around but the persons he’d brought with him through the Portal of Naught. Both of those circumstances seemed to Thurlock particularly fortunate, because he was having a lot of difficulty finding his dignity, standing as he was in a well-worn ribbed tank shirt such as was sometimes referred to as an “old-man undershirt,” appropriately enough, and a pair of baggy white briefs with no particular flair or style. He was aware that in Earth, where he’d originally acquired said underwear, briefs could have quite a lot of flair, and the style could be anything from formidable to what he’d seen labeled as “hot.” But he was a thousand years old, so he didn’t want style, he wanted comfort.

  Nevertheless standing around in nothing but those underthings, even without much of an audience, felt decidedly uncomfortable, so he draped the shredded cloth that had been his wizard’s robes moments ago over his body as well as he could, belted the garment, and sat down on a windfall log to think things through. He hadn’t gotten too far into the think when Henry—a man of Earth who was sometimes a California condor—sat up from where he had been lying dazed on the ground.

  “Where are we?” he asked.

  The question surprised Thurlock only because he’d been thinking more about underwear and real claws on ghost cats than on practical matters. He checked his senses. “Ethra,” he said, “I’m sure of it.”