by A. H. Lee
* * * *
The next two versions of Hastafel both appeared paralyzed with indecision. They sat tense and quiet at the desk, saying nothing. The next young man was sitting on the window ledge, his feet in the thin air outside the tower, his arms rigid against the stone as though ready to push himself off. Sairis thought this might be the first iteration. It was certainly a version that one might wish to cut away.
When Sairis looked out, he saw that they were only one story up. He could no longer see beyond the trees to the Styx. A moat encircled the tower, the water moving fast and swimming with bright lights. That will be the engine.
Hastafel spoke without turning. “I can’t go through with it,” he muttered. “Everything is so hard. I’m so lonely. I miss everyone. Even the damn goats. The sword is always hungry, and the wolf wants too much. Wolves were never good for shepherds.” He looked around as Sairis crossed the room. “Do you think I will ever be happy again?” He looked so young, probably a teenager, dressed in ratty furs and stained linen.
Sairis remembered the young man in love, in grief, in fear, in academic elation. He remembered the man who had more power than he knew what to do with, who wanted to run away, who wanted more, who wanted less. “Yes,” said Sairis truthfully. “You will.” And then you won’t. And then you will. And then... “I have to go.”
* * * *
The ululating cries of the wolves grew steadily nearer. They seemed excited, almost as though they were chasing something. Mal crouched with his ears back, licking his lips and occasionally making a guttural rumbling that made him sound less fierce than anxious. Roland had hunted leopards before and Mal was by far the biggest he’d ever seen. However, his grumbling and bristling made him seem more like an enormous housecat. Roland wondered whether a lust demon was really all that effective in a fight. Wrath does seem more useful in some ways.
The wolves howled again, this time so close that Roland jumped. He fully expected to see gray shapes drifting through the trees at any moment. How many? The howls sounded like dozens, but Roland knew that was a deception. Wolves sang in harmony to sound more numerous. He would not have been surprised to see three or thirty.
However, he was definitely surprised when half a dozen men jogged out of the trees.
Chapter 28. The Meadow and the Moat
Roland and Marsden leapt to their feet. Roland drew his sword. Mal hissed. The men slowed and then fanned out around the edges of the firelight. There were six of them. Four were wearing tattered military uniforms. Deserters, thought Roland. Probably turned bandit.
One of the civilians stepped forward. He was the only person in the group who looked relatively clean and well-dressed. “Please accept my apologies for our abrupt appearance, fellow travelers. Our camp was attacked by wolves, and we...” He petered off as he caught sight of the uncapped well.
Men like this are probably why it was capped to begin with.
The stranger’s eyes returned to Roland’s with such amazement that Roland could not help feeling a little sorry for him. “Friends,” said the man with feeling, “may we call you friends? And may we trouble you for a drink? My companions are very thirsty.”
Roland wasn’t at all sure he wanted to call them friends, but he felt certain that stopping them would be more trouble than it was worth. “Help yourselves,” he said. “We’ll all stand a better chance together if the wolves attack again.”
* * * *
The ground floor of the tower was the largest of all the rooms and also the strangest. Sairis stared at an obsidian boulder the size of a small cottage at the center. It was surrounded by a patch of meadow—lush green grass dotted with white and yellow flowers, blowing gently in an invisible breeze. Sunlight streamed down upon the peaceful scene. The light had no visible source. Like the grass, it simply faded into the gray walls and ceiling of the tower.
Sairis wasn’t sure what to make of it. He walked around the illusion cautiously, testing it with magic. It did not appear to be a pocket world or a folded space.
As he worked, he became aware of a low, mournful keening, muted and far off. Sairis did not think the sound came from the meadow.
As he circled the illusion, two people came into view on the far side. Candice, at last! She was talking to a version of Hastafel who must be about her own age. He’d been a wiry youth, dressed in soft leather and fur. He looked cleaner than the hollow-eyed boy ready to throw himself from the window overhead, healthier than the young man who must have led a revolution. This boy was the picture of a savvy young goatherd, although, like all the ghosts, he was clearly worried about something.
Sound apparently could not penetrate the illusion. Sairis could hear nothing of their conversation, in spite of the fact that he was standing only a few feet away. Candice and Hastafel looked around as they spoke. Sairis waved at them, but their eyes passed right through him. Sairis noticed that the smooth side of the boulder reflected Candice and Hastafel clearly, but not himself, even though he was close enough to have shown on its sheer surface. Indeed, if he squinted, he could see that it was throwing back images of trees that should have been behind him. Candice and Hastafel won’t see me unless I enter the illusion.
Sairis stood still and considered. Is Candice trapped?
Since she had rashly decided to test the illusion, Sairis felt it would be foolish to join her and risk himself as well. He waited with mounting impatience for her to attempt to leave the meadow.
How long have we been inside the sword? Time passed strangely in spirit vessels. Roland will be worried on general principle, and Marsden will be worried on very specific principle.
Meanwhile, Candice and Hastafel were chatting away like old cousins. Across the room, Sairis caught sight of a large, formal-looking door, standing slightly ajar. He took one more frustrated look at Candice and then made for the exit.
* * * *
The well-dressed civilian was named Alistair, and he was the only talkative one, keeping up a banal chatter while his companions hauled up bucket after bucket of water and lapped it up like dogs. “We were transporting supplies for the army,” he said. “Bandits robbed us, stole our horses and our wagons. We were lucky to escape alive. Wolves did the rest and now we’re just trying to get home before the snows fall. You look like a soldier, young man, have you come from the border? Any news from the front?”
Roland wasn’t about to tell these people who he was or anything about the pass. The more he saw of them in the firelight, the less he liked them. Four in uniforms looked so tattered that Roland found it impossible to believe they’d been part of a military transport in the recent past. He could easily believe they’d been the bandits who robbed it. The clothes certainly looked like someone had died in them.
The other civilian looked marginally presentable, although nothing like Alistair’s stylish frockcoat. This man wore a laborer’s undyed wool, and he moved in a furtive manner that reminded Roland a little of Sairis. “I don’t think they’re military,” he muttered to Alistair. “Not with the summoning circle and all.”
“Ah, yes!” said Alistair brightly. “Forgive me, my companion is more observant. Are you rogue magicians, then? We do not judge, of course.”
“I should think not,” said Marsden, speaking for the first time. He was looking at the quieter man. “Since you certainly are.”
The man bowed. “Caseous,” he said.
Marsden inclined his head, “Ari.”
Roland almost laughed. It was both as true and as false as a name could be. Marsden doesn’t trust them.
Caseous glanced over Marsden’s shoulder at the circle. “Are your friends spirit-walking? Or...are they not your friends?”
Roland wasn’t sure what he meant by that and did not think he wanted to know.
“Friends,” said Marsden quickly. “Magicians as well. They will be awake soon.”
Caseous’s eyes widened as he spotted Mal, uncharacteristically quiet on the far side of the summoning circle. He was still bristling. �
��Well...” murmured Caseous. “There’s something you don’t run into every day.”
“It’s bound,” said Marsden.
“I can see that.”
No more howls issued from the woods, which Roland supposed was the solitary upside to this situation. The wolves must surely be cowed by so many people.
“I suppose you’re sitting here instead of around the fire in order to protect your friends,” purred Alistair. “Very sensible.” To Roland’s consternation, he came forward, and sat down a few paces away. “Mind if we join you?”
* * * *
The keening grew louder as Sairis approached the door. He emerged onto a desolate stretch of cracked pavers beneath the twilight sky of the Shadow Lands. The moat lay beyond, with the trees of the forest growing almost to its edge. Directly across from Sairis, a drawbridge spanned the moat. He barely had time to process this, however, as his attention was drawn to the ghosts.
These were not fragments, but whole people, and they were in distress. The ghosts paced the banks of the moat, leaping in to become silver streaks in the water, where they would flash wildly round and round the tower. Sometimes they leapt out again, flickering back into vaguely corporeal forms, crying and moaning. Some of them had done this so many times that they’d forgotten their human shapes. Their arms were too long, their toes curled like talons, and their jaws dragged the earth. They all had that terrible gleam in their eyes. They could not die—not completely—and they grew hungrier with each moment they were trapped.
This is how the sword draws power. It keeps them here, swimming in endless circles, driving the magical equivalent of a waterwheel.
These spirits were dangerous, but binding so many ghosts would drain Sairis. Instead, he performed a little magic on himself. Easier to trick them than to bind them. Unless he drew their attention, the ghosts would think him just another dead thing.
Sairis approached the moat and looked down. One glance told him that it was filled with Styx water. If he’d cared to jump into it, he would have found it as dry as dust, sliding over his skin like sand.
Sairis moved around the foot of the tower in the direction of the River, his eyes scanning the edges of the moat. He was rewarded by the sight of a dry ditch, overgrown, but still visible. The original sorcerer made a canal to the River, filled the moat, and then dammed it off.
Sairis took a deep breath. He thought he knew what he needed to do. Call the River, flood this place, send all these ghosts on their way.
It sounded easy. However, Sairis was not such a fool as to attempt such a thing from inside the charmed circle of the tower. He needed to get away from it, into the Shadow Lands, where the sword’s magic was less likely to trigger some kind of trap.
Sairis picked his way back to the drawbridge. He considered it from every angle. It appeared to be real. Or as real as anything in the Shadow Lands. He couldn’t sense any traps. Cautiously, he advanced onto the heavy beams. Nothing happened, but as he approached the far side, a sign flickered into existence, staked at the edge of the trees. The letters swam in and out of focus. Sairis suspected they could be read in any language: “None but my master shall pass.”
Well, that was probably true when a demon guarded the tower. But the wolf is loose in the world now. Sairis frowned. But then...why haven’t the ghosts left? A newly dead ghost would not be able to resist the Styx water of the moat, but some of these had been here a long time. They would be inclined to wander.
Sairis had barely stepped off the drawbridge when he felt his skin prickle. He took two swift steps back as a circle of green fire leapt up around the moat. Wards. Well now I know why the ghosts aren’t leaving. Sairis wasn’t a real ghost, and even he wasn’t inclined to test that barrier. How is Hastafel maintaining it? The kind of wards that could burn a trespasser to cinders usually required frequent renewal. The original creator is long dead, and Hastafel is in no position to renew this. It doesn’t make sense...
Could there be a second demon? It was possible, but demons couldn’t perform magic, and Sairis wasn’t sure how a demon would go about renewing wards by itself. Could one of the iterations of Hastafel himself be renewing the wards?
Sairis didn’t think so. They were too fragmentary, with too little self-awareness, bound in their own levels of the tower. Sairis remembered the chunk of obsidian Roland had dropped into a punch bowl to avoid touching a necromancer’s hand. I knew something was tethered there. A ghost or a fragment. I thought it had Hastafel’s blood or even his name in it, but what if it had something even more personal? A piece of his own ghost.
Sairis shivered. No wonder he ran away when I sent it after him. He’s put everything he’d like to forget in here.
Sairis turned back to the tower. I’m missing something.
Chapter 29. The Stone in the Sword
The only two newcomers who seemed interested in sitting around the salt circle were Alistair and Caseous. The other four remained in front of the fire, talking amongst themselves. Roland noticed that Mal stayed as far away from them as possible. The horses seemed restless, pulling on their leads and stamping.
I really wish Sairis and Candice would wake up.
On the plus side, Roland hadn’t seen a single weapon. Definitely no long swords. The group probably had knives or daggers tucked away somewhere, and of course they had a magician. Still... I am a trained knight with my sword at my hip, and Marsden is the godsdamned dean of magical studies. And we have a demon. Surely we are better armed than a bunch of ragged bandits.
Roland glanced at Mal and could not help adding uncharitably to himself, Even if the demon is a bit of a giant housecat. Nothing to say now, Master Sassy Spots? Why don’t you try your little trick with the sexy mind-reading on this lot?
In any case, Roland was more than happy to take a seat beside Alistair. He wanted to keep a close eye on the fellow. There was something odd about him. Roland wondered whether the bandits only came out at night. Alistair looked as pale as Sairis, though his lips were rather strikingly red, almost as though he’d been wearing paint.
He talked endlessly.
Roland offered grunting, half-hearted responses to the stream of cheerful chatter. He could hear Caseous murmuring to Marsden a few feet away and Marsden’s shorter answers. Had they seen any university magicians out here? It was rumored that some were marching with the column. There might be outriders. Had he seen any signs?
“So, how many friends have you lost this year?” asked Alistair.
An image of Marcus’s blood-streaked face leapt vividly before Roland’s mind’s eye. “Excuse me?”
“You’re a friend of demons and rogue wizards,” said Alistair. “How many have been collared or hanged in the last year?”
Roland squinted at his companion, but Alistair had turned away, hiding his expression.
“Not so many,” said Roland carefully.
“Mmm. That surprises me. You know, they say that Prince Roland Malconwy is out here somewhere, hunting a necromancer.”
Roland went very still.
“You’d best be careful,” murmured Alistair. “I can’t imagine he’d approve of what you’re doing here. The Malconwys love to blood their swords on folk like us.”
There was an uncomfortable pause. Is he threatening me? “I think everyone in Mistala is just trying to survive right now,” Roland ventured.
“Oh, I think you’re wrong. I’ll tell you how many friends I’ve lost in the last year. Eleven. They were just trying to survive, too.”
Roland licked his lips. “People make mistakes. The crown is trying to do better by magicians.”
“Is it?” Alistair’s eyes drifted over the salt circle, over Candice and Sairis. “Well, perhaps you’re right. Magicians are still considered human, after all. Can’t imagine that the rulers of Mistala will ever care how demons are treated, though. Or anyone else they don’t call human.”
“Perhaps some understanding could be built,” said Roland cautiously, “if trust could be established
.”
Alistair’s eyes flicked towards his face. His smile was almost beatific. “Trust... Or personal experience, perhaps? I like that idea, actually. I think you might have just saved your own life...Your Highness.”
* * * *
Sairis stepped through the main door again. To his frustration, Candice and Hastafel were still talking. Sairis took a deep breath and approached the meadow. He had a vague sense that they might be running out of time. I have to risk it.
The tower room vanished as Sairis stepped into full sunlight. The distant wailing of ghosts was replaced by birdsong and a far off shushing that Sairis couldn’t identify. Candice and Hastafel broke off their conversation to look at him, but Sairis’s attention was snatched away by a shining expanse on his left.
They were on a hilltop with trees beginning further down the slope. Below, water stretched to the horizon, broken by lines of foam, heaving endlessly. It gleamed in the light of an late afternoon sun, dazzling after the twilight of Death.
Sairis forgot what he’d been doing. He forgot what he’d been thinking. He wasn’t sure how long he’d been staring when a boy’s voice spoke behind him: “You’ve never seen it before, have you?”
Sairis shook his head. “It’s the Shattered Sea, isn’t it?”
“It is.” The shepherd lad who would become a warlord came over to stand beside him. “Magic. Mystery. That’s where it all comes from.”
“How is it in here?” whispered Sairis.
The boy sighed. “It isn’t. We’re in a memory. The sun never sets. The flowers never fade.” He paused and Sairis dragged his eyes away from the Shattered Sea to look where the boy was staring, at a column of smoke rising over the valley to the east. “My village never stops burning.”
Sairis saw other things now, things not visible from outside the illusion. There was blood on the grass in the direction of the village, something that looked like a human body at the edge of the trees. A dead baby goat lay curled among the flowers as though someone had arranged it there—thoughtfully, carefully.
