by Ted Neill
“As did I. It is quite disturbing.” Omanuju passed close to a man paralyzed in the act of adjusting his monocle. “But these powers are rarely ever lost completely. In dark catacombs, in nocturnal ceremonies, in blood rituals—they are rediscovered and sustained by humans with foul hearts. What we thought was dead was only dormant. What we must try to determine now is just how long ago this took place.”
“My guess, from the decay of the items on the table, three years,” Ghede offered. “They all seemed to have been caught unawares.”
“No,” Gabriella interrupted. “Not everyone. Some tried to flee.” She pointed to a doorway where three servants stood. One was caught lifting a flagon of wine as if to deflect some oncoming blow. The other two had been frozen in the act of running away.
Omanuju stepped into the corridor behind the figures. It was dark and unlit, but Gabriella could see the shape of other frozen victims cowering in the darkness. If she had not known better, she would have guessed these were people simply hiding in fear. She remained in the banquet hall, where the sunlight was beginning to disappear. With growing worry, she noticed shadows lengthening within the walls.
“This one is pleading for mercy,” Ghede said from the corridor. Only Ghede’s eyes, like gold coins, were visible in the dark. “And he is looking down, as if his attacker was small.”
“Then the creature who attacked had the gift of speech . . . otherwise why try to reason with it?” Omanuju asked.
“So many servants, this must have been a royal banquet of some kind,” Ghede said.
“It was a birthday celebration,” Gabriella said. Omanuju and Ghede came back into the banquet hall. “Look, at those boxes.”
In the corner, faded and collapsed boxes sat tumbled together in a pile. Balls of wrapping paper opened like rotten flowers.
“The king or queen’s birthday?” Ghede ventured.
“You would not give the king a dress though,” Gabriella said, lifting a box lid with her toe and revealing a pristine white dress inside. “And if the two of you could not tell, this is not a grownup’s dress. It is a girl’s, about my age, maybe younger.”
“I think if we want more answers, we ought—” Omanuju’s voice dropped to a whisper. “We are not alone. I heard footsteps.”
At the same time, Adamantus swung his head up and began to gallop down another dank, close corridor, a passageway for servants to move about unseen and unheard. They followed the elk, running past doorways with dark pools of shadow. At the end of the dim passage, they pushed aside a moldering tapestry to enter a room with a soaring ceiling and glorious windows. Their light converged on a dais in the center of the room with two thrones carved from blond wood inlaid with pearls and polished shells.
The room was thick with warm, stuffy air, but it was not still, nor silent. A girl darted up the steps to the thrones and threw herself onto the right-hand one—the king’s place. Her chest lifted and fell as she struggled to catch her breath. Her dress, once elegant, had a tightly woven lace skirt and a satin bodice. At one time it had been white, but now it was brown and gray with dirt, ragged with frayed hems and gaping holes. It was many sizes too small, a better fit for a young girl about ten years of age. On this girl, who had the rounded hips and elongated limbs of early adolescence, it bordered on indecent.
She had thrown herself down so that she half sat, half lay across the king’s throne. For a moment she tried to make her face into a mask of royal inscrutability, but as they stepped closer, she cried out in the Oceanic tongue, “Stop where you are!”
Her voice cracked and echoed in the high chamber. They halted before the mysterious creature, studying her. After a moment she demanded, “Who are you that you trespass in my castle and approach me bearing arms?”
Omanuju looked to Ghede, who put his sword away.
“We are friends,” Omanuju said, looking at her intently. “I am Omanuju Ant of Harkness. This is Gabriella Carlyle and this is Ghede, who comes from a race of people long allied to the House of Foyle. We are journeying east and stopped here to visit friends. We are saddened to find the castle in such a state.”
The girl sat silent. With one hand, she twirled her knotted hair. With the other, she touched a small scepter resting on the arm of the throne. Omanuju paused. Even Gabriella knew that the rules of etiquette required that the girl make a response. Clearly this girl was ignorant.
“May I ask whom I address?” Omanuju finally asked.
“You might,” said the girl, who was then silent. The lull did not last long for she began to giggle and laugh—a deep-throated, mocking laugh. Gabriella curled her hands into fists. She knew a bully when she saw one, and Gabriella understood this girl, even if her companions did not. Too many children like her had picked on her and Dameon, yet Omanuju and Ghede waited in respectful silence. If Gabriella had had her choice, she would have turned and walked away, leaving the girl on the island, alone.
After a long, indulgent laugh, the girl said, “You may ask, but I don’t have to tell.” She giggled again at her response, hugging her sides in an ostentatious show of agony.
There was something else about her that Gabriella did not like: when the girl spoke, she sounded as if she was making every attempt to sound younger than her age—she lisped, like a pouting child. Gabriella wanted to leave. She had a foreboding sense that nothing good would come of staying and parlaying with this girl. Reasoning with her might be impossible. She was crazy-mad.
Gabriella wondered if Omanuju and Ghede had the same reaction as she did. She moved shoulder to shoulder with Omanuju and would have tugged on his arm to encourage him to leave if Ghede had not taken a large step forward. His approach put an immediate end to the girl’s laughter. Her expression became fierce, and she snatched up the object on the armrest. It was a rod the size and length of a drummer’s stick. It was tapered and made of a light blue substance, either wood or a light stone. Ghede’s eyes fixed on it as if were a dagger pointed at his throat.
“Stop it!” the girl screamed and stamped. She pointed the stick directly at Ghede. It was no stick, Gabriella realized, but a wand.
“Where did you get that?” Ghede asked.
“I don’t have to tell you anything,” she said, some of her haughtiness returning. “I am Princess Sybil Foyle, and this castle is mine.”
Ghede remained rooted in place and held his hands out at his side. “What happened to your people, Princess Sybil? What happened to your parents?”
“Nothing they did not deserve,” the Princess said coldly.
Gabriella wanted desperately to leave, but Omanuju spoke up, “Princess Sybil, they were all dressed for a festival.”
“Not a festival, you stupid man. A birthday. My birthday. I told them I did not want a birthday. I told them I did not want to grow up and do stupid grownup things. They didn’t listen. They said everyone grows up. I ignored them. But they forced me into a dress, and Father made me come downstairs to the hall. He tried to make me sit beside him and greet all the stupid people. I tossed all their gifts aside. Father became very angry. I told him I wished he and Mother were dead. I ran away and went to cry on the battlements.
“That was when one of the guests found me. I hadn’t noticed him downstairs, but there had been too many people for me to notice anyway. He gave me the only good gift of that whole day. He gave me this.” Sybil held the wand straight up, then lowered it towards them again. “He was a nice man. He told me that I did not have to grow up. He gave me my gift and told me it was made from the tree outside in the courtyard.”
Ghede mumbled something biting under his breath.
“Do you remember anything particular about this man?” asked Omanuju.
Sybil was quiet for a moment before answering. “He spoke with a strong accent. He was hard to understand, but he was the nicest person at that stupid party.”
“Did he have a name?”
“I don’t have to tell you.”
Gabriella guessed that Sybil didn’t know. Oman
uju tried a different line of questions. “Did the man have any rune markings on his hands, bracelets, or other jewelry, perhaps something around his neck?”
“Yes, something around his neck, a ring. It was strange because it was broken.”
Omanuju dropped his head so that his chin touched his chest. “The Servior’s reach has grown wide,” he whispered.
Ghede picked up where Omanuju had left off. “The Servior are evil men, Princess Sybil. The trees of the blue forest were never meant to be fashioned into such weapons, a weapon that should never be given to someone without training. Please, release your people from this curse.”
“So they can order me around and tell me to grow up?” she swung the wand in Ghede’s direction like a sword. “You are just like them, aren’t you, except that you are blue.”
“Princess Sybil,” Omanuju said.
“Stop there! Stop there or I will kill you! Kill you, see!”
It happened quickly. Sybil aimed the wand at Ghede, and white light blasted out of its end. Ghede leapt out of the way, but it was too late. An aurora engulfed him. For a moment Gabriella had to shield her eyes. It was as bright as looking into the sun, then she watched, horrified, as the light took form and rotated around Ghede like a whirlpool. A blue light from within him bled outwards and commingled with the whirl of white. The colors spun and even appeared to fight for a few moments. Ghede was trapped by them. The swirl rose from the floor. Gabriella saw that Ghede’s feet were missing.
“Ghede!” she cried.
The light moved higher. Now his legs were gone. The spinning was increasing in velocity like water down a drain. Gabriella could still see Ghede’s face, the corners of his mouth bent in resignation and sorrow. His brow furrowed as if he wished to comfort Gabriella. “Don’t worry about—”
The light burst outward. A wind swept through the room, shaking dust off the rafters and flapping the faded tapestries. Gabriella stumbled backwards.
Ghede was gone.
“No!” Gabriella threw herself forward. On the floor where Ghede had last stood, the white handkerchief remained, the sprig still inside. Gabriella picked it up and held it to her chest. Tears filled her eyes. She turned to Sybil. The Princess was examining the wand with surprise. Apparently not even she had expected such a display.
“You miserable brat!” Gabriella spat. It was not only Sybil she saw, but every Harkenite child that had ever been cruel to her or her brother. Before she could say anything more, Omanuju had stepped in front of her. Sybil aimed the wand again. Now even Adamantus moved close as if to protect them.
“You want to be next?”
“Gabriella,” Omanuju whispered. “Think of your family. They will not be served by your death here.”
Gabriella could not reply. Her voice was choked. Her face was wet with tears of anger. Before she could speak again, she noticed a short man watching them from an adjoining hallway. He was wearing a motley-colored jester costume. The wide vertical stripes were faded. The elbows and knees had been patched. More strangely, he had two hand mirrors hanging by leather belts around his neck, one on his chest, the other on his back. The way they swayed assured Gabriella that this jester was not frozen like the other residents of the castle. When Sybil noticed him, he dropped down to one knee and groveled.
“Oh most radiant Sybil,” he said in a hoarse voice. “Please forgive me for leaving my station of the kitchen, but I heard shouts and thought you might be in danger.”
Although Gabriella could hear the sarcasm in his voice, Sybil remained clueless. “Meeshock, take this girl with you. She will be my new slave. As for this man, I will have him entertain me with stories until supper time.”
“As you wish,” Meeshock said, rising. Omanuju nudged Gabriella to go. It was useless to resist, she knew. If Omanuju entertained Sybil for a while, perhaps Gabriella could engineer a way to escape. She was not confident that this man would help her though. He looked at her with suspicious eyes and smelled foul, like rotten eggs and stale urine.
“Go prepare dinner, slaves,” Sybil said. “You, Man-ju or whatever your name is, you sit there and entertain me.”
Gabriella followed Meeshock, but kept looking back over her shoulder at Omanuju. His eyes held no answers. Finally the jester took Gabriella by the shoulder and guided her into a corridor. Once out of earshot of Sybil, he mumbled,
“Welcome to the prison rock of Foyle Island.”
Chapter 18
Greatport
This time was different. Between their own money and what they had stolen from the Guild before leaving, Sade and Vondales were comfortably well off. No starving, no stealing of boats, or stowing away. This time they booked passage on a ship bound for the Isle of Lorn and the city of Greatport, the capital city of the Rowess archipelago. Sade had heard that there was a marketplace for weather mages there, so he spent his days on the ship studying, honing his enchantments, memorizing passages and runes, and practicing his pronunciation. Vondales, on the other hand, was restless. As just passenger and not a member of the crew there was little for him to do, so he spent most of his hours fidgeting, pacing the deck, or slumped against the gunwale, sleepy from too much grog.
So it was with relief that Vondales finally bounded down the gangplank onto the docks of Greatport. Sade followed more slowly, taking in the longshoremen rolling barrels, maidens selling limes, and linesmen hawking their wares of ropes, lines, and nets. Greatport was truly a capital city, with sprawling plazas, crowded streets, tall buildings with tiled roofs, and a haze from a thousand smoking chimneys. With a bit of humility mixed with shame, Sade realized just what a backwater they had come from. Even Mornaport had been just a small port village in comparison to Greatport, with its forest of masts lining the harbor as far as the eye could see.
Here we can find opportunity and obscurity.
They had lived by their own rules, but the world still insisted upon a different set. Their list of victims had grown. In his dreams Sade would sometimes still see their uncle’s face, his look of surprise as Vondales sank the ax into his leg, an expression so similar to the desperation of all the others like Nicholas and Carter as they faced their mortality—even the girl on Illicaine. Sade had done his best to extinguish his conscience, to absolve himself and blame their victims for their fates. For the most part he had been successful, but he still recognized that others abided by a set of foolish, arbitrary rules, laws, that they were too weak or stupid to question. Those laws and their consequences followed them, as unstoppable as the incoming tide. But here, in this city they could hide, start over, at least pretend to conform long enough to become established again.
“A city like this has got to have fighting pits,” Vondales said.
“Unlikely,” Sade said, noticing two king’s men on patrol. He had seen more on their walk from the ship to the market than he had seen in their whole time in Mornaport. Here in Greatport the king’s men cloaks were new and fine, without the frayed edges of their compatriots stationed on far off outer islands. In Greatport, their armor was polished to a shine, their belts and boots oiled, and their horses well groomed. “Not right here under the king and council’s noses. But you are not fighting anymore. You need to avoid notoriety, for both of our sakes.”
Vondales grunted and looked away at a smithy booth full of knives, short swords, and ax heads. “How will we make a living then?”
“Through sorcery,” Sade said. “Come, here is the place we’re looking for.”
They had come to the crowded corner of a wide plaza where men and a few women stood outside an assortment of tents and booths. Some were dressed very much like nobles in finery and jewels. These were powerful weather mages who served royal vessels or merchant ships. Others in more modest clothes served less luxurious fishing boats and smuggler craft. All had weathered faces from years in sun and surf, wind and rain, and all appeared powerful and intimidating to Sade.
Young men and a smaller number of girls circulated from one weather worker to the
next, their parents or mentors making introductions for them. Sade felt all the smaller for having no such escort. He avoided the richer looking weather workers. They were surrounded by aspiring apprentices and had their pick of well-trained and well-groomed youngsters. There was no use competing there. Instead, Sade sought out the workers dressed in commoners’ clothes, closer to their own, anticipating a better fit. He also approached less established weather workers, ones who looked young whom he thought would be eager for an apprentice. But most of these turned the other way when Sade approached. One outright told him that at sixteen he was already too old for such a position.
His spirits lifted when another weather worker, a boisterous man with a loud voice and bald head actually called Sade over to his tent. “Young man, show me your art.”
Sade conjured a breeze that stirred the man’s robes and the dust at their feet. A few by-standers nodded with approval.
“Can you endow an object?”
“Sir?”
“Enchant a sail or a staff. Many captains want to sail without a mage these days and instead want the magic crafted into a sail or a staff. It is a lost art. Few ships remain with such endowments. It is a lost art but a useful one to resurrect.”
“I’m sorry I don’t know how,” Sade admitted.
The man grimaced but hope still twinkled in his eyes. He reached into his tent and produced a fat candle that was wider than it was tall. It had three wicks set into a frozen basin of wax. He set it on the cobblestones at their feet and said, “Light it.”
“Conjure fire?”
“Yes.”
“But a weather worker does not work the element of fire.”
“I need more than a mere weather worker.”
Sade took a deep breath, trying to still his hands. He focused on one of the wicks; lighting all three he knew was beyond him. The runes he had read over and memorized appeared in his mind’s eye. He whispered them under his breath and when that did not work he said them louder. His fingers grew rigid, then his arms and shoulders. His muscles strained and his joints ached with the will to set the wick alight. He became aware of how hot he was. Perspiration was dripping down his face and even more down his sides and back. The world shrank, just to the candle itself, anything else was dark in comparison. His teeth were set against one another, his jaw stiff. He looked down a tunnel to the candle and string of smoke rising from one wick.
