by D M Wozniak
I have no time to react. No time to grab my voidstone, or even slide to a halt. My momentum carries me.
Instantly, the fountain explodes as a cone-shaped wave of light flashes past me. The tip of it originates from his head, and it fans out on all sides—left, right, above, and below.
An incredibly loud boom reverberates throughout my body.
All of this happens within the time it takes to blink.
The delicate details of the fountain become shards of stone that emanate outward, while the larger pieces break away from one another. Even the water which had filled the fountain is turned into a wall of spray. Everything comes in my direction, following the same angles of the flash of light.
But none of it touches me.
I am not quite sure what to think. The same seems to be true for the voider-effulgent. He lets go of the voidstone by his side. It slips down a bit, but he still clutches onto it by its chain.
His mouth is open in shock.
Again, there is something about him that seems familiar, yet I am sure I’ve never laid eyes on him before. The man is shorter than me. His eyes are a striking blue and his nose is angular. As if it were broken as child, and had never properly healed.
He closes his mouth, his thin lips pressed together in confused frustration.
I look down, seeing that the ground between us has been ripped apart. The blades of grass have been blown out, leaving only soil. But there is a distinct line, right where it curves around my feet. Within this line, the grass is deep-green and untouched.
Screams erupt behind me.
I turn and see a few people on the dirt, bloodied and nearly naked. They lie within the cone-shaped area that the wave took. A few others have come from the nearby grasses, kneeling down in panic and anguish.
The man I had previously pushed aside is behind and to the left of me. His entire body is red, his clothes and outer layers of skin mostly gone, except for his leather belt. A jagged piece of stone is lodged in his skull, his body still twitching, a gurgling sound coming from his open mouth.
Gold millionescent leaves flutter around me.
I look up, seeing that a branch of a nearby tree has been stripped bare.
This is undoubtedly the same technique he used to bring down the tower. But at this close range, it’s far deadlier. The force of the air is enough to blow apart cultured stone, strip branches of their leaves, and disintegrate clothes and skin.
Yet I’m standing in a perfect circle of grass, untouched.
I didn’t create a membrane, nor work any voidance. I didn’t even grasp my voidstone. There was no time.
They helped you, because they believe in you.
Narrowing my eyes while Blythe’s words fill my mind, I look to where the fountain used to stand, and the voider-effulgent beyond.
He’s gone.
I mutter a curse, looking around in all directions.
Almost immediately I find him again, thanks to his white robes and the sudden absence of others—the consequence of his actions.
He rounds the far-side of the stage, which is about waist-height, a good twenty yards in the distance.
I run after him.
The red and white tent is on the other side of the stage. It’s twenty-five yards square, and capable of holding at least a hundred people. The sides are covered in the same striped fabric as the sloped roof, but the panels blow in the breeze, as well as from people frantically coming and going. The entire structure hangs somewhat lopsided, one of its three peaks deformed.
As I round the stage, he ducks in between two side panels and heads inside.
I am briefly tempted to grab my voidstone and do something creative. I have him trapped now. I could set fire to the tent. I could mend the seams closed, sealing him inside. I could turn the ground into mud, as I did on the road to Prainise.
But there are innocent people inside this tent as well.
I decide to do nothing. I run to the same gap in the panels, and take a step inside.
And then mumble another swear in frustration. It’s entirely crammed with people and props.
They’re mostly actors, fearfully clustered around circular tables full of makeup, wigs, and mirrors. They must believe that they are safer in this tent than outside, where the destruction has occurred. They have no idea that the author of that destruction is now in their midst. A few men hold gaslights on tall iron poles—a dangerous thing in a closed fabric tent that isn’t structurally sound. The combination of the gaslights and the weak evening light from outside the fabric create a dark, reddish hue that permeates the space.
I don’t see the voider-effulgent at all.
I weave through the tight space, walking around tables and folded privacy panels, apologizing to a woman changing behind one. As more time passes, the faster I go, and the panic rises within me. A bright light enters the space as someone either comes and goes from a side exit. I peer into the distance, looking for the tell-tale sign of bright white there, but it’s someone else, in brightly-colored clothes and a head-full of hair.
“You’re a voider,” says someone.
I turn around. It’s one of the men carrying oil lamps. He has a thin mustache, and leans the pole toward me, bathing me in overhead light.
I nod while frantically looking around.
“You’re a northerner.”
“Yes.”
“Some are saying that a Xian voider is loose in the city, and that they brought down the tower.”
I ignore him. “Did you see an effulgent pass by here?”
“An effulgent?”
“Yes! In a white robe.”
He peers at me, his face leaning forward on his neck and the oil lamp dangling a bit over my head. “You mean the actors?”
I push his pole back toward him and narrow my eyes. “What do you mean?”
“There’s a comedy act about them. It’s called ‘You don’t own me’.”
He’s pointing to a far corner of the tent, but it’s blocked by stacked, painted boxes. “You’ll find all the effulgents over there.”
I leave his side as he still speaks to me, but I am not listening. All I hear is my heart beating through my chest as my mind explores all possibilities. If I lose him, then I’ve lost the upper hand. He knows that I’m alive and that I’m onto him, but I still don’t know who or where he is. I had him in my grasp only moments ago. I could have trapped him in here with the rest of these people. Would that have been worth the cost? Would that have been justice or vengeance?
I fear the answer to that question when I see a flash of white through the red-tinged throng.
Stepping around the stack of painted boxes, chairs, and a rolling cart of hanging clothes, I near another circular table surrounded by a close-knit group of sitting effulgents.
Spinning each one around, I pull off their white hoods.
They’re all actors. They’re wearing skullcaps over their hair, in order to create a balding affect. Tape is over their brows. One woman is crying, her eyeshadow smeared.
I let out a scream of anguish.
They all look at me like I’m crazy.
“Did another effulgent come by here?”
“You’re not from the troupe,” one of the men says, ignoring my question. “How is it out there? They’re saying it was a Xian—”
“Did another effulgent come by here?!” I scream, and they all jump in place. The crying woman shrieks and grabs the shoulder of her fellow actor.
“No,” he says slowly. I look at the others and most are shaking their heads.
I swear again, taking another look around. I’m in the very corner of the tent. Far away, one of the large poles meant to keep up the tent has been shattered, which is causing the roof to sag. Nearer to me is the stack of painted boxes. I contemplate climbing them to give me a better vantage point over the crowd.
But then my gaze scans past something on the floor, directly next to them.
There’s something white lying behind a verti
cal, folded screen.
I run over to it, lean down, and grab the piece of clothing. I hold it up in front of me.
It’s a white effulgency robe.
As my heart drops, I quickly head back to the table of actors, holding it up for them to see. “Is this yours?”
They look at me with confused expressions, and I throw the garment in the center of the table. “Is that cloak one of yours?” I scream.
“How should we know?” the crying woman says. The man whose shoulder she’s grasping takes it, analyzes the material, and then shakes his head slowly. “This is much finer. Do you know—”
I quickly round the table, rip the cloak out of his hands, and head to the nearest gap between the panels.
When I exit, I’m facing west—the destroyed temple and setting sun beyond. It’s weak and half-hidden under the slate rooftops. The breeze hits me. It should feel refreshing after being in the tight confines of first the rubble and then the tent, but I don’t feel anything but dread.
Somehow, despite everything being in my favor, I failed.
He’s gone. I can feel it.
The wooden stairs leading to the stage are directly in front of me, so I climb them. The boards creak under my weight—this stage has seen better days. It’s empty of people, but there are wigs, props, and boxes of other miscellaneous theater gear strewn all over the place, hinting at the panic that ensued when the bell tower came down.
With a groan, I sit down on the edge of the black-painted platform, and look out onto the park.
I’m right above eye-level to the slowing crowd, giving me an elevated view. It’s all I can do, at this point. Watching them move about. They look like they’re in a dream, and I feel the same. We all seem to be thinking the same thing. There is no more danger here. It has passed.
I’m no longer looking for an effulgent. I don’t know what I’m looking for. He’s back to being a blur again.
Almost without thinking, I grasp the voidstone around my neck and enter the void. Not to perform any voidance, but to offer an apology.
I don’t know if you can even understand me. But I am sorry. You saved my life and I repaid you by failing. He got away.
Their voices seem to quiet down, as if they’re listening. But if they reply back to me, I cannot understand them. It’s as if a frosted pane of glass is between us.
Can you show me the way back to him? Give me a sign of where the voider-effulgent went? Or who he is? Blythe said you don’t have the concept of names. But I need his name.
There is nothing but the wind.
Eventually I let go.
When the world comes back to me, it is darker. I glance west and notice that the sun is gone. Lavender hues bathe the park.
A woman’s blonde wig lays next to me on the stage. I put down the balled-up effulgency cloak and pick up the wig instead. It smells like cheap perfume and sweat, so I toss it aside.
A few glass vials roll toward me, coming to a rest against my thigh. They had been trapped underneath the wig.
I pick one up. It’s rouge paint, something of the sort Marine would put on her cheeks when there was a formal dinner. I slide it across the stage and pick up the other. It says ‘Goat Clippings Glue’.
I’m about to slide this across the stage as well, in an attempt to hit the other, when recent words come to mind.
I gave them the horses, along with some goat clippings.
My hand freezes before I can let go of the vial. I take another look at it, turning the hand-written label around to the other side.
It reads, in finer print, ‘Royal Theater Supply, Winter’s Baiou’.
“Goat clippings,” I mumble out loud to myself, as I think back to what that odd, traveling salesman said to me.
It’s used for a great, many things. Typically, one can make a very strong glue with boiled clippings. Used by painters, mostly. Saddlers and woodworkers, too. Worchot is asked for clippings once in a while. It is not as popular as honey.
“Is that what you wanted it for?” I ask nobody in particular, as I pick up the blonde wig again and analyze its underside. An amber residue lines the edges. Most of it is gummy to the touch, but in a few places it’s dry enough to flake off as I run my fingers over it. “A wig? To blend in with the rest of us?”
Soft footsteps on the stairs draw my attention upward.
A small Xian girl no older than ten years of age stands on the stage with me. She’s wearing a fancy yellow dress and decorative beads in her hair, but one of her puffy sleeves is ripped, and she’s barefoot. Mostly likely she was in the park watching a performance on this very stage when the tower collapsed.
She looks at me hesitantly, her chest heaving as if she were running.
“Are you lost, child?” I ask, trying to keep my voice pleasant despite my bitter mood. I drop the wig off the side of the stage, while stuffing the vile of glue into my pocket.
She shakes her head. “Are you the master voider?”
I straighten my shoulders. “Why, yes. How did you know that?”
She takes a few steps closer and extends her hand.
“I have something for you.”
“You do?” I ask, looking down to her hand. There is a note clutched in it.
“It’s for you,” she says, motioning with her hand again.
I take it.
“Who is this—”
Before I can get the question out, she turns, jumps off the stage with a deftness only a child possesses, and runs east through the park. I follow her with my gaze until she disappears under the dusky shade of a cluster of willows.
“What is this?” I mumble, as I unravel the small parchment in my hands, and nearly drop it in shock.
The handwriting is painfully familiar. There is no mistaking it.
I look up again, back to the willows, to see if I can see the Xian girl, or the person who sent her. But nobody is there. Just moss swaying in the breeze.
Bringing the paper up to my nose, I take in the scent. Fresh ink. It was written very recently, but the ink is dry to the touch. Within a halfbell’s time, most likely.
I read it again, not quite believing the words that are in front of me. But I have to, because there is nobody else in the world who could know such a thing.
You should not have come. It is dangerous for both of us.
Meet me tomorrow. Sunrise.
In Temberlain’s Ashes.
The Lady Marine
Eleutheria
I sit on the empty stage and stare at Marine’s sparse note in my hands until it is dark. I’m not sure how much time passes since the Xian girl gave it to me—it could be an instant or a fullbell. Such is the magic of twilight and broken dreams.
Chimeline’s voice pulls me back. Her voice is raspy and urgent, and when I turn my body to face the wreckage past the trees, she stands in the flickering glow of torchlight. She cannot see me, yet is calling out my name. A soldier on horseback is nearby, looking down on her from his high perch.
Stuffing the note into my pocket, I put my palms on the black stage and jump off onto the grass.
On the way through the park, I look ahead. Blythe, Colu, and Chimeline, with torches in hand, are looking for survivors amid the rubble, while a handful of nearby soldiers treat the wounded and collect the dead. The wounded lie nearer to the wreckage, where most of the soldiers are huddled. Ten yards from them is a row of bodies. Two dozen, perhaps—children and adults alike.
I cross from grass onto stone, from tree cover to starry skies.
“Dem!” Chimeline cries, once she sees me. She drops the torch onto the rubble and scrambles down the hill, arms out, crashing into my arms.
She’s full of dust and smells of burnt oil, but I pay no mind. I embrace her tightly, wrapping my hand around her head and bringing it into my shoulder.
Blythe and Colu slowly follow, torches in hand.
“Did you—?” she asks, pulling away and looking up at me as the words fail her. She shivers, either due to the evening
air or fear. I continue to hold her as Blythe has the courage to comment.
“Your countenance tells me everything. You lost him.”
“Everything was in my favor, yet I still failed,” I tell him.
He steps forward and briefly puts a hand on my shoulder. “Do not take on the yoke of blame. Do not own the dark.”
“They helped me, Blythe.”
“Who helped you?”
I gesture to my voidstone.
“The enervated helped you?”
I nod and point to the park. “Did you see?” I ask. “He destroyed the fountain. I was standing directly in front of it, yet I was untouched.”
Blythe’s smooth face peers into the darkness. “I did not see it happen, but I saw the damage. We brought the bodies back here.”
I grit my teeth. “I saw him, Blythe. He was right in front of me. Almost as close as you are right now.”
He gives me a look of sympathy.
“After that, he went into the tent, and then...” I run a hand through my short hair as I think back to the clipping glue. “I found his effulgency cloak. He has another disguise. He uses a wig or something to blend in with the rest of us.”
“A wig?” Colu asks.
“Like the actors,” I reply. “Eyebrows too, most likely.”
“So he doesn’t look like a hairless ass anymore?”
“Exactly,” I say. “Do you remember the trader?”
“Worchot?” Chimeline asks.
I nod. “He bought goat clippings from him. To make glue.”
Everyone is silent for a moment, until Blythe speaks up.
“You see?” he says, his voice bright, yet strained, as if he is trying too hard to convince himself of something. “It was the Unnamed’s will that this happened. Instead of achieving vengeance, you discovered something important.”
Colu loudly clears his throat and spits to the side.
Meanwhile, the one soldier on horseback slowly ushers his mount in our direction, the clip-clop sound of hooves over stone echoing out into the night.
