by James Derry
Its cerulean feathers. The emerald-and-amethyst striations of its tail. The furious (but enthralling) ruby-red of its eyes. Then Jamal’s gaze was drawn up to the gilded irises of the false eyes on the peacock’s fanned tail. There had to be twenty of them, shimmering filaments of plumage, splayed out in glowing colors that Jamal couldn’t even describe. He had the fleeting impression of a hearth fire. A flaxen shimmer of light on Lady Nemeah’s hair. A sunset reflected on the Slumbering Sea. He thought, ‘I’ve never encountered such an exquisite monster.’
Wait. Something was wrong here. What was the operative word?
‘Monster.’
Jamal forced his face to contort from a grin to a grimace. He grunted and kicked at the bird’s gorgeous head. The bird emitted a heartbreaking shriek, and Jamal had to resist an urge to apologize. The thing had let go of him. He scrabbled to his feet and put some distance between himself and the beast.
The bird raised itself to its full height and regarded him with a distinctly avian head tilt. Its head was eight feet above the ground. The tip-top of its fanned tail rose another four feet above that.
“Don’t look at its tail,” Jamal told himself. He realized he was probably dealing with a simurgh. He’d heard tales of these large, carnivorous birds that could beguile a man with their plumage. Were they flightless? Did they possess some other magical powers? Jamal couldn’t remember. But he knew enough to not focus on the spellbinding arc of colors on the bird’s tail.
The simurgh emitted an ominous, rattling coo deep in its resplendent throat. It stamped one of its feet, which were bedazzled in glossy black talons. Jamal decided that the simurgh was just a larger—more ravishing—species of ostrich. Jamal had helped wrangle a few ostriches in the aviary at Gjuir-Khib.
“Go on. Bring it, you overgrown chicken. I know how to deal with you.”
The simurgh lowered its tail feathers so that they spread out in a horizontal canopy behind it. The golden ‘eyes’ on its tail flared, and those blazes of light lifted away from the simurgh’s tail. Instead of dissipating, the discs of energy grew brighter. They swirled around the peacock in a fast moving halo of fiery light.
“Oh no.”
Fortunately, Jamal didn’t have to find out what the fiery light could do. An object whipped through the air to the simurgh’s right. It entered the halo with a crackle of flame and struck the monster in its breast. The bird squawked and turned his fury in the direction of the incoming projectile.
It was King Pawn, holding an empty sling in his right hand. With his left hand, Pawn dunked a new stone into his trusty satchel. It emerged covered in a crystalline powder that Jamal assumed was salt.
Pawn winked at Jamal. “I’ve been looking for you two. Where’s Sygne?”
The carousel of light around the simurgh spun faster. One of the energy discs broke free and flew at the Demigod King.
“Ay!” Pawn bounded away as the energy blast incinerated the turf where he had just been standing. “You’re a feisty one,” he said to the creature.
Pawn loaded his sling, swung it, and deftly launched another rock at the simurgh’s head. It was a relatively small target, and the Demigod King just missed.
In response, the simurgh launched another volley at Pawn, but Jamal was already rushing to help. He pulled a throwing knife from his belt and flung it, also aiming for the creature’s head. He also missed.
But the simurgh had been sufficiently spooked now. It had lost its appetite for a fight. Its flurry of fire now faded away, and the bird turned and trotted toward the nearest stand of ash trees.
Pawn brushed dust from one of his pant legs.
“Nice! It’s been a while since I’ve tangled with one of those.”
“Do we chase after it?” Jamal asked. “It might attack someone else.”
“No. The simurghs are noble beasts, but cowardly predators. They only seek out solitary prey. Didn’t Sygne tell you about them?”
“She said something about the Garden Reach having its own defenses. And something about not wanting to sleep in a small group.”
“That’s it,” Pawn nodded. “The simurghs act as a sort of natural preventative against vagrants or lone wolves. People quickly learn when they come to Albatherra: You’re better off living communally, then striking off on your own.”
Jamal considered that for a moment. Pawn must’ve seen the troubled look on his face. “Oh, are you thinking that we let the simurghs roam around and murder innocent people? No. If that bird had had its way with you, it would have just eaten the top few layers of skin off of your leg. It wouldn’t have killed you. To simurghs, human skin is the most succulent delicacy. Also, luckily for us, the simurghs do not like the skin of babies or children. Only full-grown adults.”
“That is lucky,” Jamal said noncommittally. “So what happens to a homeless man who has his skin peeled off by one of those things?”
“We take him to one of our world famous sanatoriums, where he recuperates until the scabs turn back to healthy skin.”
“How humane.”
“But seriously.” Pawn’s face abruptly darkened, turning from convivial to concerned. “Where is Sygne?”
“I don’t know, Your Majesty.” Jamal’s head was starting to thud again, now that the excitement of the fight was fading. “We parted ways…”
Jamal expected a rivalrous smirk to pass over the sovereign’s face. Instead, even worse, Pawn gave him an expression of pity—half compassion, half condescension. “Oh, I thought you two were…”
“It’s just for a little while,” Jamal added quickly.
“I see,” Pawn said. “You are looking a bit bilious, Jamal.”
“I could use some water.”
“Good idea. I drank two urns of the stuff myself, early this morning to stave off the effects of last night’s revelry. Let me escort you to one of the Garden Reach’s many pure springs.”
They walked in silence for a while through the verdant expanse of the grand garden. Jamal was consumed with his own thoughts, and he didn’t reply much as the Demigod King showed him topiaries that had been in ensorcelled by horticcultists to animate through different phases once per day, commemorating important events in Albatherran history. Some of the specially molded trees would shed blue pedals, in the memory of the city’s fallen soldiers. A trellis of vines would blaze with orange blossoms to celebrate some historic victory. There was even a horse made of shrubbery that could buck and kick its forelegs—if it was spritzed with water in the right spots.
Past the memorial squares, they ascended a few earthwork terraces that formed concentric plateaus. It was as if a giant had stacked a series of lawns on top of one another. And as far as Jamal knew, that was exactly what it happened. Pawn—and his father Ithjzur before him—had obviously spared no expense and left no construction opportunity unexplored. The Garden Reach was undeniably spectacular. It was arguably the most beautiful place Jamal had ever seen, possibly even eclipsing the wonders of Gjuir-Khib.
And yet Jamal could not enjoy the view. He was too busy thinking about Sygne.
At the pinnacle of the terraced greens, Pawn stopped to admire another topiary statue. This shrub formed the shape of a barrel-chested man. Its leaves were so compactly and pristinely arranged, they looked like scales of chain-mail armor. The statue’s face was a disturbingly lifelike burl of wood. Jamal was amazed at how much its soft surface resembled the texture and multihued color of human flesh. The round, wooden face was supple enough that Jamal felt like he could have pinched the jowls and tugged them. The man’s hair was represented by draping strands of willow that had dried to a stately gray color.
“That’s your father?” Jamal asked.
“Do you see the resemblance?” Pawn asked.
“No… I just assumed.” The topiary was very finely done, and if it was accurate then Pawn had inherited his heavy brow, dark eyes, and angular jaw from his Mizzuline mother.
Pawn knelt at his father
’s memorial. Then he casually spit at the roots of the topiary, as if this was some paradoxical ritual of respect and loathing that he had established long ago. When Pawn saw the look on Jamal’s face, he chuckled. “Oh, sorry. That’s an old habit. My father and I… We had a strange relationship. You know, I was far from my father’s only son. He had boys with his first wife, with his other wives, with his concubines. And yet he never established a true successor. His firstborn son died when he turned twenty, and the rumors still persist that Ithjzur poisoned him before his son could do the same to him. After that, all of the other sons entered a sort of stalemate; they couldn’t act against my father while they were unsure who had the best claim to the crown.”
“Hmm.” Jamal thought that the story sounded despicable, and yet there was an out-of-place referential tone to the way Pawn told it.
“My father was brilliant, really. Always, he was a mastermind at the game of crowns.”
“Game of crowns?”
“Of course, what else would you call it?” King Pawn said. “He named me Pawn. What does that tell you? Even as a newborn he saw me as a tool, potentially expendable. Something he could use, if I proved myself worthy enough to play the game.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
“Well, he’s dead now. And I’m king, so it all worked out pretty well in the end.”
“I suppose so. Can I ask you a question?”
Pawn was still staring at his father’s memorial. “Go ahead.”
“When you won the game, did you ever say ‘King me?’”
“Because I went from a Pawn to a King?”
“Yes. It would have been an awesome catch phrase to say,” Jamal cleared his throat, “at the time.”
“I think you’re confusing chess with checkers.”
“Oh.”
Pawn smiled. “But I did say it. And it was pretty awesome.”
“‘King me,’” Jamal softly imitated the way he imagined Pawn saying it. “Wow.”
8 – Homecoming
Sygne had to walk across three miles of the Garden Reach before she arrived at the boundary of the city proper. Upon entering the gardens, Jamal had asked “where are the walls?” If he had stayed with Sygne long enough to travel this far east, he would have seen them. White, seamless walls, fifteen feet high. This was the center of the Demigod King’s power. And also the cloister for the Academy.
The two soldiers at the gate stared at her blankly as she gave her name and announced her purpose. There was no reason they should’ve recognized her, although she was somewhat disheartened to receive such a tepid welcome back to her hometown. The walls and the gatehouse seemed more austere than she remembered. In her memories, the people of Albatherra bustled together with a warm energy. Today’s gatekeepers were grim and aloof.
Once she was inside the city, the aromas of the market were enough to overwhelm her with nostalgia. She shed a few tears, mainly because she was thinking of Jamal. Why wasn’t he here with her? She wished she could be showing him all of her old haunts, the places where she had gathered and laughed with her other scholar friends during brief respites from their studies. That made her think of Pawn, which ladled a heaping of regret on top of her sadness. She should have explained her history with Pawn before they had arrived in Albatherra. But honestly, she hadn’t been sure that they would even see the Demigod King on this trip. And she knew what Jamal would think; any mention of Pawn would have made him jealous.
But now…
They had both been stupid. They had both kept secrets from each other. This was supposed to have been a happy homecoming, a triumphant end to their month-long mission. Together, they were going to deliver specimens of the Ancient Ones to the Mentors and start a plan of resistance against the Issulthraqis who had threaten their lives, and killed so many people in Krit. But now Sygne was alone. And doubtful. Pawn had always had noble intentions, but still seemed to have that extremist streak—and that macho disregard for the finer repercussions of his broad actions. If she handed over the secrets of a world-changing power to the Mentors, could they be trusted to keep it away from their avowed sovereign? And not only that, but now the specter of her mother had returned. Just the witch’s name alone had been enough to throw Sygne’s life into turmoil.
Nyfinein.
Nyfinein.
Sygne’s mind drifted back to an old story—a fable that seemed as dusty and as implausible as the myths of the Ancient Ones themselves.
***
Long ago, in the deepest depths of the misty Hinterlands, there lived a witch named Nyfinein. Some claimed that she had once been a small child, lost in the woods, who had stumbled upon some ancient arboreal source of power. That little girl had been beguiled by demons, and eventually she’d forgotten what it was to be human. Others insisted that Nyfinein had never been human at all—that she started as a swarm of rats, spiders, and sparrows that had stitched together the hair and skins of condemned women who had been sent into the forest to die. The creatures had learned to move as one within their skin, to walk and talk like a woman—and cast spells like a witch. But they never grasped the laws of being a true person. At their teeming core, they only understood the simple law of the wilderness. ‘Take. Take. Take. The moment you stop taking is the moment you begin to lose everything.’
Everyone agreed that Nyfinein was the most powerful magic-user on that side of the Silent Sea. But the sources of her power were all dark. Dark as dark could be. So dark that sunlight was like a poison to her. Only the light of day could dispel the mighty energies that sustained her. Apparently, Nyfinein was not concerned about this one defect in her life. She lived for two hundred years in the darkest heart of the forest. And if needed, she would swoop into the villages of mortals to plunder and terrorize at night.
The peoples of the Hinterland trembled at the mere thought of her power, and yet Nyfinein could only think of ways to gain more power. She was consumed by her avarice, with no real passions of love or family, or even a greed to push her toward more quantifiable pursuits. Power was an end unto itself, and yet it was an end that Nyfinein could never reach, because she had no way to measure whether or not she finally had enough.
Occasionally the most desperate men would trek through the forest to visit her home, which was a spherical nest, as large as a castle, made of twisted trees and thorns. These men would approach Nyfinein’s nest at the heart of noon, with the weakest rays of wan sunlight cutting through the shadows of the forest; then they would ask her for favors. Chieftans and paupers alike came to visit her, depending on how disastrous their problems were at the time. Sometimes Nyfinein granted their requests, simply to hear their praise. But more often than not she vented her frustrations on the suppliants. She was busy taking. How dare they ask to take from her?
Always her avarice was a gnawing pain in her gut. Eventually, unconsciously, Nyfinein switched roles with her suppliants. She began to ask them for help—for advice. If she had realized what she was doing, Nyfinein would have been disgusted with herself, but despite her many powers she did not possess that rare intuition that we sometimes call self-awareness.
A powerful merchant journeyed to Nyfinein’s home, and instead of granting his request, Nyfinein asked him, “Do you know a way that I may gain power?”
The merchant was dressed regally, despite his two-day slog through the woods. In the past, he had thought nothing of hiring mercenaries to kill his economic rivals, but today he blinked in terror and answered in the tremulous voice. “Money. Money is the only way to truly measure power. You should gather more money to yourself and then you will know for sure you are powerful.”
Nyfinein did this. She concocted an alchemical spell and turned the merchant into a gold statue. Then she found his estate and stole all of his riches. Over the course of the year, she conducted one-woman raids on the villages bordering her woods. Then she started attacking palaces and temples. She forced many of the surrounding lands into great poverty and
famine.
Eventually Nyfinein had filled her nest so full of gold that it sank ten feet into the peaty soil. Still, Nyfinein did not feel any more powerful for having material proof, so in a fit of rage she gathered up her gold and brewed it into a monstrous cyclone. She rained gold down upon the villages at the edge of the forest. The people regained their wealth, but many of them died. Those that survived had to pick gold coins from the bones of the dead.
A few years later, a farmer’s wife visited the witch. Again Nyfinein asked, “Do you know a way that I may gain power?”
The farmer's wife cleared her throat. She had come to the witch to ask for a means to kill her straying husband, who had run off with a prostitute and abandoned her and their twelve children. The farmer’s wife thought of the round faces of her precious brood, and she said, “A woman is most powerful when she is a mother. The more sons she has, the more hands to do work for her. The more daughters she has, the more hearts to love her for all of her days.”
Nyfinein had never even considered such a thing. She was so pleased by this answer that she let the woman keep her life. She even fetched the farmer and returned him home so that his wife and his children could watch him die screaming—ripped apart by ravenous wolves that Nyfinein controlled. For many decades afterward, the witch endeavored to bear children, bringing more and more poor souls into this world, bonded and burdened by her foul blood.
The witch took to motherhood with a certain maniacal enthusiasm. She enjoyed experimenting. She had children the natural way, and in many unnatural ways. She birthed children quickly and sometimes brutally. Sometimes her labors were extravagantly lugubrious and painful.
Nyfinein found that she enjoyed carrying children—she even enjoyed nursing and caring for infants. She had controlled the fates of hundreds of people in her life, and yet her newborns had a hopeful and helpless aspect that made her control over them even more delectable. However, once the children could talk and form thoughts of their own, Nyfinein found them boring, and stifling. So she sent her children out into the world to be raised by others, demanding that they return to her when they were older, to show her the proper amount of matriarchal fealty.
