The Other Side of Magic

by Ester Manzini

  On and on, with his typical stream of platitudes.

  Be glad I’m not asking you to die for the Asares, she thought bitterly. It was tempting: Gaiane had been gone for days, and no matter how far and wide they’d searched, she was nowhere to be found.

  The three soldiers panting in pain in front of the throne were, at least, a distraction from the usual, sorry reports of villagers punched for not knowing enough.

  She vaguely remembered the woman, a sturdy soldier with a square jaw and hard cheekbones. She looked gaunt now, with her left leg slipping from under her and her face drawn. Of her two companions, the man with graying hair blinked in confusion, and a large yellowish bruise covered half of his face. The young recruit was biting his lower lip and squeezing his eyes in pain, trying to stand despite the horrible angle his bandaged knee was bent into. His crutch helped a bit.

  “You can go,” Cibele said. Alcibiade didn’t protest, even if his faded eyes sent sparkles of disappointment. Diocle, unsurprisingly, stood by her side. She was almost glad for his insubordination.

  When the door slammed shut, the room fell silent. Except for that damned fly, of course.

  Cibele rose and slowly walked down the platform, her steps soft on the thick blue carpet. She stopped in front of the soldiers and clasped her hands in front of her, letting her long sleeves hide their trembling.

  I should tell them to get up and find them some chairs. They’re clearly in a lot of pain.

  The thought came and went almost unnoticed. She had more important matters at hand.

  “Tell me,” she said curtly. The woman was quick to answer, and her voice was unsteady and bitten off.

  “They… attacked us. And then betrayed our trust.”

  Diocle cocked his head to the side.

  “It sounds rather nondescript, do you know it, soldier?”

  Cibele briefly lifted her eyes to the ceiling coffer and took a deep breath.

  Insolent.

  “I’m well aware, sir, but it’s the truth. First my patrol was captured by a band of outlaws, West of Nikaia. I lost two men, but I managed to call for reinforcements. A stranger helped us escape, even killed the gang’s leader, but then…”

  “Explain yourself. I need more details,” Cibele pressed on. Her knuckles cracked when she clenched her fists more tightly at the long tale of how the soldiers were captured and had cheated death by hanging--she had no doubt it was true, for the red wound around the commander’s and her companion’s neck were very clear.

  The second part of the misadventure was less plausible. A man first helped them fight their captors, then ambushed them in their camp… and took just one horse and the bare necessary to survive. Not a thief, not a friend of those rogue Laskaris loyalists.

  Who, then?

  “This man. What did he look like?”

  The young soldier whimpered, but his commander answered quickly.

  “Broad shoulders and thick arms, even if he looked rather thinned out from a life in the wild--this at least sounded true, considering how he was dressed, rags and hides and very old boots.” She grimaced and tried to bend her wounded leg back in place. “Long hair, a beard, light brown or… no, well, ginger, but he was dirty enough not to…”

  “And blue eyes. Like a winter morning,” the graying soldier said in a dreamy voice. His left pupil was larger than the right one, and his nose crooked to the side. He smiled. “Like that boy said, the storyteller, the one with the gang…”

  The commander interrupted him.

  “Please, your highness, forgive Barnabas. He took a heavy blow to the head and he’s not himself. The stranger had blue eyes, but it’s not relevant. I’m sorry if…”

  “No, it’s interesting,” Diocle said. Cibele silenced him with a glare and tried to smile back at the rambling man.

  “Tell me more about this stranger and the boy, Barnabas,” she added in a sweet voice.

  “The boy. He said the Dawn Star is still alive, and the Dawn Star--I saw him back at the Spring Slaughter. He should be dead, but…”

  “With all due respect, your majesty, allow me to explain,” the commander insisted with a tired sigh. “There was a young man with the outlaws, and he talked endlessly about how the Laskaris weren’t as done as history has proven. Nobody believed him, though, and yes, our traitor had blue eyes, like many other people. He wasn’t…”

  “What was his name?” Cibele interrupted her.

  The woman grinned mirthlessly.

  “He told us his name was Stelio, and now I can see why.” She shook her head, and her greasy hair covered her face. “He took a horse and left. But he said…”

  Her angular face twisted in concentration. Diocle took a step forward and bowed lightly.

  “It’s alright, soldier. You’re in no trouble: finish your report, then I’ll send for the royal healers. You did good, and we’re grateful for your sacrifices.”

  Wise words. Cibele envied him that calm composure: she only managed to sound intimidating, and it wouldn’t work right now.

  The commander swallowed and looked past him, into Cibele's eyes.

  “He said he was no one, and that he had a princess to find.”

  “He’s after Gaiane, then. Predictable, but not clarifying,” Diocle said, caressing his chin. Cibele squinted.

  Something didn’t quite sit right in the soldier’s tale. She didn’t think they were lying--not in front of Diocle, whose talent in finding answers was almost legendary in the realm. And yet…

  She dropped her arms and walked toward the commander, placing her hand on her head.

  “You did us a great service, and we’re grateful for your loyalty. Go find Alcibiade and tell him to escort you to the medical wing. No doubt you’ll find him right out of the throne room,” she added.

  The three soldiers painfully scrambled to their feet. They bowed, and Barnabas with more enthusiasm than the other, then crawled down the long aisle. They were badly wounded, and every step looked like agony.

  “You should’ve offered them some servants to help them. A crutch, at least,” Diocle said after the trio had reached the distant door.

  “Help them yourself, next time,” she snapped, sitting on the throne and letting her head fall against the backrest. She massaged her temples and stretched her legs, and Diocle sat on the floor by the throne.

  “Something’s bugging you,” he said. “I know it.”

  “Are you using your powers on me, Diocle?”

  He laughed softly and crossed his legs.

  “I don’t need to, I can read you pretty well after all these years, my dear. Spit it out, come on.”

  She sighed.

  “A princess. He knew Gaiane was missing, he knew her name--why a princess, then?”

  “Again with this nonsense, Cibele? The Laskaris are dead, all of them. It’s been eight years, and surviving the collapse of a whole castle is pretty complicated. Especially for a heavily pregnant woman.”

  “But what if…”

  Diocle got to his feet and crouched back in front of her, taking her hands. A familiar gesture, and this time she didn’t recoil. The look on Diocle's face was open, vulnerable: there was still something of the young man she’d chosen to sire Zafiria's only hope, with those high cheekbones and lips always slightly curled in a mocking smile.

  “Cibele. My queen. It doesn’t really matter; can’t you see? Our only concern is Gaiane. Once we have her back, safe and sound, even old king Stelio, his wife and his son could pop back to life. It will make no difference.”

  “In all these years I haven’t heard anyone say that even the Dawn Star could still be alive. Why now?”

  “The heir to the Asares throne has disappeared, and this is weird enough on its own. Of course such an incredible thing would create legends.” He shook his head. “Even make the dead come back to life.”

  He let her hands go, and she stifled a jolt of disappointment.

  “What should we do?”

  “I have an idea, and
you may not like it. This, Cibele, calls for my direct intervention. I’ll go search with the rest of the troops.”

  But when Diocle started to go into further detail, discussing new strategies and patterns for the patrols, her mind drifted away.

  Gaiane, where are you?

  Suddenly, the throne she was sitting on felt very, very fragile.

  Chapter 12

  The Asares beaters weren’t subtle. In the next day, Evandro didn’t even need to resort to his hunting skills to find traces of the soldiers’ march.

  He’d found burned huts, dead cattle around their trough, and even a family, walking in shock on one of the secondary paths, who told him how their lack of information on the princess had resulted in a beating of their cows and theft of their few possessions. The donkey pulling their half empty cart kept its ears low, and they didn’t say much else, except that they were looking for a place to go, preferably far from that princess.

  It was early in the morning, after a brief stop to rest the horse, when Evandro felt the distinct sensation of being followed. At first it was just a vague suspect, and he could’ve dismissed it as mere paranoia; but later on, when the sun was peeking through the hills, he heard a soft footstep, out of sync with the hooves of his ride.

  Ahead of him was a small, empty cluster of houses, reeking of death in the warm weather. He slowed down as he approached it, mentally retracing his steps. To his left was a grassy slope, and behind him the sparser outskirts of the woods. Whoever was following him was there, somewhere. He needed to lure him in the open.

  He trotted to the empty square and unmounted; he stopped short of securing the reins to the well, because the puddle around it glimmered in the sun, oily and menacing.

  Poison, he thought. He walked the horse to the nearest house and tied the bridle to a pole by the door.

  People had died there, and it’d been a couple of days at least, considering the flies buzzing around. Good: the dead weren’t a threat. Without turning around he entered the house, glad to find nobody on the ground floor. Upstairs the buzzing was louder, and he knew he didn’t need to check.

  He closed the door behind him and squinted in the shadows; the place was empty, but showed signs of having been visited recently, and not by a careful guest. The drawers were open, a pile of clothes by the empty fireplace, and the bowl on the counter was tilted, empty but for a bruised apple on the floor. A set of cutlery was scattered on the table, and he silently took a carving knife. Safer and wieldier than his sword.

  He could’ve spent some time investigating, but all he needed to do was wait. Outside, his horse snorted quietly, slapping his rear with his tail to chase the flies away.

  Evandro crouched by the door.

  Minutes went by in the stinking silence. The horse gave no sign of disturbance, and from the window Evandro could see the large black head shaking now and then in annoyance.

  Come on. I know you’re looking for me, show some guts…

  For a long time, nothing happened.

  Then a sliver of sunlight spread on the floor, the hinges squeaked, and Evandro tightened his grip on the knife. The stranger was nothing but a black silhouette against the morning sun, tall and lanky.

  An enemy.

  Evandro jumped forward and doubled over. His shoulder sunk into a thin stomach, and with a grunt his pursuer fell back. Offering no resistance, the man slumped on his back and collapsed in the dirt, with Evandro rolling on top of him.

  Blinded by the light, Evandro let instinct move his hands. Oblivious of the scratches on his knees and of the thundering pulse in his ears, he grabbed the stranger by the front of his shirt, putting all of his weight on his torso. The blade flashed, its edge finding the soft skin of a shaved throat. It lingered there, drawing an indenture but not sinking deep.

  Not yet.

  The gurgling sound cleared Evandro mind. He blinked, and recognition dawned on him.

  “Mother’s breath… you fool of a whelp, I could’ve killed you!” he panted. He lifted some pressure from the blade but held his captive down with his weight.

  Ampelio's hair was a tangle, his eyes squeezed shut and his face pale as chalk. The young man panted quickly, his arms splayed and his hands clenched into fists.

  “Can’t… breathe,” he rasped.

  “Of course you can, or you couldn’t talk. What are you doing here? What do you want from me?”

  “Please?”

  That warm voice tingled against his skin. Evandro grunted and twisted the fabric in his fist.

  “No tricks. I don’t want to hurt you, but I won’t stop if necessary.”

  “Alright, alright--ow, my spleen!”

  No doubt it was Ampelio, slightly worse to wear than last time Evandro had seen him. His hand was roughly bandaged, but otherwise he was the same nosy kid he’d helped escape the ambush.

  He almost regretted it.

  Tentatively, he slid from him; he loomed over him and bared his blade, holding its point under Ampelio's chin.

  “Have you been followed?”

  “No, no… I’m alone. Spirits, I thought I’d lost you. Ouch.” He perched himself on his elbows and cautiously stood up, still holding his hands out. “You’re heavy for a living legend…”

  “Explain yourself.” Evandro pressed on. The sooner he stopped that Dawn Star obsession, the better.

  “Well, I did as you told me, didn’t I? I ran. But not very far, because I needed to speak to you. Maybe with no Asares soldiers eavesdropping or trying to kill us.”

  Evandro sighed and slumped his shoulders.

  “But why?”

  Ampelio patted his chest and thighs. The faded fabric of his tunic showed some traces of bright brocade inserts, and there was a trace of worn out lace on his wrists.

  Fop, Evandro thought.

  “Why? Why, he asks! Spirits of all my blessed ancestors, I think I was open enough about my point!” Ampelio wiggled the fingers of his wounded hand and scrunched his nose. “Did you really think I tagged along some Laskaris nostalgic without seeing through your mask? You’re the Dawn Star, and the rebellion needs you!”

  Evandro threw his head back and almost dropped his sword.

  “Again? I’m no one, and the Dawn Star died in the siege of Nikaia. How obtuse can you be to deny it?”

  “I have eyes to see, you know? And they’re rather pretty, too. Can you imagine how uplifting the news would be to the rebels?”

  “There’s no rebels.” Evandro snapped. “Only a bunch of deluded fools who live in the past.” He turned to his horse and undid the reins, careful not to look at Ampelio. His gestures were sharp enough to make the poor horse snort and rasp the ground.

  “You’re so very wrong, ser knight! There’s still hope for the Laskaris if…”

  Evandro dropped the bridle and turned to Ampelio. Two long strides and he was on him again, his hand wrapped around his arm, pulling him forward, their noses almost touching.

  “Stop saying that name. Dead, all of them, and if you really think I’m the Dawn Star you should know I saw them die one by one.”

  “B-But…”

  “No buts. Have I made myself clear? I won’t tolerate another word on the rebellion, on ghosts and lost wars. Don’t make me repeat myself.” He shoved him back and looked away before Ampelio's wounded expression could make him regret his harsh words.

  He returned to his horse, mindlessly brushing the dusty mantle. Here it was again, the nightmare lingering about. Clammy skin, cold flesh crushing him. Flies. Flies everywhere.

  “Where are you going?” Ampelio asked after a while in a low, uncertain voice. Evandro gasped--no, he was not in the mass grave, and the dead people nearby weren’t his responsibility. Not entirely.

  “None of your business.”

  “I’m coming with you.”

  “Absolutely not!” The burst of shock from the absurdity of such a statement snatched him from his past. He turned sharply to stare at the young man, still standing in the middle of the squ
are, by the well. “I have no use for a kid.”

  The mere thought of having someone else around, after so many years of isolation, made his skin ripple with discomfort.

  Ampelio cocked a golden eyebrow and pursed his lips.

  “I was fifteen when the Slaughter happened, and I remember it all. If the fabled Evandro Sideris is still breathing…”

  “He’s not.”

  “... then I’m bound by honor to follow him.”

  “Honor? What honor? You’re no knight, and I daresay no fighter either!”

  “I’m a survivor, and I owe you my life.” Ampelio said, and again his voice sounded like warm honey. Impossible not to listen to him. Evandro hated him a bit for this. “I collect stories. I tell them. I keep the memory of what Epidalio was alive, and your part of it, whether you want it or not.”

  Maybe it was the magic soaking his tone, but Evandro couldn’t just turn around and dismiss him with a snark reply.

  “I don’t need you.” he said, sounding unsure to his own ears.

  “I won’t be a burden. I can take care of myself, you know? I wouldn’t have survived this long otherwise. Come on…”

  Evandro huffed and clicked his tongue to call the horse.

  “If you think I’ll let you ride, then forget it.”

  “Of course I can walk! Let the poor beast rest--hey!” Ampelio's attempt at patting the horse’s nose resulted in a grumbling snort and a snap of teeth. “I was just trying to be kind. You found yourself a suitable rider, haven’t you?”

  “Why didn’t I leave you to die in the woods?” Evandro mumbled as they took on walking uphill.

  “Because I’m charming and too good looking to die.”

  “Do you ever shut up?”

  “When I’m sleeping, sometimes.”

  Evandro rolled his eyes and kept them carefully low. The grass brushed against his knees, and he wasn’t surprised to see the remains of a path among it. Someone had clearly visited the village lately, and not with good intentions. Someone on foot, looking at the nature of the track.

  A glimmer of silver flashed through the bright green.

  Ampelio was chattering about his days on the run, a minstrel skilled in seeing when things would get dire and leaving before risking his life. Evandro barely listened: he squinted and stared at the sparkle.