Tear of Light

by Michael Edward Tenner

“Your Imperial Majesty,” he said and knelt down, his covered eyes gazing to the ground. “It is prince Morael, he has returned.”

  Kindness

  Aweek has passed since Ri’on arrived at the Shattered Shore. He took refuge in a broken-down building by the edge. While working to make living and restore some of his magic he overheard many discuss him. It was of no surprise, a scrap that talks and walks around freely, without waiting for his master’s command, was a rare sight on the shore.

  While many found it strange, very few dared to mention in anything but a positive light. He made a good impression on the right people during his first two days. A meat vendor that lived nearby and the owner of a local tavern, frequented by most of the town.

  The people that disliked him to the point of being vocal about their hate were spearheaded by a scrap owner who thought him being there would lessen his profits, small as they were. Ri’on cared little, while the suffering of his people brought him no joy; he knew there was nothing he could do. He was focused on his primary goal - sailing to Sesteria. Obtaining a ship proved to be difficult and very expensive, but he had hope.

  His day began like any other he woke up with a terrible headache, feeling his magic draining quicker and quicker. First, he headed to the market, just two streets away, where he bought his breakfast. A half-loaf of bread and butter. It was awful. The bread was like a piece of rubber.

  After breakfast Ri’on departed to the main market in the center of the town. He was to meet an older woman that was interested in employing him.

  The streets of the city were covered just like those in Cry, yet the silks were not at all similar, the light passed through regardless, only mildly dimmed.

  As he got closer to the market the streets became more crowded and a lot louder. People haggling and arguing over the most worthless of items. One merchant was selling a fake magical elixir promising it can cure almost all illnesses; another was offering haircuts, a chair ready, and dull scissors in hand. Ri’on considered the offer for a short while, but his hair was still short, and he feared the hairdresser’s scissors may end up lodged in his skull.

  The main square was almost impossible to navigate. People had to push each other to move anywhere, and for the slender Ri’on, that was an arduous undertaking.

  He noticed the woman waiting for him just as he was doing his best to avoid a crowd around a fisherman’s stall.

  After forcing himself through, he approached the woman waiting by an entrance to one of the back alleys. “Greetings,” she said with the strangest of accents. “I take you are Ri’on.”

  “That is correct,” he replied with a forced smile.

  “Tell me scrap, are you satisfied as a free man?”

  He eyed her, taken aback by her blunt question. “I’m not a scrap. Freedom is very much to my liking, thank you for asking, but I doubt that is what you want. I was told there’s work if all you have are questions I have no intention of wasting my time with you.”

  “Sharp words, boy. There is work, worry not. I hope you are as skilled with a sword as you are with your tongue.” He nodded but kept silent. “Good. In a town, north of here lives a person of special interest, one I wish to see perish. Go there, kill them.”

  “You want to pay to kill someone?” he questioned. “Truly? Why, well, a scrap as you put it?”

  With a smile, she stretched her old neck. “While that is of no concern to you, I will explain.” She sighed. “Most have trouble believing that a scrap, forgive me the pejorative, would have the capacity to murder. You will escape and if anyone sees you, I doubt anyone will believe them.” She smirked. “Also, I require discretion. From what the birds sang into my ear, you plan on leaving these shores, which works out only for the better.”

  The plan made sense, he had to admit. “How much would you pay me?” he asked the most imperative question. “I am in no need of money if the long-dead birds of this land whispered in your ear; you also know what I need.”

  “Two ounces of silver and five charged crystals. They should sustain you for at least a few weeks and take the silver as a bonus.” Grinning she made a step closer. “If you succeed, there is more work. Enough to buy you the ship you require.”

  He cared little for her silver but the crystals, and the promise of a ship, were too tempting. After his altercation in Cry, his tunic lost much of its charge, and he would be unable to sustain himself for long. He needed more.

  With no pleasure, he accepted her proposal. In short, without embellishments, she explained the journey to the town, how to recognize her target, an old long-haired man with an unkempt mustache who owns a store just by the main square, supposedly he sells clothes. She made a suggestion of killing him quickly and running away, but Ri’on had different plans.

  For his journey, she gave a single crystal as prepayment, with a warning that if he runs, she will find him and enact her revenge. He had no intentions to run.

  Satisfied, the woman left through the dark alleyway.

  Having to depart as quickly as possible Ri’on obtained a sword, he had to trade some of the few belongings he acquired during his time there, but he planned not to return any time soon as such he gladly parted with them.

  With bottles of water and the sword on his back, he left the town. It felt as if he never truly stayed there as he moved on so quickly.

  The journey through the desert bordering the shore was painful. Not just the light shining from above but also the occasional hut, run down and destroyed with a small burial ground beside it. Many families who used to live there succumbed to the light. Often it was parents that died, and children moved away to one of the dozen or so small towns build on the shore. It reminded him of the kids he met and their struggles, it made him wonder just how many were killed by soldiers and other people, not by the light.

  He arrived at the edge of the northern town a mere day later. Even though the light shined as bright as ever the town asleep.

  With no eyes seeing him, he made it to the town’s center. Even there, it was empty, except three children who sat there laughing and joking. He approached them, slowly not to scare them.

  “It’s a scrap!” one of the boys shouted. “What ya doin’ here?” His two friends joined in the fun.

  Ri’on sighed. “Clothes. Buy. Store.” They were startled, hearing him speak.

  “He wants to know where the tailor is, I bet.” One of them yelled out. It seemed as Ri’on’s plan has worked out. A scrap speaking in simple words would arise little suspicion.

  Another boy shouted, “Why should we tell you?” He walked closer to Ri’on, looked right into his azure eyes. “I’d rather have a cow than you.”

  Holding back anger, Ri’on smiled and tilted his head. “Clothes?”

  “He’s dumber than a rock.” The first boy shrugged. “Let him be. The tailor’s over that way.” He pointed to a store nearby. “Now fuck off.”

  With a nod and a slight bow, he left the three children, relieved. The store was nearby, and he had only a couple of hours before the city wakes.

  He had to decide just then, whether to wait for the owner to awake or if to break in. An escape while the town is awake would be intricate, and in truth, he planned not to leave the town just yet.

  While he debated what to do, an idea popped in his sapphire blue head. He walked closer to the store, and with all his strength, he bashed on the door.

  The door opened after a long while, but to his luck, the man had long hair and a terribly kept mustache. “What do you want?” he shouted at him.

  Ri’on smiled. “Clothes for master,” he said. “Now! Pay a lot.”

  The tailor inspected him. His eyes were especially interested in Ri’on’s tunic. “Come on in,” he said with a smile, touching it as Ri’on walked in.

  “Well, what can I help you with,” he asked and returned behind the counter. The store was small, filled with silks and mannequins that had the most ordinary and boring clothes one could imagine.

  Ready
to pull out his sword Ri’on looked the man in the eyes. “Dad!” a shout from the back echoed. “Who’s it?”

  “I’m sorry,” said the tailor. “Just the kids.”

  Only then it came to Ri’on that he should have inquired about witness and the tailor’s family. He hoped a woman was sleeping in the back, one that would take care of the children. His goal was far more valuable than a single life.

  He grabbed the hilt of the sword just as a little girl ran in yelling for her dad. Once again, the tailor apologized to him. “Forgive me, since their mother passed away from the curse, it’s been difficult.”

  Ri’on froze. He couldn’t do that after all. How could he? His fingers hurt as he tightly held the sword’s grip. Again the tailor asked, and Ri’on only kept silent, pondering what is right to do.

  “I came to kill you,” he said, arriving at a decision. “An old woman from the town south offered me good pay for your life.” It was a privilege for him to even walk comprehending the world. If his quest for redemption and freedom of his people means murdering the innocent, maybe his goal was not as noble as he first thought.

  The tailor looked at him, confused and dumbfounded. Either by seeing a clearly speaking Li’Ari, a scrap or due to what Ri’on just said. It mattered little. “Why does she want you dead? Please, be as honest with me as I am with you.”

  “I don’t know,” the tailor replied, stuttering. “I beg you, please do not harm me.”

  Ri’on nodded. “I will not, but in time someone else will come for you for whatever reason. If you value your life, then you get out of here.”

  “I understand. Thank you. Please, stay here until morning, there is cactus tea, the best around.” He smiled. “Dara darlin’, go make our guest some.”

  Gladly Ri’on accepted, so did the little girl cheering. Even still, Ri’on was angry with himself, condemning his weak nature. In the end, he merely hoped his kindness would not be the end of him.

  The next couple of hours until morning Ri’on spent in the back of the tailor’s store, playing a strange game with his daughter, Drana. He was losing but suspected it may be due to her made-up rules, or the fact she was blatantly cheating, but he would not dare to say so, as he also cheated, just poorly.

  When the tailor came back, fully clothed, ready to start a day, he announced morning has come and showed Ri’on to the back door of his home. Drana objected to him having to leave, but the tailor, whose name Ri’on forgot to ask about, disagreed.

  He thanked him again for sparing his life and allowing his children to grow with a father.

  Stepping out of the door, Ri’on knew something was amiss. The tailor’s hands were shaking, and his eyes were glued to the hilt of Ri’on’s sword. Just as the bottom of his shoe touched the ground, he heard swords being drawn.

  In a back alley, under the shadow of the silk covers, he was ambushed by four men. Two left, two right, and the tailor himself standing in the door.

  “I am sorry,” the tailor whispered. “Forgive me, Ri’on, but a scrap that can speak and think for itself, it is too tempting. By selling you to the right buyer I can get more than enough to pay back my debt, plus interest, and live in a true city. My little girl’s eyes will never shatter, I won’t allow it.”

  Ri’on shook his head, calling himself a naive idiot, regretting his kindness. He pulled out his sword and the other four prepared to attack. “I should have known better,” he said. “Silly of me to think I can find compassion with you.”

  Quickly he turned on the back of his feet and drove the sword through the tailor’s lower abdomen, who screamed in pain and spat blood, but Ri’on pushed him aside, pulling the sword out. So many memories flooded his mind just then, the things he wished not to remember, the evil he caused during his younger years. With the bloodies sword in hand, he ran back inside the store.

  Dara stood there, watching it all happen. “Why?” she whispered, crying. “Daddy always said you things are evil.”

  With tears in his own eyes pushed her out of his way, jumped over the counter, and then right out.

  The four men were slower than him, but they were not his sole pursuer. His memories were far quicker, shaking the cage in which he has locked far away in the darkest corners of his mind.

  Their pursuit of the slavers disallowed him from running out of the town, for in the dunes of the desert, he would be far too easy to see and eventually catch. Fighting them was of no question, even with a sword, skilled as he was, against four opponents he would never win.

  The situation was strangely poetic as not so long ago he was running through similar streets in Cry. But this time, there was no way out.

  There were few places where to hide in shore towns, but one he could always rely on - the shore itself. Small islands connected by rope bridges, where the poorest tend to live, often many buildings abandoned.

  First, he had to turn around, and so he made a loop around a sprawling building and then through the now populated square, as quickly as he could. From there, he took every alley that presented itself to him.

  At last, he arrived at the coast. The cliff down was steep, but the hanging bridges over the shattered flying islands were his saving grace. He ran as quickly as possible to the building furthest away from the rest of the town.

  It was abandoned and without windows what so ever but a reliable hiding place nevertheless.

  Ri’on would stay in that house during the day and peek out every once a while, but even when he dared to go out to gather supplies, he came empty-handed. The people whispered and talked about a fugitive scrap that killed the tailor in a moment of anger. Everyone knew, the presumption of the woman who employed him was as wrong as it could have it been.

  Whenever he left the house, he hid his tunic under the floorboards and put it back on once he returned. It was a significant risk, one that could have cost him his life, yet there was no other way.

  He obtained a cloak and hid under its protective shade, but his blue hair and eyes, the fact he was a scrap that spoke, would always bring people to suspect him.

  Without water, he couldn’t escape the town, and it was so very difficult to obtain more of it. His sword was the only property left to him, besides a little bit of money, bread and so very little of water. The single valuable item he had was his tunic, but without it, he would lose grasp on reality and doom himself to a life of servitude.

  Days passed, and the hopeless nature of his predicament was more apparent than ever before. It was too late when he decided to attempt an escape. His mind began to slip, memories, and thoughts shattered as the very shore he was on. Soon he was unable to even speak properly, slurring his words, saying the wrong thing.

  The last to go was his sense of self. He forgot the name he was given, every memory still in his head evaporated, and all that remained was a shell of his former self, a man without a purpose.

  For days he stayed in that house, being no more than a husk of a man, a mindless scrap like all the others, he sat there, soiling on the ground. Even though some food remained, he would not eat. Saliva would gather in his mouth, his stomach would grumble, but his hands wouldn’t obey. He needed a command.

  Two more days later, he still sat there, watching the bread rot. It would not be until the evening when his stomach was so empty and thirst so terrible he fell to the ground.

  His saviors came just in time. Yet, to his dismay, little of which he felt, they were slavers, and loudly they celebrated finding him. They cared little if he was the one who killed the tailor, but suspected him right away. While they put a collar around his neck, they fed him some old bread and gave him an old bottle full of dirty water.

  As they dragged him out, they debated loudly just what price they could score for him. It made them sad to see him not speak, ordinary like all the others. Before they could reach their cart, they decided to sell him away, to a town even further north, suspecting his life would be at stake after he killed the old tailor. They were right; whenever someone saw th
em dragging him, they threw something or shouted curses and insults. He did not care for he did not understand, he did not remember.

  He was Ri’on no more, the magic that gave him life was gone.

  Scarlet Storm

  Narra was awoken by the cold breeze of an early morning’s wind caressing her cheeks. Next to her was Oren, a man that was meant to kill her, playing with a strain of his hazel brown hair. He looked at her like a scared cat looking at a frightening predator.

  Behind her was Arick Alifrei. The only man in the entire city who became her friend. Oren, on the other hand, believed Arick’s intentions to be as black as his hair.

  She cared little for their squabbles, the painful truth was known to them all. The city was in chaos, in the midst of a rebellion. Her father was dead, so was the leader of the rebellion, and she escaped with two trueborn Berians, people she despised for much of her life. Truly a set of circumstances she wished to chuckle at.

  Overnight, before she fell asleep, she pondered further how to feel about Ceril’s death. She killed her father. It was her sword, her hand that took his life. In the end, she held no regrets, no nightmares came to haunt her during the night, she smiled glad she will not see that man ever again. Not in a week nor a hundred days, her father would beat her or harm her again. She was, for the first time, truly free.

  Her plan was to travel to Istra, but she hoped her two new friends would join her. While they all made promises to each other just the day before, she wondered whether they meant it, Oren, especially.

  “So, are you coming with me to Istra?” she asked, still lying on the soft ground. “I wonder if you did not change your mind.”

  “Of course not,” Arick announced loudly. “The sooner we arrive, the better; I cannot wait to live in a true Imperial city!”

  Oren laughed. “I’m going too.” His face then befell into a thought. “Do you think they’ll kill me? After all, I am still one of the rebels.”

  “You can trade information for your freedom,” Narra argued. “Tell them what you know, tell them of the rebellion’s leaders, and you will walk free as any imperial. I will vouch for you, as I’m sure Arick will too.”