by James Duvall
Claws clicked again. A little pool of light shimmered over the sleeping man's bed. It was like a picture frame, and Sapphire could see the Harvester in it. Behind him was the simple gray and black stone construction of Nothnor's architecture. He had a piece of fruit in his hand, a plum. He held it out to a red and white drake. Rusty would probably look something like him in a few years. The luminarian sniffed at the plum and the Harvester held it out further, opening his hand so that the purple fruit teetered side to side in his open palm. The luminarian reached out with his muzzle and snatched it up, crunching it and letting the sweet juices run down his throat. He was still licking the juice from his muzzle when the man wrapped a thin wire around his neck and pulled. Sapphire looked away. She didn't want to see the dragon die. She had already seen his body, dangling upside down in the basement. She looked back only when the light began to fade.
From behind the light, a feminine voice began to speak in a language so old that Sapphire barely recognized it.
“Ki arban eris tor connihs,” the voice said in perfect holharren, “ir arban eris tor san commir.”
Eris, that meant evil. The rest was harder to make out. The old words were much easier on paper. For a moment Sapphire nearly forgot where she was, the intellectual side of her mind kicking in and working on the puzzle of the old language. She took a hesitant stride out of her hiding place, ears pricked toward the speaker. She was luminarian, Sapphire was certain of that. A gryphon would be much bigger, and Sapphire had never heard one of them speaking holharren. In fact, she had never heard anyone speaking holharren aside from those reading from texts dating back to the furthest reaches of recorded history. What creature could this be making such proclamations in the eldest tongue?
All evils that you do, and all evils that you will do. That seemed close.
“Ihsa oron tor-si endri draehn,” the speaker said, her voice sinking to a cold, harsh whisper like a grating winter wind.
There are ones... no, that wasn't right. This one? Yes, that sounded closer. This one you will send... sending you... sends you. This one sends you to the long night. The long night...?
...death?
A streak of purple light flashed through the darkness, a whisper of death that cut the air like the Reaper's scythe. It was as though the specter's claws had cut open the night and let an eerie purple light bleed through into the waking world. The Harvester convulsed as he was struck, blood from his throat splashing across the wall. Sapphire drew back into the hallway as the dying man struggled with his sheets, gurgling a thick, gagging sound. The scent of blood filled the air, adding to Sapphire's growing sense of unease. There was something happening here that she did not understand. Who was this luminarian that came into the houses of killers and boldly spoke to them in the language of the first people?
The lights were all gone now, the room illuminated only by the faint silver glow of the moon coming through the windows. Sapphire could see the luminarian's frame now. She was tall, very tall. Then there were the horns. Ordinary luminarian horns had a ripple to them, rising and falling and rising again to the points. This dragon's horns were curved but pointed straight back. The spikes along her back were much more pronounced than Sapphire had ever seen, bristling like knives. Then there were the eyes. They blinked slowly, shining in the darkness with a sickly violet color that bade Sapphire's lungs to draw in air and refuse to let it go.
Purple eyes. Those bright, violent purple eyes. The horns too were purple, glinting in the moonlight like daggers dipped in blood. A deep violet mane flowed down her neck like witch's fire. There were blades, curved like two crescent moons on the end of her tail. Sapphire felt cold all over, her skin tingling like every little strand of fur had turned to ice and her claws had turned to fire.
RUN! RUN! Sapphire's mind screamed. RUN!
Sapphire could not move. Her body was stone; her mouth dry as desert sand. She could not breathe. She could not scream. She could only stand there in the darkness, praying that the warp singer did not see her.
The night once strummed the trauma chords, and they did lend an ear. The night once strummed the trauma chords, and they did lend an ear. The night... the night... Borne unto hateful darkness, their eyes yet brim with light. The mask of fear.
The mask of fear floated over the bed as the warp singer surveyed her kill with callous purple eyes. She had done everything Sapphire wanted to, pouring out her vitriol into this demon of a man for the good of all dragon-kind.
The twin blades on the warp singer's tail shone in the moonlight as she slipped out through the window and escaped the Harvester's tomb. After the warp singer was gone Sapphire felt the air flow out of her like a cloud emptying itself of storm wind. She was dizzy, slumping against the wall as she panted for air. How long had she been holding her breath? Her body ached all over from the stress, but her limbs slowly checked in. As though picking her way through a field of jagged glass shards, she slowly, steadily made her way to the window and quietly looked out, not daring even to breathe for fear of being heard.
The dark hour had ended and the moon had risen high enough to paint the grassy field with its pale silver light. The warp singer was mostly white with purple on the tips of her flight feathers and a little slash of purple on the arch of each wing. She was as big as a drake but still had the characteristic curves of womanhood. Her claws were like daggers, poisoned purple by dark magic. Her eyes brimmed with purple light, just like Dawn's poem. She had a songshard around her neck and it glowed with light from within. That little bit of purple gem was the only thing Sapphire knew of that was more powerful than the Arlorian focus she possessed, and there it was right in front of her, dangling from a legendary creature's neck. She wished Dawn could have seen her, terrifying and beautiful all at once.
The warp singer held her lantern up to the darkness. The flame inside flickered brightly as she looked left and right and then hurried into the darkening forest, her tail blades glinting in the moonlight.
For a moment Sapphire felt content to watch her go, as one does when spotting the angel of death from afar. She reminded herself that the building should still be set to flame. An excuse. The knowledge that creature must possess...
Sapphire took a deep breath, gathering her courage, then slipped through the window and left the horrors of the Harvester behind her.
Chapter 23
Bloodshed
Admiral's Inn, Nobri, Pendric Shard
The story of Kallisti's Burden is old enough that it is has passed into legend and few of the details can be confirmed as factual. The most common variation tells the story of a magashi princess whom was given to be the wife of a prince, whose army had come to lay siege to her city and demanded her hand as tribute. The princess consented for the good of her people. At their wedding, the prince presented the princess with a beautiful emerald necklace and bade her wear it. The prince had placed a powerful curse upon the gem. If the prince died or the princess tried to remove the amulet, she would be slain by the power of the curse, and so the princess slew him and perished beside him.
Excerpt from Insidious Curses
Having been through the city several times over, Timothy determined that Christopher had in fact established lodgings in the finest hotel Nothnor had to offer.
“The Admiral's Inn is so fine that even a bridger gets stopped at the door,” Timothy grumbled.
“I am sorry sir,” the manager said, overhearing him. “The policies are the policies. I have sent a busboy with a note. I am sure Mr. Trammel will permit you in shortly. Until then please make yourself comfortable in our lounge. I will have one of the servers bring you a glass of wine, and a menu if you prefer.”
“That will not be necessary,” Timothy said, waving off the attendant. He could see a smirk in Aebyn's eyes as he found a seat where he could see the door as well as the manager's desk. These were the habits of a smuggler, not a bridger, but they were harmless in their paranoia.
Aebyn found a place at Timothy's side. He w
as a part of the uniform as much as the jacket and insignia ring.
But what parts am I missing? Timothy found himself wondering. He had never known a bridger well. Their close affiliation with Fletcher Street and loyalty to the crown made them poor bedfellows for smugglers. The term weighed heavy on him today. Two men were dead, claimed by this latest and boldest venture. Thacker and Bill. Christopher's reaction to their deaths had left an uneasy feeling in his gut.
“We are smugglers, Timothy.” Christopher had reminded him, as though that simple fact were enough to erase the dead, but it had not. There were two fresh graves in the Mistwood, lives traded for the little box tucked in his jacket.
There was always a risk of death when it came to life on an airship, whatever the ship's purpose. New lands, new ports, and new adventures, each came with a blood cost. The risk of death did not bother him. Every sailor knew what their job meant when they signed on. It was Christopher's willingness to press on, an effective death sentence for the young airman that weighed on him. It felt like a stone giant's hands rested heavy on his shoulders. There was no escape from it. Whenever he tried to turn his thoughts to other things, other problems, happier times, invariably he would come back to that night in the Mistwood. We are smugglers, Timothy.
“We have to do better, Aebyn,” Timothy said and reached out to rub the gryphon's forehead. Aebyn bowed a little, purring with his eyes shut. Timothy smiled faintly.
“I can see why so many bridgers keep gryphons around,” Timothy commented.; It occurred to him that he had never asked Aebyn why it was that nearly every bridger he had ever seen was accompanied by a gryphon or some other winged thing. So far none of his bridger duties, limited though they were, had required Aebyn or suggested a need for flight. It wouldn't do to be asking Aebyn to explain his basic job to him in the middle of a busy hotel lobby. He would have to ask later. For now, his disguise was priority one.
The busboy returned shortly, admitting Timothy and Aebyn into Christopher's quarters. Timothy was struck by the size of the space more than anything.
There's enough room in here to bunk the entire crew, Timothy thought. He could see the hammocks hanging from wall to wall, swaying side-to-side as the wind caught the sails. But there were no hammocks, nor did the room smell faintly of sweat and alcohol. Instead there was a bed against one wall, a coffee table and chairs, and a door leading out to a small balcony facing the eastern mountains. Christopher sat at the writing desk, scribbling furious notes into his ledger book. He motioned for Timothy to come over without looking up from his work.
Seven preserve me, Timothy thought. He pulled a chair from the coffee table over. Aebyn sat quietly nearby in his characteristic ever-present and silent way, watchful as ever.
“Did you bring the box?” Christopher asked, looking up expectantly. He had a smile on his face. By his estimation everything had been trending upward since they had found the little wooden box. Brought safely back to Nothnor, and now unlocked, this was the payoff for all of the investment he had put into the expedition.
“I did,” said Timothy as he removed it from his jacket. He held the little box in both hands, carefully keeping it upright. He treated it with reverence, or at least care, for it was likely as old as the shardwalls themselves, but more than that it was paid for in blood. He placed it on the writing desk. Then, when Christopher reached for it, he placed his hand on the lid, holding it shut.
Christopher looked up at him, visibly puzzled. “Timothy?”
“We need to talk about Donovan Skalde,” Timothy said, pulling the box back toward his end of the table. “Before I let you see what's in here. I want you to promise me that we will leave this place.”
“What in the name of God has gotten into you?” Christoper demanded, brow furrowed. He rose from his chair, leaning across the table. “Since when do you give me orders, Timothy?”
Timothy stood up tall and set his jaw. He had expected this. “There is enough of a treasure in this box, Christopher, to pay your father's debts and fund a small enterprise for the next three years. It's what we've been dreaming of. We can pull ourselves up by our bootstraps and start a respectable trade. No more skulking before the gallows.”
Christopher looked Timothy cold in the eye as he pulled the box back over to his side of the desk. “If there is a treasure in here, I would see it.”
With a dissatisfied grumble, Timothy gave him leave. What Christopher did not know was that Timothy had already removed an item from the box. The compass pointing into the Mistwood was safely tucked into his jacket pocket. It was a temptation that Christopher did not need.
When Christopher opened the box there was no flare of light as there had been in the alcove, nor did the light surge when Christopher took hold of it. Instead it simply floated from his open palm, hovering in the air and drifting across the writing desk like an airship on a windless day. It did not escape Timothy's notice that it had begun to drift toward him.
For a while Christopher watched it lazily turn, slow and steady on its apparently idle path. His brow knit together in that way it did when he was working on a particular difficult problem. The problem, Timothy knew, was him.
“You want to stay,” Timothy said, getting the words out before Christopher could start in on an apparently well-reasoned explanation for why they should. Slowly but surely he would rationalize away the deaths the expedition had brought to the crew.
No, that's not how he'd do it, Timothy thought. Surely Christopher did not remain obstinately unaware of Timothy's sense of grief, of guilt, over the dead men. He would justify continuing not in the context of a ledger book. He would abandon the argument that all airmen knew the risks, particularly smugglers. Instead he would say that they should carry on to make more meaning of the deaths. There were always reasons. Always.
“Do not lie to me, I can see it in your eyes,” Timothy shouted. Christopher listened unflinching.
“We are smugglers, Timothy,” he said instead.
Timothy pounded the desk with a tightly balled fist. “We have a chance to be something better than that!”
“We aren't better than that! This is our chance! One of these could finance an enterprise. Two or three could finance a new life for both of us.”
“The crew--” Timothy started to say, but Christopher cut him off.
“The crew would get their cut,” he said. “There won't be any grumbling when we make Medori and everyone goes home with a lord's ransom.”
“And the dead ones?” Aebyn hissed. He had been so quiet that Timothy had nearly forgotten the gryphon was there. The two were of one accord on the matter. He would have no more men dead on account of his dark deeds.
Christopher wheeled to face him so quickly that Aebyn lurched backward, wings flaring open. The long flight feathers knocked a lamp off the nightstand. Christopher's objection was lost beneath the crash of breaking glass and lamp oil sloshing across the floor. It had not been lit, but the freshly spilled oil quickly filled the room with an overpowering odor. Christopher rankled, starting for the door.
“Tell me this, Christopher,” Timothy said, grabbing the man by the wrist and drawing him up close, nose-to nose. “A day will come when you and I both will stand before the Creator and be asked to account for our deeds. What will you say to him, Christopher? What will I say? That honest men looked to me and I made them scoundrels and thieves, conveyors of the illicit. That I had my chance and led them each and every one into the dark valley by my own hand...? Enough! I have had enough... I don't want this life anymore, Christopher, and I pray you can come to see that.”
Christopher sneered. “They were scoundrels and thieves before you, Timothy.”
Timothy looked him up and down, searching for any sign of remorse, of doubt even. Then he let him go, turned, and walked calmly out the door with trembling hands. Aebyn followed close at his heel, and the two did not speak again until they had reached the street.
For a while he walked up and down the market streets, stoppi
ng now and then to idly study a window display in only the most perfunctory manner. Dutiful Aebyn followed close at his heels, not speaking but remaining present and attentive.
“Now is not a good time,” he heard Aebyn say. It was a strange pronouncement and shook Timothy from his thoughts. The crippled luminarian had returned, dark shadows beneath his eyes. His vivid orange mane was unkempt and wild.
“But you have seen her?” Dawn implored.
“I haven't,” Aebyn corrected, “but I spoke with a street dragon that had.”
“What did he say?” the waifish creature asked. Aebyn looked toward Timothy and saw that he had caught the man's attention and so answered with a sigh.
“Now is not a good time!” he insisted.
“It's alright,” Timothy said. He leaned against the wall and tilted his head back, looking up at the darkening evening sky. The dark hour was not far off; already the edges of the horizon burned with blues and violets. Here and there shop windows darkened while a lamplighter started his nightly rounds at the north end of the street. He was already covered in oil and grime, carrying a flame on a long pole behind him.
For a few moments he could feel Aebyn watching him in concern, but he pretended not to notice. Eventually Dawn's anxious face won out. Reluctantly Aebyn delivered his newest intelligence.
“There was a man killing dragons in the city. They called him the Harvester. Someone murdered him last night and all the dragons think it was a luminarian girl that did it. An outsider. She showed up a few days ago and then disappeared after. No one's seen her since the Harvester was killed.”
Dawn sighed a heavy sigh of relief, his jaw quivering as he did. It was the terrified, tremulous sound of a man that had been told his wife was not definitely dead, but only maybe dead. Hope restored to a madman did not make a madman whole, nor would it lift the dark shadows beneath this miserable creature's eyes.