Lichgates

by S. M. Boyce

  Bit by bit, the hourglass inched over on its axis, hardly moving even after she threw all her weight against it. The grains of sand shifted, sliding along the glass without falling into the other chamber.

  Movement in the corner of her eye drew her attention. The noise of the battle flooded her ears in a sudden rush, and sweat dripped along her nose. The sand shifted farther. Demons screeched, glaring at her.

  A stampede began. They raced closer, galloping on all fours to stop her, to rip her to shreds. Braeden was nowhere to be seen.

  She threw the last ounce of her strength into her chore, yelling and cursing at the old hinges until finally, with one last shove, the first grain of sand fell through the opening. It plopped without a sound onto the new bottom of the hourglass.

  The demons screamed, some close enough that their hot breath fogged against her arms, but they dissolved into smoke as they ran. Light erupted from the amber pedestal and engulfed the room. The cold sting of the glass disappeared from beneath her fingers, and all sound, even the race of her heartbeat in her ear, faded away. There was nothing to smell, nothing to hear, and nothing to see in this ocean of light. The amulet had lied. No lichgate appeared, and Kara would have to face whatever was coming next alone.

  Discovery

  The sound of laughter came first through the intense light. It was the chorus of a studio audience, though occasionally Kara could hear the louder chuckles of two real people who reacted to a mumbling TV host. She smelled popcorn. Pizza. Leather from the sofa on which her dad had spent too much money.

  She grinned. It was movie night at the Tallahassee house.

  Colors bled from the white light around her, until the memory was visible and real and solid. Her mom and dad sat on the couch, watching television and giggling at the show’s bad jokes. She had no idea what was on, but she didn’t care. There they were, smiling as if the last year had never happened.

  Kara laughed, but choked on a sob. She was elated and heartbroken and torn. They were so real.

  “I’m impressed,” a nearby voice said.

  The Vagabond stood beside her, nothing but gray wisps of light. As she watched, though, he solidified. The shadows under his hood lengthened until he reached for it and pulled it back with two solid hands, revealing his weathered face. He was younger than she’d imagined, probably thirty, and had a scar on his cheek, thick blond hair, and dark eyes.

  “Where are we?” she asked.

  “Your mind. I know that you have often wondered what your most influential memory could be. Well, this is it. You realized how much you loved your parents on this night without ever fully understanding why. This is when you told yourself that you would love them forever, no matter what happened.”

  “Why are you showing me this?”

  He shook his head. “I’m not showing you anything. You’re stuck here. You can’t leave this memory behind. This is your past, one that you’ll never relive, and you can never succeed as the Vagabond until you accept that your family is gone. You must admit that they are dead.”

  She bit her lip and glanced back to the couch, her body tense, mind racing. Her mom and dad laughed again at the television, much louder than the audience. Her mom stuck a piece of popcorn up her dad’s nose and giggled when he snorted it back onto her. Kara laughed through the sting in her throat.

  She walked in front of them, blocking their view, but they looked through her. This was a memory. They weren’t real. She stifled the tears that wanted so badly to be freed and wrapped them both into a tight hug, but neither reacted. The Vagabond cleared his throat.

  “I promise that your father will be freed from the isen in the natural course of things, but only if you continue on as the Vagabond. Can you let them both go?”

  She sat on the table in front of them and sighed, hanging her head in defeat.

  “No,” she said. “They’re my family. I’d do anything to protect them, and since I failed at that I’ll settle for the next best thing.”

  “Revenge?”

  She scowled at the floor without answering. He reached out a hand, suddenly beside her.

  “I need to show you something,” he said. “I’ve seen your memory, so I feel you deserve to see mine.”

  She stared at his palm, and her eyes glossed over. It was difficult to move. Her rear was rooted to the table, and as much as she wanted to look back at her parents, she was unable to turn her head. Her hand inched out to the Vagabond’s until the touch of his cold skin made her shiver.

  The room flashed with another wave of white light. Her arms were pulled behind her. Spikes dug into her wrists, and she yelled in surprise and pain. Hot blood trickled into her palms. The room from her nightmare blinked into view. The world was clear and vivid, as her memory had been just moments before—there were no wisps, only vibrant detail.

  A Kirelm soldier brought in Helen, the stunning woman with dark brown skin. She was limp in his arms, and bright red blood flowed in thin creeks down to her bare feet as she was tossed onto the floor like garbage.

  Kara leaned nearer, living through the Vagabond’s eyes and unable to control her movement. Helen looked over and moved her lips, but no words came out. Dozens more yakona—Hillsidians, Ayavelians, Kirelms, and Lossians alike—were dumped into the room in a similar manner. They moaned in pain and hung their heads, arms chained behind their backs.

  The Kirelm Blood marched down the stairs from his throne, unsheathing his Sartori before he lifted Kara’s chin with its poisoned tip.

  “You offered them freedom, Vagabond,” he said, “but lies and heresy lead to death. None should have the power you bestowed upon these strangers, these enemies of the yakona crowns. Your reign over the yakona people will end here, tonight!”

  “Helen,” Kara whispered to the girl, wishing with all her might that she could brush back the bloody hair from the flawless face.

  “My love,” she whispered back.

  “I’m so sorry. I did this. I failed you,” Kara said. The Vagabond’s sorry flooded her heart with love for the stranger.

  “I forgive you,” Helen answered. “And I will wait for you.”

  Kara tried to speak, to lie and say that everything would be all right, but several guards grabbed her shoulders and pulled her away. They seized the roots of her hair and yanked her head back as she fought and resisted, so that her neck was exposed. The Blood walked closer.

  “We make examples of traitors,” the Kirelm Blood said. His eyes darted over her once and he scowled before he lifted his Sartori to her cheek and twisted the blade. It drew blood and seared her as the blade’s poison bubbled and hissed in the wound. The agony stung and tore apart the veins in her cheek, but she refused to scream.

  The Blood walked over to Helen and rested his sword on her throat. The girl’s lips trembled. Horror settled on her face. Her chest rose and fell, her neck tensed against the blade as the Blood hesitated over his prey.

  “You have polluted our world, Vagabond. You have ignited millennia-old tensions that will fester into war. Therefore, it’s a given that you will die tonight. I can promise you that. But I want the world to know where your heart has truly been all this time—with the collective, or with yourself. You must make a choice. ” He pressed the sword harder against Helen’s skin. It sizzled. She whimpered.

  “You must choose between your lover and your people. Whichever you choose, I will free. If you say nothing, I will rid Ourea of your kind completely, as it should be. Make your choice.”

  Kara snapped her head toward the other vagabonds, but they didn’t look up from the floor. Her throat closed in her debate, making breath impossible. She glanced from her vagabonds to Helen, whose face was tense and wrinkled with fear as she bit her lip to keep the tears at bay.

  “You’re running out of time, Vagabond,” the Blood said.

  “Please, just take me. Let them all go, just take me.”

  “That wasn’t one of your choices.”

  He pressed the flat of the blade har
der against Helen’s skin. The other vagabonds hung their heads, slouching deeper toward the floor as they accepted their fate. They knew what would become of them.

  “It’s as I thought,” said the Blood. “You aren’t a leader. You can’t make difficult choices. Thus, I must make them for you.” He pressed the sword closer to Helen’s neck and drew a line of blood. Helen screamed and smoke from her burning skin billowed around her face. He lifted the sword and dug it into her side, beneath her arm. Her eyes went wide. She whimpered once before the life left her open eyes.

  “No!” Kara shrieked. She forced her way to her feet, fighting the guards through the pain of the spiked shackles and the hissing wound on her face. One of them leveled her to the floor with a quick jab to her head.

  Something pulled on the pit of her stomach and dragged her out of the Vagabond’s memory. A figure wrapped its white, wispy arms around her, locking her in place as she continued to twist and fight. She opened her eyes to a dark world and floated in the nothingness, her hair weightless around her face.

  “Kara, be calm.”

  She looked over her shoulder to see the Vagabond, his body nothing but wisps once more. The hood shrouded his face, but she was close enough to see the tortured wrinkles that contorted the corners of his eyes. He released her when she stopped fighting.

  “I am imperfect,” he said. “That was the moment I realized, too late, what it truly meant to be the Vagabond. I was unfocused. In my love for Helen, I lost sight of my purpose.”

  “How can you forgive Kirelm for what they did? How could you possibly care about yakona anymore?” she screamed at him, the rage from witnessing the ruthless murder still pulsing through her body, but the Vagabond’s voice calmed her when he finally spoke.

  “Yours is a different time from mine. Blood Ithone didn’t kill my Helen, nor did his people kill my vagabonds. I won’t forsake the peace of Ourea for the misguided hatred of a few.”

  “I—” She forced herself to swallow, and her heart settled. She hated his words, but he was right.

  “You can’t hate all isen because Deirdre stole your father’s soul. You can’t hate yourself because of the accident that took your mother.”

  She shook her head. “So you did die in Kirelm. That’s why you didn’t tell me when I was there, because you knew I would have a prejudice.”

  “Blood Morden, the Kirelm Blood of my time, didn’t kill me. He killed my people, but he didn’t kill me.”

  “Then how—?”

  “I asked my mentor, an isen named Stone, to seal my soul in the Grimoire. That way, I might be better prepared to help the next Vagabond learn from my mistakes. No one killed me. I sacrificed myself.”

  “But,” Kara stuttered. “But Helen told you she would wait for you in the next life.”

  “Yes,” he said, his voice almost too soft to hear. “But my task isn’t yet done. I chose the Vagabond’s duty, even though I didn’t understand what that truly meant until I lost everything. If my spirit is ever freed, I hope to find her waiting still.”

  Kara covered her mouth and looked away, unable to process what he’d said. He’d chosen an eternity of slavery to the Grimoire over the woman he had loved and failed.

  “Forgive yourself,” he said. “Forgive Deirdre. Focus on uniting the yakona kingdoms and know that your father will be freed without your obsessing over revenge.”

  He held out his palm and nodded toward her locket. She rubbed the golden oval on her neck with her thumb and glanced at the scarred groves on his fingers.

  Her mom’s face after the crash flooded her mind: the glass, the torn metal, the blood. Her dad’s corpse on the floor of the rental house snapped into focus. She took a deep breath and shook her head, but the memories twisted in her mind until she unclasped the locket from around her neck. Then, there was peace.

  She dropped the locket in his outstretched hand.

  Light flared through the darkness once more. All feeling was gone from her fingers and her face, but she surprisingly did not care.

  Sunlight trickled through Kara’s eyelids, making the skin glow orange. She batted her eyes open, wiping away the stinging surge of morning light as it hit her through a window nearby.

  Across from her was a stone sarcophagus, its lid carved in the likeness of the Vagabond without his hood. His hands were crossed over his chest, and enclosed in his stone palm was the tip of a small, golden locket.

  It wasn’t until she slunk against the coffin that she saw the black lump of Braeden’s boot sticking out from around the corner. He lay on the ground, his skin gray and smoking in his natural, Stelian form, and he mumbled in his sleep.

  She sighed with relief and moved to sit beside him, unafraid. A wave of exhaustion flooded over her. Everything, right down to her toes and fingers, ached. A tired impulse made her curl against him and close her eyes. After a short while, the only sensation was the rise and fall of his chest with each deep breath. Not long after that, she was fast asleep, and the world faded away completely.

  Tensions

  Braeden woke in a tomb, his last memory nothing but a flare of light. The shadow demons had dissolved into the brightness as it engulfed everything. Now, he faced a coffin laid out in a stone room with a single, square window. Light flooded the room in sporadic rays, illuminating bits of the floor and leaving the rest in shadow. He clenched his fist and shifted into his Hillsidian form, pushing his back against the wall. He stopped when his hand brushed someone else’s soft, warm skin.

  Kara lay beside him, curled on her side and cuddled close enough that her cheek pressed against his leg. She murmured something and slid her hand under her head when he moved. A row of deep gouges in her bloodstained arm became visible. The wounds had scabbed around the edges but were still red in the center.

  A breath caught in his throat, and he wrapped his fingers around her arm, already forgetting the coffin and stone tomb. Heat pooled in his hands as he focused what energy he could spare on the bloody scrapes, and it wasn’t long until her skin glowed white where he touched her. The broken blood vessels and bruises began to blur and heal, slowly closing up the gaping holes. She whimpered. He held his breath, waiting, but she didn’t wake up.

  Four round scars, each just one shade lighter than her skin, dotted her arm. He rubbed one, wondering if he should wake her or just let her sleep, but something glimmered from across the room and caught his eye as he debated.

  Her satchel lay on its side by the sarcophagus, its flap open. Flick’s tail peeked out from a corner of the bag, which moved up and down with the small animal’s steady breaths. The Stelian amulet was half-hidden beneath the furry creature’s bushy tail, its black stone glinting in the muted sunlight.

  Braeden walked over and knelt beside the amulet before he could question himself, his fingers hovering, uncertain, as he deliberated whether or not he wanted to know what the stone would reveal. Carden’s words haunted him. “Look into her eyes as the light fades. Once she’s dead, look down to the stone to see the only world that wants you.”

  His fingers twitched where they hovered. It didn’t matter how much he’d trained with Adele or how far he’d come in his ability to control himself—if the amulet told him that he belonged at the Stele, it meant that he had accomplished nothing.

  He grabbed it.

  Gray smoke bubbled and twisted from the black depths of the stone, fueled by his touch. It thickened, pooling in dark layers until the throne room of the Stele appeared in the haze.

  His jaw tightened. He dropped the amulet, letting it fall with a clatter on the stone floor instead of hurling it through the glass window like he wanted to. He stood in a frustrated huff and ran his hands through his hair, glancing back to where Kara slept on the floor. He sighed in defeat. No matter how much he fought it, the Stele chased him. It would never let him go.

  He noticed a single door at the end of a short hallway and pushed through it into the sunny day outside. A set of stone stairs led to a paved courtyard, which was line
d with a thick forest. Small, paved walking paths split and wound from the clearing into the woods, and a few cottages lined the intersections. Each stone-faced house was thatched with a straw roof and had a smattering of glass windows.

  The village was nestled in a valley, and mountains scraped the sky in every direction. There were no weeds or cracks in the stone, and nothing had collapsed or rotted in the thousand years it had been abandoned. It was as if time had left the Vagabond’s small world alone.

  A three-story house stood at the other end of the courtyard, directly across from the tomb. Its porch wrapped around to the back of the mansion, and large, imperfect stones covered any part of the house that wasn’t a door or a large window. A rocking chair on the porch moved on its own, swaying back and forth even though the trees were calm and still.