by J Jordan
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Elsewhere, in another place, Victoria followed a different passage through Hirna Andrea. She moved a ways down the corridor, paused to case the passage with her flashlight, said a small prayer under her breath, and then continued on. She wasn’t lost. Victoria knew how to move through the divine temple. Her grandmother had explained it in more arcane terms, but the principle went something like this: Hirna Andrea had many paths, but only one passageway. And the path one walked was chosen by the guardian spirits. Hirna Andrea had only one physical passageway, a large corridor with smooth stone walls and a dusty floor. But it had infinitely many paths. And if you weren’t careful, you might end up somewhere outside the world.
Victoria could see a sharp left turn at the end of hall. She clasped a hand over her heart, bowed her head, and prayed to the spirits for guidance. The air murmured around her as she spoke.
“Ancestors, guide me. My friend is lost on a path she is not meant to walk. Help me find her. Praises to the goddess, for she is strong and wise. Praises to Andrea, for she is wise and good. Praises to her children, for they are strong and wise and good because of her.”
As she finished the prayer, the murmuring air gained clarity.
“You will take this left. And then the next left.”
“Thank you.”
“Hurry, mija.” said the voice. “Something is wrong.”
The temple had no spiky pits or hidden boulders, because it had no need for them. The traps found in Hirna Andrea were of a different material altogether. And that, her abuela warned, was why it was important to introduce yourself. Abuela wasn’t clear on what these traps involved. Sister Marina, a fellow priestess, could speak from experience. They were old spells, maybe older than the prophet herself, and they were powerful. These magics listened to your innermost voice and weaved them into the world around you, bringing your greatest fears to life. These waking nightmares were made long ago, to ensnare errant travelers and the occasional chingado.
Those were Sister Marina’s words.
Victoria hurried down the hall, taking the left at the end, then she rushed down the next left. She could already see a blue glow at the end of the hall, illuminating another left turn. Her flashlight would be useless here. She rounded the corner and tripped on something in the way.
It was Cora huddled against the wall, her face buried in her knees. Victoria noted the floor’s sudden change to a mirror sheen. It was also hot to touch. She rose to her feet and turned to aid her friend.
“Cora, are you okay?”
“This isn’t fair,” sobbed Cora.
Cora looked up from her knees and blinded Victoria in the process. Cora’s eyes were filled with a sharp blue fire, like two blue headlights in the dark. Victoria shielded her face and blinked out the burn marks in her vision.
“He can’t ground me. I’m twenty-nine years old. You can’t ground adults.”
“Come on, Cora. Let’s stand up.”
She reached down with her free hand and took Cora by the arm. Cora didn’t budge.
“I am a doctor of Camerran history, and he cannot talk to me like that. I am not a teenager anymore.”
“Let’s get up, Cora. We’ve got to go.”
“Okay, fine. I still live at home. But he can’t treat me like a child. I graduated top of my class, for Katssake. I am a grown woman.”
Victoria tried lifting Cora by the shoulder, but the historian remained immovable.
“I can’t leave the house and I can’t have friends over,” sobbed Cora. “He actually said that. That was a real thing he said to a twenty-nine-year-old with her PhD.”
“I need your help right now. Can you please get up?”
“I’m not allowed to move.”
Although many of magic’s innerworkings were a mystery to the priestess-hood, Sister Marina was clear on this point: one must remove the afflicted from the spell’s area of influence to end its magical effects. She gave no advice on how to remove someone who didn’t want to leave, but that’s why Victoria had started weight training at the Partisan Gym. She hooked her arms under Cora’s waist and lifted her off the ground. The grounded twenty-nine-year-old was now on her feet, but she made no effort to continue. She leaned against the wall, as Victoria tugged at her arm.
“Stop it, Vic. He’s going to hear you. And then I’ll be grounded for life.”
There was one other thing that Sister Marina never mentioned. These traps had no springs. When you walked into its influence, the trap had you.
Victoria became aware of this fact as she tugged at Cora’s arm. She could hear footsteps approaching from farther down the corridor, in perfect military cadence. The sound of their boots was all too familiar to her. Andaran, standard issue. She wasn’t sure how they got this far into the temple, but that didn’t matter at the moment. She could see them running in formation down the hall. There was no mistaking their objective. Victoria Costa, dead or alive.
“Cora, please listen to me. We need to get out of here right now.”
Cora whimpered. She managed a hobbling pace, but it wasn’t fast enough. Victoria could hear the footfalls gaining ground.
“Faster, please. They’re gaining on us.”
“And the worst part of all—” sighed Cora, “he hasn’t been home in months. But now he’s king of the castle? That’s ridiculous.”
Victoria darted around the next corner with Cora trailing behind her. Victoria yanked her onward down the passage. There was no place to hide. Behind them, the unseen patrol called out in unintelligible Andaran. The soldiers were closing in.
“Cora, listen to me. When they round that corner, they are going to start shooting at us. We need to be around the next corner when that happens. I’m sure your father will understand. Okay? Now, pick up the pace.”
“He can't understand,” Cora wailed. “He’s dead.”
Romney Balvance and the Matron’s Place
Splendor beyond measure. The greatest delights known to any mortal, ready for the taking. Decadence to the point of ridiculousness, but never quite stepping over the line. This was the Matron’s world. Velveteen carpets stretching down pathways, with marble columns every ten feet, to tie it all together. They passed through an open-air courtyard, every corner filled with the same excessive extravagance, and peopled by the young and beautiful. They stood like so many fragrance commercials, lazing in the light of cerulean braziers, lounging along plush couches, each young soul beckoning Romney closer: for a spell, a drink, maybe a kiss, or just some light conversation. But the Matron carried him onward, past a group of more Alta Mirran starlets, glasses toasting their newest neighbor. She had a special place for this Romney. It would be everything he ever wanted.
Romney tried to slip away for the exit, but the Matron’s hand was around his wrist once more. She smiled at him.
“You’re gonna love this.”
Her eyes were still glowing with the unsettling blue flames, even in this “magic world.” What did they call this place? No, he needed to stay focused on the task at hand. Romney couldn’t forget that he was still in the magical fire world, trapped somewhere in the depths of Hirna Andrea. But no matter how hard he clamped his eyes shut, and no matter how hard he tried to wake up, the realm of blue flame would not appear. He tried slapping himself with his free hand, but the only effect was brief embarrassment as a heavenly patron shook her head in disapproval. He waited until she was out of sight before slapping himself again. No effect.
The Matron led him into another large, open courtyard, where several more beautiful people surrounded a marble fountain. They watched a moonless sky and commented on nothing in particular, occasionally sipping at long-stemmed glasses. The Matron dispelled them with a wave of her hand. Their forms blew away like smoke in the wind, evaporating entirely before they reached the open sky. Their drinks simply passed through the smooth stone floor and into whatever oblivion lay beneath it. Another wave brushed away the fountain, the furniture, and any other artifice.
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The slice of heaven had become a blank slate. Another gesture gave it a low ceiling. The Matron released Romney from her grip and began to work with both hands. In fluid motions, she extruded walls and divided them, shaped the spaces in between, brought in more shapes from thin air and moved them into place, gave them color and texture. He recognized it as she put the finishing touches into place. The coffee table, the cheap floor rug underneath, the well-worn couch, the TV—the single resident of the entertainment center on the opposite wall—and then a minibar dividing a small living room from a smaller kitchen. This was his apartment. And the final touch was taking shape before him.
The Matron approached a featureless slab, her hands moving quickly, her brow furrowed in concentration. The shape gained legs and arms, and then a head with an inscrutable face. The Matron was just getting started. These were the difficult pieces. With harsh strokes of her hands, it gained eyes and lips and a nose. And then color came to its skin and hair spilled out from the top of its head in brown curtains.
Her smile was unmistakable, a playful smirk made warm by her light-brown eyes. She would always wear that sweater around the apartment, for those times when all she wanted was to stay in and watch TV. She had stopped wearing her glasses when she first met Aeron, but Romney didn’t know that at the time. She was wearing them now, perched on her nose. And he could even smell the faint earthy allure of her shampoo. He had to give this one to the Matron. She had a knack for memories.
Haley leaned in and kissed his cheek. Her breath smelled like a peanut butter and banana sandwich, made only minutes before. He knew it was sitting on the kitchen counter, half eaten. It would remain there the rest of the night. She even got that right.
Romney smirked, but the welling in his throat made it impossible for anything else. He remembered this night. It was a memory he kept deep in his heart. A memory he had to keep hidden from himself.
“Welcome home,” said Haley. “I was thinking we should stay in tonight. Just you, me, and an all-night classical horror movie marathon. Maybe some popcorn.”
Romney reached out and placed a hand on her cheek. Warm, and a little fuzzy, just like it used to be.
“So, how about you slip into something more comfortable and join me on the couch?”
Romney remembered how the rest would go. They would spend all night on that couch, shoulder-to-shoulder, heads leaning in, hands clasped together. And they would share a kiss during each commercial break, or whenever there was too much talking in the movie. There would be silly questions and silly answers. No monster could touch them. Romney would give anything to live that night again.
And that was why it hurt.
“Okay,” said Haley, still smiling, “let’s start with the shoes and work our way up.”
Romney’s face rippled with the effort of speech.
“What’s wrong?”
“I gotta . . . ”
He exhaled and the first tears trickled down his face. He knew he couldn’t stay in this place. It was an illusion.
“I gotta go. There’s something I need to do. I’m looking for somebody’s necklace.”
“No, don’t worry about that anymore. The first movie just started. Let’s just sit down and relax.”
She tugged at his arm, and every fiber of his being wanted to follow. But Romney held fast. Somewhere, in another place and time, he was being torn apart by raw magic. This warm, cozy, lovely little place was an illusion. The parlor trick of a demigoddess and nothing more.
“All you have to do is sit.”
He wanted to sit. He wanted monster movie night more than anything in the world, and Haley by his side once more, and a forever of cozy nights spent in love. More than anything, he wanted to sit and be content, even if the action trapped him here for eternity. It would be an eternity of monster movies and warm kisses, and a head on his shoulder.
But it would never work. No matter how many details fell into place, this world was not real. It was a memory of a better time, not the framework for an existence.
He turned to the Matron, his eyes streaming, his face screwed up into the best grin he could muster.
“If that’s all you’ve got, then we’re done here.”
Her eyes flared.
“Why? This is your single greatest treasure and it’s here for the taking. But you won’t accept it. Why?”
“I can’t live in a dream. This place has to stay in the past, where it belongs. There have to be bad days and tribulations, so we can know what the good days look like. No one could live here. It would never work.”
The floor shuddered beneath them. A picture slipped off the opposite wall and shattered on the carpet. The Matron was wreathed in blue fire. Her eyes had become two blue stars once more.
“Yes, you can! You can have a perfect world, with your greatest desires fulfilled, with every whim realized, every memory brought to life, and all of it good. You don’t need to suffer in an imperfect world. This world works! Magic works.”
The Matron approached and the air regained the dreadful heat.
“You’ve lived too long in that little machine of hers. And now you believe that suffering and pain are facts of life. As if any evil is necessary. You could never imagine a world like mine. It’s sad what she’s done to you.”
The walls curled and crackled under her temper. The television sputtered into silence, and then cracked, the frame buckling under the oppressive heat. Haley’s smile drooped. Her eyes slid down her face as her shoulders slowly worked their way down her torso. A single flame rose from the wall behind her and chewed its way across. A spark from the kitchen announced that the sandwich was well done. Now the smell of ozone and burning wood pervaded the room and stuck to Romney’s nostrils. His throat was parched again. The Matron hovered above him, her fiery gaze inches from his face.
“So, you want suffering? Pain and sadness? You can’t live without these things in your world?”
“Nobody wants to suffer,” Romney croaked, “but there has to be balance. You can’t have good without bad.”
“Stop saying that,” the Matron flared. “You can. You can have happiness and warmth, all the time, every day. You choose to suffer.”
The Matron’s tirade was cut short. She turned her attention to the front door. Was that someone knocking? It crumpled into tender. Standing in the doorway was a bellhop, her hand outstretched with a letter. The envelope had curled at the edges. And the strange question on Romney’s mind: where did she come from? The Matron rounded on her, hands balled into fists.
“What is this?”
The bellhop crossed the threshold, taking off her little hat and tucking it under her arm when she entered. As she passed by the Matron, Romney could see the beads of sweat forming on her forehead. She approached Romney and thrust the message into his chest. This was obviously not the time for courtesy. Romney plucked up the envelope, opened it, and looked at the blackening card inside. The message was to the point.
“Take my hand.”
The bellhop had left her hand outstretched again, arm tensed in anticipation. Her eyes were fixed on Romney with a grim determination. Her hand seemed farther away now, farther than an arm’s length, just out of reach. But he knew he had to try. Romney reached out and locked his fingers around hers.
The world of blue fire crashed through his apartment.
The Matron’s grip tightened around Romney’s shoulders, but the terrible coursing power had faded. Before him stood Andrea Lucana, the Prophet of Andar, robes billowing in the conflagration. Her fingers were locked around his in a tenuous hold. The burning magical power was now coursing between them. Andrea latched onto Romney’s arm at the elbow, the blue light branching through her cheeks and pouring into her eyes. She nodded to him, as if to say “get ready.” And then she planted her feet and heaved with all her might.
The Matron’s grasp was slipping. She redoubled her grip, her blazing fingers pressing into his muscles. Romney could hear her frustrated screams somewher
e in the torrents of flame. Andrea’s hold remained strong. She tugged once more, using her entire frame as leverage. Romney could feel the coursing power abating. His left foot peeled up an inch off the ground. With the extra space, he leaned into Andrea for one final pull. She wrenched his arm over her shoulder and leaned forward with everything she could muster. The sharp pain was nothing compared to the fire coursing through his body. With a terrible ripping, Romney’s foot came free. The Matron’s fingers lost their purchase. The circuit of magical power was broken.
Romney sprinted across the burning landscape, Andrea an arm’s length ahead. They ran straight toward the horizon in single file. But no matter how fast they ran, the horizon remained a distant goal. Romney looked back to see if the Matron was following. He wished he hadn’t. She was upon them, hands outstretched, sailing forward like a blazing poltergeist. He doubled his pace, coming up beside Andrea. But he could still feel the Matron’s flames on the back of his neck.
Andrea’s face was a determined grimace, her gaze locked straight ahead. Perhaps she could see the real path, the one that would lead them back to the temple. She knew the way out of this place, Romney decided. Andrea knew what she was doing.
Romney could already feel the hard stone under his feet again. The walls were materializing, step by step. And then the darkness of the passageway closed in around them as they ran. Soon, the blue flames retreated from their vision, giving way to the complete darkness of Hirna Andrea. The Matron’s frustrated cries became soft murmurs in the air, and then were hushed entirely in an instant. But the heat of her flames was there.
Andrea towed Romney down the corridor, her hand locked around his wrist. They didn’t stop until they rounded a corner hidden in the darkness. Then, with an unseen gesture, she produced a lit torch and beckoned him to follow.
“Where are we going?”