Soul Hosts

by Joseph Isaacs

  Chapter 3

  Stars and Rats

  If you want to be a Hero, be one. There is no secret to it. – Kolram

  --

  Wayden rushed to the window and stuck his head out. Night stood on the ledge, dressed in a white bed gown, staring through a telescope. The wind whipped at her long, ghost-white hair and her sleeping gown flapped against her legs. A shooting star flew past. Turning to look at it, she almost plummeted from the narrow ledge. Wayden swallowed. If Crag’s grandmother fell four stories on Wayden’s first day on the job, he’d be accused of murder.

  "Mistress!” Wayden pleaded. “Please come back inside!"

  Night turned and cackled. Her face was a crosshatch of scars. "Why don't you come get me?"

  “Please, Mistress. You’ll fall.”

  "Come out here with me, or else..." Mistress Night said, dangling a leg over the edge.

  "If I come out there, will you come back in with me?"

  She nodded, the wind blowing her white hair like a flag of surrender.

  Wayden took a breath and pulled himself onto the ledge. His knees wobbled as he inched sideways. He could see street-dwellers’ tiny fires flickering below, as well as the illuminated windows from shops and homes. The cobblestone street would not buffer a five-story fall. Cool air blew past him, yet sweat still trickled down his forehead, stinging his eyes. The world twirled beneath him.

  Night spun towards Wayden, moving her face within a hair's breadth of his own. He thought they would both plummet. By some miracle he kept his balance.

  Her breath carried the smell of dead fish, as she leant in and kissed Wayden on the lips. He tasted cod liver oil. His stomach heaved. Upon physical contact, Kolram's Glimpser powers took Wayden. His skin tingled and his mind flashed from black to white, and a twirling sensation overtook him, as he spun deeper and deeper into Night’s mind.

  Then it was as if he was a young Night, clutching her dolly, watching snow pile against the window. She was waiting in the cabin for her mother to return. Half afraid she wouldn’t, and half afraid she would.

  She eyed the trapdoor mother had forbidden her to enter. Something dangerous lived down there. Night took the key from under the statuette. Mother had thought she’d been sleeping when she hid it there. With a click, she unlocked it. Lifting up the trap door, revealed a long dark tunnel. There was no telling how far it stretched.

  Just as quickly as it had come, Night’s memories dissipated. Wayden pulled away, sputtering. He grabbed the ridge between the wooden sideboards. Even so, he barely kept his balance.

  Night snickered. "You didn't like my kiss?"

  Wayden couldn’t speak. Couldn’t breathe.

  "Mistress N-N-Night,” Rif called from the window. “You promised you would come back in.”

  "A promise made is a promise kept." Night handed Wayden her telescope. He stared at it trying to remember if he was in a cabin in the snow or on a ledge. Looking down he could see it was the latter. They clambered back through the window. Rif helped Night down from the ledge and latched the window shut behind her.

  “Let us celebrate!” Night threw her arms into the air and spun, her sleeping gown billowing out like an upside down lily.

  "C-c-celebrate what?" Rif asked, looking as pale as Wayden felt.

  "The future,” Night replied. “For the future is dark, and darkness belongs to the night. The Eve of the Three Moons is coming.”

  “Three Moons' N-N -Night,” Rif said. “My birthday.”

  His birthday. Wayden’s as well. Could it be a coincidence? Rif, Wayden, and his twin-brother Mavik shared the same birthday. He thought of the strange pulling sensation he felt connecting him to Rif and Mavik. Did it have something to do with their sharing the same day of naming?

  “Your next birthday will be one you will never forget.”

  “Why? Wh-wh-what’s going to happen?” Rif asked.

  “My grandmother shall be freed,” Night said. Storm clouds seemed to swirl in her eyes. Then they pulsed black for a moment.

  “The grandmother of Grandma Night,” Kolram thoughts resonated through Wayden’s skull. “She must be a Descendant of an Immortal, if she is still alive.”

  "How long can Descendants of Immortals live?”

  "Have you paid attention to nothing I've taught?” Kolram sighed. “The sons and daughters of Immortals can live thousands of years. Less direct descendants can be hundreds of years old.”

  “Where did the Immortals come from anyway?”

  “A good question. Most agree they fell from the sky three millennia ago, but no one ever knew where they came from before that.”

  Night poked Wayden. “Are you still with us boy? You looked like you are sleeping on your feet.”

  “Sorry, I do that sometimes.”

  Rif stepped towards Night. "Is there anything we c-c-can get for you?"

  Night fixed him with a stare. “Hoping for a kiss, too?" She cackled at Rif’s blushing face. "I'm only jesting, boy. No need to do an impression of a tomato. Sing me the song of Night.”

  Wayden surprised himself by standing up for Rif. “Leave him alone. There's no need to make fun―”

  Sweet notes emerged from Rif’s lips. Wayden’s mouth fell open as he listened to Rif sing a beautiful haunting ballad, with no trace of his stutter or Tulkarian accent:

  Fire burn with your dark light

  Shine your soul, shine tonight

  Bring her back, bring back my mother

  Mother mine, Mother Night

  Stolen she was, stolen from me

  For the sake of men's hatred, for the sake of their greed

  Mother mine, Mother Night

  Bring her back, back to me

  Robed in red, robed in gold

  Day is harsh, the gaudy light

  Mother is cloaked in the shades of the dead

  The stars stitch silver with a mysterious thread

  Bring back my fire, bring back me night

  Night sighed and closed her eyes. "Lovely. I'll have that stew, now."

  Wayden’s stomach grumbled as he passed the bowl.

  "I'm sorry your grandson l-l-locks you in here," Rif said.

  "The door isn’t locked, and what is so bad about here? I have the stars and the rats to keep me company. It's as good a place to wait. My grandmother waits too, beneath the Earth, trapped by Guardians."

  “Who is your grandmother?” Wayden asked.

  Night stepped over to the closed window and placed her palms against the glass. "Once I waited for months in a snowy cabin until my mother returned. Waiting. We are all waiting. Waiting for a prince to come. My prince is death."

  “What do you m-m-mean?” Rif asked.

  She turned back towards Wayden and Rif, smiling, moonlight dancing in her eyes. "Here I have fish stew and sleep powder. My grandson is a fool, but I make use of him. He attempts to please those holy men, the Fire Whisperers. He thinks one day he'll join them at the Court of Flame. He dreams of a veil, when he could have the world. I have faith in the Shadows. The shadows are coming. My grandmother will be awoken. And you boy." She gestured at Wayden. “Will do the awakening.”

  Wayden chewed his lip. He knew prophecy was real. Mavik had painted the water color of his mother with the red flower on her dress the day before she was killed. But Night’s behavior was so erratic, what was true prophecy and what was just the ravings of a mad woman?

  She yawned and rubbed her eyes. "Ah, leave me boys; I feel the sleep coming on. Perhaps my prince is sleep."

  Rif and Wayden left, bearing dirty dishes and the foul smelling chamber pot. Night's voice resonated in the dark stairwell behind them.

  “Mother is cloaked in the shades of the dead.”

  Rif and Wayden entered the sleeping quarters, a plain room with rushes laid on the hard wood. Several of the boys lounged amidst the fibrous reeds. Big Darius threw a mumbly ball against the wall, but Cursed Darius caught it and shouted, “Mumbly!” Big Darius swore, and reluctantly
handed over a copper to Cursed Darius.

  Cursed Darius pocketed the ball with a smirk. "Who's cursed tonight, huh?"

  Rif looked around. "Where are the sleeping p-p-pallets?"

  “No sleeping pallets," Wayden said.

  "Don't they give us bl-bl-blankets?" Rif asked.

  Big Darius pushed Rif’s shoulder, none too gently. "Don't they give us bl-bl-blankets?” Big Darius’s voice, was a high-pitched mockery of Rif’s. “Shut yer yap, yah wraithin' Tulkarian."

  “Leave him alone.” Kazor stepped between Rif and Big Darius.

  Kazor was as tall as Big Darius, but not nearly as bulky.

  Big Darius shoved Kazor backwards a step. “You a Tulkarian-lover? Got yourself a new boyfriend?”

  Kazor shoved back. Ugly, Handsome, Fish-face, and Blabber-Mouth Darius gathered around like flies to droppings. They chanted, “Fight! Fight! Fight!”

  Rory’s voice called through the ceiling: “I don’t wanna be hearin’ a peep. You make me come down there, and ye’ll be regretting it something fierce.”

  Big Darius ran a finger across his throat, and pointed at Kazor, then went off to his corner.

  “You stand there and do nothing?” Kolram asked.

  Wayden's stomach tightened. “What is it you want me to do? You might be some great Grandmaster, but I can't cast a spell, or they'll throw me in prison. I’m no one, alright?”

  "You waver back and forth from believing you can defeat the Sky Raiders single-handedly and thinking you're nothing at all,” Kolram said, “The truth lies in between. Everyone’s lives are important, and we all play a role. Whether yours will be for more good or ill, remains in your hands.”

  Rif approached Kazor, his eyes glistening. "Th-th-thank you, Kazor. That was very br-br-brave.”

  "Don't think anything of it," Kazor said. He looked pointedly at Wayden. "Any decent person would have done the same."

  Wayden flushed. He’d done it again. Just like when he’d stood by while Quiet Darius was beaten up by Big Darius. Kazor had been furious at Wayden when he’d heard about it. "How could you have done nothing to help him?"

  Kazor, Little, and Quiet Darius had stopped speaking to Wayden after that. They were right. He should have tried. And now he’d repeated his failure.

  "I'm no hero. I’m a coward," Wayden thought.

  "If you want to be a hero, be one,” Kolram said, “There is no secret to it."

  A draft seeped through the wooden floorboards. Without blankets, the orphans squished together for heat. They teased each other about it, but all ended up huddling. For Wayden, this meant sometimes he would unintentionally set off Kolram's Glimpser powers. Wayden relived whatever memory the Glimpse happened to pick up on- usually not the pleasant ones.

  Wayden as a rule guarded against touching- but the connection he felt with Rif made him curious. If he touched Rif, would the Tulkarian wake, and wonder what Wayden was up to? Wayden decided to chance it. His fingers touched the Tulkarian's wrist. He let his mind swirl with Rif's, entering deep into Rif’s being, until he felt he was the Tulkarian.

  Rif and his mother walked through a row of shops in the Mercy, bearing wicker baskets overflowing with wet laundry. The light from the yellow and orange moons intermingled, and reflected off the wet cobblestones.

  Rif’s mother hummed a Tulkarian tune, a haunting melody. Freckles dotted her high cheekbones. It was a busy day, and they had not gotten around to laundry until after dinner. Rif did not want to bother, but his mother couldn’t abide wearing dirty clothes. “Just because we haven’t much coin, doesn’t mean we have to dress in our own filth."

  They passed the Purple Dragon's Inn. The scent of tobacco and whiskey filled the alleyway. Cracked glass sprawled across the window like the strands of a spider's web. Through the broken window, Rif could hear a bard tuning his drum harp. He picked a few notes and then struck the opening chords to The Dragon and the Princess.

  Rif’s mother shook her head. “I have gotten used to their food, but I’ll never get used to what the Helesians call music. It sounds like a cat being gutted.”

  The crowd in the pub shouted, "Hey!" at the end of every fourth line.

  A large, smelly drunk staggered out of the bar, the reek of alcohol strong on him. He flicked a matted tangle of dirty blond hair away from his bloodshot eyes. His stained robe dragged along the ground as he stumbled towards Rif and his mother.

  The knight he came to save the lass

  and shoved his lance up the dragon's...

  “Hey!” the crowd in the tavern shouted, as the man stepped onto the street.

  Rif and his mother turned left at a junction, and the song faded. Rif glanced behind him. The drunk followed, leering with bloodshot eyes. Rif clenched the laundry basket, his knuckles whitening.

  "Hey! Come here, you Tulkarian whore!" the man shouted. "Come here. I've got something for you."

  Rif’s mother whispered, "Walk faster."

  They turned again, and the drunk charged forward a jagged knife in hand. As Rif screamed, the man grabbed Rif's mother and put the knife against her neck. "Lock thy lips boy, or I'll slit her open."

  The laundry spilled into a puddle on the muddy cobblestone. Their linens turned from white to a scummy brown.

  “Help me, Arth.” Rif thought.

  His skull itched and his head throbbed, the telltale signs that the Grandmaster was about to communicate. A deep voice sounded from inside Rif’s mind, “Kill him first. Suck his soul out.”

  "I can't. I've never killed anyone," Rif thought.

  “Come on, darling,” the drunk said. “Into the alley. We’ll have some fun, me and you."

  Rif's mother tried to pull loose, but the drunk held her firm.

  “Go Rif,” his mother said. “Run. I’ll be fine.” The terror in her eyes betrayed her lie.

  "You have to cast the spell,” Arth said, “He'll kill her if you don't. Don't kill him if you're afraid to, you can use the spell to render him weak, then return his spirit."

  Soul-stealing magic could go out of control if Rif wasn't careful. Anger and fear made it temperamental. He might end up killing his own mother by mistake, but there was no other option.

  Rif dropped his basket, tapped his fingers upon his temples, and chanted, "Beast-like man with your steel tooth, let your soul and core come loose."

  The drunk froze in mid-step, dropping the knife and gripping at his own throat as if he were choking. A white mist arose from his pale, blue lips and clung there. His eyes bulged and he gagged. A body needed its soul, as much as it needed oxygen. The man slumped to the ground.

  "Finish him," Arth said.

  “I can't,” Rif thought.

  "You're weak."

  "Leave him alone, Arth,” A woman spoke in Rif’s mind. “Knock him out, but don't kill him, Rif."

  Rif let the soul slide back into the unconscious man, glancing around. Had anyone seen him using magic? The street was empty. He and his mother hurried home, tears running down their cheeks.

  The Glimpse began to fade, but Wayden didn't let go of it. He was fascinated- another soul host. He wanted to learn more, though it could be dangerous to Glimpse too deeply into someone’s mind. He chanced it.

  The scene of the memory switched, like a dream moving to a new location.

  It was an autumn afternoon. Rif gathered firewood by a pine grove, uphill from his cottage. Fallen pine needles crunched beneath his worn leather shoes. A girl with plaited red hair was gathering wood as well. She smiled at him, an innocent smile.

  Everything went dark. He opened his eyes. He was in a different part of the woods and the sky had turned gray.

  Rif must have had one of his blackouts. They'd happen sometimes, especially when he saw a pretty red-haired girl. He wondered if there was something wrong with him, but they were too poor to hire a healer. It had been a long blackout, for it was at least a notch of the sundial later.

  He finished gathering the wood and headed home. He was nea
rly back when the clouds burst, a downpour of water soaking him. He rushed into their hovel, where his mother already had a cauldron boiling on the hearth.

  “You're wet as a water weasel!" His mother opened a chest, and fetched him a dry robe. "What took you so long? I was so worried."

  He stripped off his damp robe. The rain hammered against the roof and a flash of lightning illuminated their hide-covered windows.

  “I bl-bl-blacked out again."

  They sat on the floor with their bowls of soup.

  “Perhaps we need leeches for you?”

  "I'm f-f-fine," Rif said.

  A loud knock sounded on their pine door. "Open up, in the name of the Dracon, ruler of Helos, the Red Land of Fire and Light."

  Terror gripped Rif. They know I used magic.

  His mother opened the door and a cold wind made the hearth-fire dance. She spoke the common tongue with a strong accent, “What you want?”

  A sallow-faced officer was illuminated by a flash of lightning. He was garbed in a red surcoat, which marked him as a high-ranking Flame. Behind him, followed half a dozen soldiers, marked as ordinary Flickers by their orange capes.

  One of the Flickers held a magic eater on a leash. The creature was slug-like, about the size of a fox. Rif felt his Source energy drain from his body.

  "They're dampening my power. They know I used magic." A hot lick of terror shot up his spine. “They’re going to arrest me.”

  Their attacker from the other night stood behind the soldiers. He was no longer drunk, but clean shaven and dressed in a fresh robe. He pointed a wet finger at Rif and his mother. “That’s them! They used magic on me for no good reason. I were just being friendly.”

  The Flame adjusted his helm. “Alright. Get lost, slime.”

  "What about me reward? I reported unauthorized magic, I did."

  The Flame raised his cudgel threateningly, "Here's your reward. Now get lost, or I'll give it to you."

  The drunk scurried off.

  The Flame grabbed Rif's mother's arm and pulled her out into the rain. "Tulkarian, you stand accused of practicing unauthorized magic. By authority of the Dracon, you are under arrest."

  "No!” Rif rushed out into the rain and towards the Flame. “Pl-pl-please. It wasn't her. It was me."

  “No, son,” Rif’s mother said. “Don’t lie to protect me. Of course it was me.”

  “N-n-no. She’s lying to protect me!”

  The Flame laughed. "You a mage, boy? You think because we're soldiers we don't know it takes decades to learn magic?"

  “It was nice of you to try to protect your mother,” A dark-haired Flicker whispered.

  "You should arrest that m-m-man not either of us. He was going to kill us," Rif pleaded. “He took a knife to my mother!”

  The Flame waved his gauntleted hand. "Your mother will receive a full and fair trial at the Court of Flames. You two, take the boy to the Home for the Unadoptables. No one will adopt a Tulkarian." The Flicker turned to the other two Flickers. "You two take the woman to the Red Palace."

  Flickers tied ropes around Rif's and his mother's wrists.

  A bald Flicker asked, “What if the boy is a wizard?”

  “A child wizard? Even if he was, it wouldn’t matter,” the Flame said. “No one can cast a spell with their hands bound.”

  The Flicker shrugged. “I don’t fancy being turned into a toad.”

  "Why not? It'd only improve you."

  Hoof beats thundered from around the corner. A female Flicker with damp blonde hair rode up on horseback. She rode up so fast that for a moment Rif feared she would trample them, but the horse came abruptly to a stop. “The Striker struck again ,Sir… a red-haired girl...no marks upon her body. Down by the pine grove.”

  The pine grove, Rif thought with dismay. Was it the girl I saw? She smiled at me. She seemed so nice and pretty.

  "Wraithin' hell. Take me to the corpse. The rest of you carry out your orders. Move," the Flame ordered.

  Rif was forced into the back of the wagon. The dark-haired Flicker manacled himself to Rif. The rain stopped, but Rif was wet and shivering.

  Rif’s mother was thrown in the back of a different wagon. Tears welled in Rif's eyes.

  “Mother,” he croaked.

  "Be brave, Sweet Possum," Rif's mother called to him as her wagon pulled away from his. “Be strong.”

  The Glimpse passed, and Wayden opened his eyes. "Poor Rif. He's been through as much as me, in his own way."

  “Interesting!" Kolram said. "Rif hosts Grandmaster Arth. Arth practiced soul-stealing, the same magic the man with the mole nose was using in that alley."

  "There’s someone like me! Except…” Then Wayden’s stomach churned.

  “Except, is he a murderer?” Kolram finished Wayden’s thought.

  “Rif blacked out and a corpse turned up with no marks upon it. Soul-stealing wouldn’t leave marks, would it?"

  “Correct, but does Rif seem the murdering type to you? He didn't even want to kill the drunk who attacked them.”

  "Hmmm…true…” Wayden chewed his lip. “There was a woman inside Rif as well. I wonder who that was. Could that have been one of his murder victims?"

  "We mustn't jump to conclusions."

  Wayden thought for a moment. "Perhaps Rif wasn't doing it intentionally. He has Arth inside him. Could he have taken over Rif, when he blacked out? Could Arth be the Striker?"

  “Let’s not jump to conclusions. Rif or Arth, either one had the opportunity to murder you on the dark stairwell, but chose not to."

  Wayden couldn’t sleep. It was hard when the person next to you might be a host to a murderer.