Soul Hosts

by Joseph Isaacs

  Chapter 12

  The Beacon

 

  That's what patience is. Waiting past the point of tiredness. –Jijari

  --

  Jazlyn's footsteps echoed off the basalt walls of the Red Palace, as she moved briskly through the corridor. “My mother might be alive. She might be alive.”

  “Or she might not be,” Asgaroth reminded her.

  Her bodyguard escorted her, a towering Ozac. His name was Org, but Mouse had nicknamed him the Gray Shadow because he walked silently. At seven feet tall, Org had to duck beneath the oil lamps dangling from copper chains.

  There were times when Jazlyn missed her old nanny as a companion. True, she’d fussed at her for skipping and twirling. She’d considered anything fun unladylike ever since Jazlyn had committed the grievous sin of turning thirteen. But at least she talked. Org was as silent as the stone walls of the volcanic fortress.

  Jazlyn passed the jewelry shop, without a second look, which caused Org to raise a surprised eyebrow.

  Jazlyn changed her opinion about Org. He was way too communicative. She turned towards the gray giant and barked, "Silence!"

  Org lowered his eyebrow.

  "Thank you!" Jazlyn said, straightening her dress and throwing her chin up imperiously before continuing at her brisk pace.

  “There are more important things to life then shopping and jewelry, you know. And don’t you dare raise that eyebrow again!”

  Jazlyn had no time for frivolities. She was making a beeline for the archives. She was going to find out what happened to her mother, even if it killed her. Which it might. If the Dracon murdered the Grandmasters and his first wife, he probably wouldn’t hesitate to add daughter-slaying to his list of sins. Especially seeing as he treated the daughter-in-question like an anathema.

  They passed one of the few windows in the Red Palace. It had been dug into the exterior wall by Doblin, the Digger Mage, before he’d tragically come down with the plague. Jazlyn had been talking to Doblin the day before he’d been confined to the Plague room and the mage had looked positively healthy. It had shocked Jazlyn, to hear the next day he’d been placed under quarantine with no allowance for visitors. He’d been like an uncle to her too. Sad. How quickly one's health could transform. The fragility of life.

  Through the mullioned glass, Jazlyn could see the Devil’s Valley below. A stream of molten lava crept down the mountainous sides of the Red Palace, oozing into boiling calderas. Where the fiery fingers of magma touched the water, a sheen of vapor rose like a veil to hide the bubbling blue-green waters of Cook’s Lake. Jazlyn watched a spout of steam rocket upwards from the mist.

  The corridors circled deeper into the heart of the castle. No windows lit the way here, but Glower-Stones lit the corridors. Several of the Glower Magi had also been confined to the Plague room. It seemed the magi were the only ones catching the plague. Perhaps they were more susceptible for some reason.

  She passed the guarded entrance to the Court of Flames, where Volkanus the Fourteenth slumbered. The dragon's deep snores echoed off the walls. Up ahead, she saw the book-shaped door to the archives.

  Though she sought the archives, the information she needed wasn't held in the leather bound tomes. It rested inside the wrinkled skull of Gol, librarian and Jazlyn’s mother’s close friend. It was Jazlyn's hope that Gol could shed light on her mother’s whereabouts.

  A heavy-set Flicker, standing guard over the archives, fell to one knee. "May the Flame light your way, Daughter Draconi."

  Jazlyn ordered Org. "Wait here."

  The door to the archives was designed like a giant book cover. Jazlyn put her fingers at the edge of the cover, and flipped it open. Instead of a squeak, the door emitted the fluttering sound of turned pages.

  The crowded stone chamber was filled with rolled scrolls, hand-written manuscripts, yellowed parchments, chalky clay tablets, and tomes bound with sinew. Several acolytes, in their brownish-red robes, were copying scrolls under the guidance of gray-haired Fire-Whisperer, Ko, from the Temple of the Sun. Jazlyn had never liked Ko: he was one of the Purists who preached Verica should be put to death, and non-humans like Org and Ec should be exiled.

  Gol emerged from a side door. Her silver hair was pulled back into a bun. Beneath the twinkle of her spectacled green eyes lay a sea of sadness. "Daughter Draconi! What a pleasant surprise. You’ve grown so much. You look more like your mother every day."

  "It is she I wish to speak to you about, Mistress Gol. Is there a place we could speak privately?”

  Gol led Jazlyn back through her office door, the book cover closing behind her. The archivist’s alcove held a cluttered writing desk, a lava hearth, and a small round table. They sat on stools with ashen legs shaped like dragon tails. The librarian poured tea and offered Jazlyn a porcelain cup bearing enameled flames.

  Jazlyn couldn't stop thinking her mother might have been sitting in a prison all these years. She’d cried herself to sleep many a night, wishing her mother was alive. Now she’d found out that perhaps she was.

  "Or she might not be,” Asgaroth said. “Your father might have had her killed."

  "I won't accept that."

  "Then you're weak."

  Jazlyn's hands trembled and the tea sloshed onto her gown, turning the fabric a darker shade of red.

  Gol dried Jazlyn with a rag. “Oh, your poor dress. What ails, my princess? You shake like a leaf in the wind.”

  Jazlyn kept her voice soft, fearing Ko might try to eavesdrop. “Do you know what happened to my mother after my birth?"

  Gol draped the damp rag on an edge of the red-glowing hearth. "Your Highness knows very well your mother died during your birth."

  "Did you see my mother's body?"

  "Of course. We all did." Gol took Jazlyn's hand in her own and squeezed. "There was a funeral. Her wrapped remains were burned in the caldera in the Court of Flames itself."

  Jazlyn clenched her cup so tight she was surprised it didn’t shatter in her grip. "Wrapped remains. So, you do not know it was her?"

  Gol blew a breath across the surface of her tea. Steam rose from it like the surface of Cook’s Lake. "Who else could it have been?"

  "Why anyone, if it was wrapped. Let's assume for a moment that my mother wasn't killed. Where would they have locked her away? So she would tell no tales?"

  Gol's face paled. "This thing you suggest is horrendous. I'll hear no more of it."

  "Do you put it past my father to do such? Swear it on your soul."

  Gol's eye lids closed and she let out a sigh. "No. I do not. I cannot.”

  "Then help me, for the Love of Darius,” Jazlyn pleaded. “For the love you had for my mother, help right this wrong."

  Gol sat her tea down again without taking a sip. She cracked open the door of her alcove and peeked out. Closing the door, she kept her voice soft, “There is a man who might be of help. An Ember…or maybe he’s a Flame now if he’s been promoted. Haldur. He's the officer in charge of records. He can help you for a coin. But this is not a path I can recommend to you. Give up this foolish inquiry. It will only lead to trouble. Of course, I know good advice will fall on deaf ears."

  "Thank you, Mistress." Jazlyn squeezed Gol’s bony arm.

  “Before you go, there is something you should have.” Gol opened a drawer and withdrew a necklace. Dazzling light splintered off a sapphire that hung from its golden thread. All the light of the world seemed to dance in the stone’s heart.

  "This necklace belonged to your mother. I admired it and she gave it to me as a gift. I’ve been meaning to give it to you.” Gol placed it around Jazlyn's neck. "I'm dreadfully afraid for you. Do be careful. Delicate things can be so easily broken."

 

  --

  Wayden tried to pull away from the Viper-tattoo's grip, but the ruffian held too tightly. Luckily, he was holding onto Wayden’s robed arm, so the Glimpse wasn’t triggered. His breath stunk of an odio
us concoction of fish, liver, tobacco, and Fire-brandy. His cracked lips were flecked with saliva.

  Gior approached Wayden. The mole really was amazingly large. Wayden wondered how Gior could blow his nose with that monstrosity. And so much hair grew from it, would Gior have to comb the beast?

  “You really know how to focus on the least important things, don’t you?” Kolram said.

  “Distracting myself from the horrific and potentially deadly situations in which I find myself has become something of an art form for me.”

  Gior’s breath was fresh at least. If anything it smelled too good, like he’d gargled perfume.

  "Who you spying for?” Gior asked. “And don't tell me you were just sun bathing behind the barrels."

  "I want to know what happened to Big D,” Wayden demanded, trying to sound braver than he felt.

  "Do you, now? You think you are in a position to demand information from me? Tell me, why shouldn't I slit your throat?"

  It was a fair question, if not a kind one, and Wayden's mind raced for an answer. The blood might stain his robes? It would be a lot of trouble to dispose of his body? Then in a flash, Wayden knew what to say. "Because Dracon and Dakarth kicked you out of their school of soul-stealing. You want revenge on them. I know what they are up to."

  "How did you know that?” Gior asked.

  “Arth told me,” Wayden replied.

  "Arth is dead."

  "That doesn't stop people as much as it used to."

  Gior narrowed his eyes. A rat scurried across the alley. “Are you a Death-Speech?”

  "Fair trade. Information for information."

  Gior laughed, looking up at Viper-tattoo. "I like this boy.”

  A rat scurried from the alley, seeking refuge behind one of the casks. Hammering from a nearby cooper’s shop resonated against the brick walls.

  “Swear on the Source, you’ll let me go and that you’ll tell the truth,” Wayden demanded.

  “You ask a lot. First, prove to me you know something of value.”

  "Dakarth and the Dracon are going to try the Soul-stealing magic again on the next Three Moons’ Night. That's why they're arresting mages. Now swear."

  “Interesting.” Gior stood in silence for a moment, and then sighed. “Fine, I swear, may the Gods above strike me down if I lie, that if you tell me valuable information, I’ll let you go and what I tell you will be true, may the wraiths steal my soul if I lie. You need to swear it as well.”

  “I too will tell the truth, may the Source strike me down if I lie. Are you responsible for Big D’s death?"

  "No. How are Dakarth and the Dracon going to do this?” Gior asked. “They failed last time.”

  “Another Three Moons’ Night is coming. I believe they’ve been gathering more information and feel they can achieve their goal this time. Is Arth a murderer?”

  “No.”

  “How can you be sure?”

  “Arth was squeamish,” Gior said. “He didn't like killing unless necessary. How could you talk to Arth?"

  "Arth’s soul after being sucked found a host. What did you have Big D delivering?"

  "Information to a Sky Raider lady who is paying me handsomely for it,” Gior said. “Who is Arth's host?"

  "I won't tell you that. You might hurt him."

  "Then you lose." Gior pressed the tip of his blade against Wayden's jugular.

  "Wait, I can tell you something else instead. Something you’ll find important."

  “I’m listening.”

  Wayden tried to think of what else he knew that could interest Gior without endangering himself or Rif. He knew something about Verica, but then what if Gior or his thugs did something to her? She wasn’t much more protected than Wayden was. Jazlyn however- Jazlyn had that entourage of guards. "Jazlyn hosts Asgaroth."

  "The Daughter Draconi?" Gior whistled. "Glad I didn't kill you. That's a valuable tidbit."

  Valuable to whom? He said he was giving information to a Sky Raider woman. Why would the Sky Raiders care though? Wayden felt like mice were building a nest in his spine.

  "Alright, boy, get lost," Gior said. As soon as Viper-tattoo released Wayden, he raced out of the alley. As soon as he was back behind the gate, he realized Gior had gotten more from the exchange than he had. He’d felt so clever at the time, now his stomach churned. Had he placed Jazlyn in danger? What had he done?

  --

  Mavik trudged towards the sled, arms stiff as the firewood he carried. The sled was already heavy with its load and its runners sank into the snow.

  He wished Emerelda was here to talk with, and not back at the slave camp.

  “You think too much on sin,” Jijari thought. “You will drown in it.”

  “This whole place is drowning in sin and none of it has anything to do with Emerelda and me. Anyway, I doubt she likes me. How could she? I’m a mess.”

  Tangled hair, stick-thin from lack of food, and badly in need for a bath, he hardly looked like a dashing Dragon Knight.

  A shadow fell on him. Looking up, he saw Desha’s black skywolf spiraling downwards, wings extended. The wolf and rider landed in front of him.

  Melting snowflakes glistened on black feathered wings and furred body, but the black was mottled with gray these days, and the wolf looked more its age with each passing year, as did its rider. Desha’s long purple ponytail was half silver. However, his eyes were unchanged, as cruel as the day he’d shot Mavik's mother. Desha's dried-finger necklace jiggled as the wolf stretched. Mavik thought he could figure out which finger belonged to which slave, but that was a puzzle best left unsolved.

  Desha, with a pat on the saddle, motioned for Mavik to climb upon the skywolf. "The Lord Skymaster wants a word."

  Mavik knew better than to argue. He clambered onto the front part of the saddle. Desha tightened leather straps around Mavik’s legs and tied his wrists behind his back. The wolf launched itself into the air, shot like an arrow from a bow, flying in an arc up the steep incline of Mount Odesis.

  Mavik’s stomach churned. He'd never enjoyed riding on a skywolf, though to be fair he’d never ridden one as a free man. The air grew thinner, as they ascended, and ragged clouds of cold escaped Mavik’s lips.

  The slave camp shrank, patched tents no more than tiny squares of tan from the dizzying altitude. They flew over the first rampart towards the Nest, the circular fortress which ringed Mount Odesis. One of the iron sky gates on the side of the Nest swung open and a blond Sky Raider flew past them on a terracotta wolf.

  The tip of Beacon's fiery hands swayed in the wind as they approached, and flared up like a Glower mage's firework show. Desha's black skywolf glided to a landing near the fire. The flames licked the air. The warmth of it was a blessing the Skymaster didn't deserve.

  Desha leapt nimbly off the wolf and jerked Mavik down in front of Gar's gilded eagle throne. The snow soaked through the knees of Mavik’s leggings, but the bonfire was warm.

  The Skymaster's family perched on golden bird-shaped thrones. Gar sat imperiously in the center throne. The gilded chair was carved into the likeness of an eagle, though a vulture would have been more apt.

  Gar's leather clad arms rested on gilded wings. Snowfall dotted his shaven head. Around his tree trunk of a neck, he wore a pearl necklace and upon his wrist a golden armband set with the emblem of a leaf on it. Why a leaf, Mavik wondered. Gar was hardly a follower of Bantos’s Way of the Trees. The reflection of the bonfire danced upon Gar’s jewelry.

  "I suspect those items he wears are magical,” Jijari said, “perhaps even God-weapons."

  A scar ran across Gar's face from his jaw to his missing eye. It looked like a wound that ought to have killed a normal man, but Mavik had heard Gar had escaped death a dozen times.

  The Skymaster drew from his cloak a whet stone, upon which he began to sharpen his dagger. The blue blade seemed to glisten like an icicle. Mavik felt as if the bonfire were his unspoken voice, as if its angry flames were his own righteous wrath. Here
he sat before him, the man who had destroyed Mavik’s family.

  The owl throne belonged to Gar's newest Sky Wife, Yveka, daughter of the Wolf. Yveka drew one of the many blades she wore in her knife belt and began to work on a wooden statuette. Her face was almost as jagged as the wood she whittled, all sharp angles and planes. As she moved, her blue hair swung, unveiling an ugly purple bruise beneath her left eye. The expression 'as cursed as a Sky Wife' had sprung up because misfortune always befell Gar’s brides. Some were exiled, a few were confined to the slave camp, but most were sent flying off the mountain without a wolf.

  "Maybe I could leap at Gar,” Mavik thought, “Knock him into the fire."

  "You would give up your life," Jijari said.

  "Might be worth it."

  "Your life is not yours to give away, Child. The Source has plans for you. Patience."

  "I'm tired of patience."

  "That's what patience is. Waiting past the point of tiredness."

  The hawk throne belonged to Alaina Skydaughter, a half-Mantu. Her face was a light shade of jade and her eyes a dazzling gold. She was garbed in thick black moleskin over a leather jerkin. Her red hair, streaked with green, was pulled back in a sleek ponytail.

  Mavik felt the invisible web strung between himself and Alaina. It was the same Connection Spell that bound him to Wayden and Emerelda.

  "Does she bear a Grandmaster inside of her?” Mavik wondered. “Zaburn? Arth? Nadra? What irony, a Grandmaster ending up in the Skydaughter."

  "Three of us Grandmasters ended up here,” Jijari said, “Could it be coincidence? Or are they collecting us?"

  Alaina must have felt the Connection Spell as well, because she stared at Mavik with a wrinkled brow and pursed lips. He wished he’d an opportunity to speak with her alone, but that wasn't likely to happen.

  A blank canvas set upon an easel swayed against its tethers, as the force of the mountain top wind lashed at it. Oil paints, which wouldn't work with Splasher magic, lay ready for Mavik's use. Mavik smiled inwardly at Gar's misperception. The man might have been a powerful Beast Tongue, but he didn't know the first thing about water prophecies. For one thing, they needed water! The most basic of liquids bound all living things and channeled the Source. It would prove unwise to correct Gar's misunderstanding and perhaps he could find some way to turn it to his own advantage.

  "Paint me a prophecy, boy," Gar said. "I want to know my future."

  "Why don't you get Laeko to make you another prophecy? Oh, I remember, now,” Yveka said, her words spoken in mocking forgetfulness. “You hated her last one. Why do you think this boy's prophecy will be any better? The future is the future."

  Mavik wondered who Laeko was and what Gar had done with her after not liking her prophecy. He’d a suspicion it hadn't been pleasant. He had to think of what to paint, but his mind was as blank as the canvas before him.

  Gar glared at her. "Lock your lips, woman. Did I ask you to speak?"

  Alaina climbed off her throne and stepped towards Mavik, squinting at him with golden eyes. She asked, "Do you feel something strange about this boy? Like a pull in your chest?" The wind blew her green and red hair over her golden eyes.

  "I feel nothing. Go and see the Shaman if you are ill."

  “I’m fine.”

  “I said ‘go!’" Gar turned to Yveka and said, "Cursed girl grows more like you every day. Maybe I should blacken her eyes as well.”

  "Maybe you should open your own," Yveka shot back.

  Mavik sensed Gar secretly like her feistiness, for a smile played on his snaky lips.

  Alaina stood up, her jaw quivering, and headed towards a stone rampart. She dug her fingers into a groove in the stone and a hidden door slid open with a grinding sound. Mavik had never actually seen one of the Weaver's hidden doors open. He stared at it, hoping to see some sort of a hint, so as to be able to find others of the Weaver's doors.

  The Nest used to be the Weaver's fortresses. She’d dug tunnels inside of the mountain itself. Some claimed if you could find it, there was a secret underground world. If the tunnels existed, no slave ever found them, and not for lack of looking. Alaina gave Mavik one last curious glance, before disappearing into the door. It closed behind her and left no trace of being anything other than solid rock.

  Gar examined the edge of his knife. "Is that painting done yet? I brought you up here to paint, not gawk. Hurry up, unless you want to go flying without a wolf."

  Mavik stared down the steep, icy cliff, at the slave camp below, realizing just how far there was to fall.