by Davis Ashura
Ms. Sioned nodded. “I’m glad the two of you are spending so much time together.”
Serena maintained a nonchalant air even as suspicion swept over her. While Ms. Sioned’s words indicated approval, her posture and visage spoke differently. They told of something negative, but Serena wasn’t entirely sure what. She decided to take a direct approach to find out. “Does it bother you that William and I spend so much time together? I know you advised against it before we saved Fiona and Travail, but what about now?”
Ms. Sioned ceased her tilling and muttered something unintelligible before bracing the hoe’s blade on the dark soil. She rested her hands upon the tool’s knobby handle and smiled wanly. “There is no hiding my emotions from you, is there, dear?”
Serena dipped her head in silent acknowledgement, and her wariness rose further. Whatever Ms. Sioned wanted to say, Serena realized she wouldn’t like it. Maybe that was why the other woman had remained so unaccountably quiet and unhappy throughout the afternoon.
“I have worries about you and William,” Ms. Sioned began. She hesitated. Her lips twisted, and she conveyed the impression of searching for the right words.
Serena remained quiet while waiting for Ms. Sioned to explain herself.
When the old raha’asra finally spoke, she surprised Serena with a question. “What do you know about this Lord Shet?”
Serena frowned, unsure as to the purpose of Ms. Sioned’s query. “He is the god of the mahavans. Their rightful lord. The Servitor rules Sinskrill in Shet’s name.”
“And Shet will one day return to claim what is his?”
After silently reflecting upon the question Serena held back a scowl. She now had a sense of the nature of Ms. Sioned’s inquiry. The old woman wanted to know if Serena truly believed in something few others did, something others called a fable or the fear-induced belief in a being who didn’t exist. Most thought Shet a myth, but Serena knew different. She knew the truth. She’d seen Shet, imprisoned on a high mountain on the equally mythic but nonetheless real world of Seminal. Smoky, black chains had bound the god, but even chained his power had dwarfed anything she could have imagined.
“I’ve already explained my beliefs to the Village Council,” Serena said, careful to keep her voice even and unruffled.
“I’ve heard this,” Ms. Sioned replied. “Does William share your beliefs?”
Serena nodded, and confusion added to her irritation. “Of course.”
Ms. Sioned bent her gaze and stared at the ground. “Of course,” she repeated softly, seeming to have a silent conversation with herself before shaking her head and lifting her gaze.
“What is it?” Serena asked with a frown, already tired of this guessing game. “What do you really want to say?”
Ms. Sioned sighed. “I know you wish to pursue a more personal relationship with William but is that really what’s best if you have to prepare for the return of an evil god?”
Serena’s face went drone-blank while fury coursed through her. She now understood the real reason for Ms. Sioned’s questions. “You still think I’ll hurt William?”
Ms. Sioned startled, and some of Serena’s rage faltered. “Of course not,” the old raha’asra said, sounding scandalized.
Serena’s fury ebbed further.
“I worry for you,” Ms. Sioned said. “Not him.”
“Me?” Surprise eroded the last of Serena’s anger.
Ms. Sioned chuckled. “I think in the coming months you’ll be pushed to your limits. You’ll have to work every bit as hard as William, maybe harder, and as new as you are to emotional truth, to allowing yourself to acknowledge and accept your feelings, I worry about what that might mean for you.” She wavered. “You might lose focus, something I don’t think you can afford.”
Serena didn’t reply at once. Instead, she gazed past Ms. Sioned, toward the ocean where the first edge of the sun touched the horizon, and pondered the other woman’s words. Could it be true? Could I lose myself to passions? Become sappy and silly?
After a little more thought, Serena realized the answer might be ‘yes,’ which was something she couldn’t allow. She eyed Ms. Sioned and noticed an anticipatory cast to the other woman’s visage.
Upon seeing it, suspicion rose once more to the forefront of Serena’s mind. Or maybe this was all something Ms. Sioned had planned because she’ll never trust me to not hurt her precious William. Serena’s face hardened.
Upon seeing it Ms. Sioned’s features became sad. “This truly isn’t about William,” she said. “This is about you. Many of us understand how much you were willing to sacrifice in order to save Fiona and Travail. You’ve earned your place here and the respect of your neighbors and fellow magi.” Ms. Sioned leaned forward, bringing greater emphasis to her words. “You are a woman of worth and a woman worth loving. Never doubt that I know it.”
Serena blinked at Ms. Sioned’s passion, and the last of her suspicions drained away. “What do you counsel?” she asked after a moment.
“Work hard, dedicate your life to what must be done. At least, until it is done. Let nothing distract you, or you will surely fail.”
Serena forced herself examine Ms. Sioned’s advice even though the heart of her fought against it like a hooked fish. When do I get to choose happiness over labor? However, a part of her—a large part—was secretly relieved. She wouldn’t have to risk her heart, leave it exposed to hurt. In the end, Ms. Sioned’s advice gave her the excuse to hide away from the dangers of love, and she knew it.
A glorious sunrise bathed Fiona Applefield in its lambent warmth, and she threw her head back and laughed. For most of her life—the first nineteen in England and the last fifty-six in Sinskrill—the sun had been a longed-for but rarely-seen visitor. Now she saw it every day, along with a myriad other wonders she still struggled to believe possible. Carved terraces, fantastical cliffs, arching bridges and rainbows, and an ocean canvas painted in blue hues she never could have imagined.
Arylyn.
“You like it here,” Travail noted with a smile.
Fiona viewed the troll’s towering form. He paced slowly beside her, muscles rippling beneath short, black fur that covered the entirety of his being except for his coarsely featured face. There, a braided goatee softened his spade-like jaw, and white, iris-less eyes peered from beneath beetled brows. His attire consisted of a simple loincloth and a strip of leather to tie back his long, black braids.
“How can I not?” Fiona asked. “It’s beautiful in ways I never expected to experience.” She spoke the truth, but her words weren’t the entirety of how she perceived Arylyn. Those other opinions were ones she preferred not to voice. Or perhaps she simply didn’t want to acknowledge them. They seemed too much like a betrayal of everything Serena, William, and Jake had sacrificed to free her from Sinskrill.
She and Travail pressed on, bypassing a large puddle deposited by last night’s rain in a shallow hollow of Sita’s Song. The gray-stoned road put the misnamed Great Way of Sinskrill to shame. No grass or vegetation marred Sita’s Song, and it ran relatively smooth and unrutted from the enrune fields west of Clifftop, across Lakshman’s Bow—a cunningly crafted bridge with flagstones forming the yin and yang—and through Janaki Valley where she and Travail had decided to go hiking. From there, Sita’s Song transitioned into a simple gravel trail that ended at the foot of Mount Madhava.
“Arylyn is beautiful,” Travail agreed with a grave nod, “but I sense disquiet in your tone.”
Fiona cursed the troll’s perception. Somehow, he could always sense what she preferred not to say aloud.
Travail faced her. “Am I incorrect?”
Fiona took a moment to gather her thoughts. As she considered what words to speak, she gazed at Janaki Valley, at the green fields of barley and corn, at the whispering sheaves of wheat, and the rolling hills decorated with orchards and vineyards. Here, River Namaste gurgled sedately, still a few miles from the rush of waterfalls where it would cascade down Lilith’s cliffs. Fiona caug
ht sight of Sile Troy, the farmer to whom Serena was apprenticed, and waved to him. He dipped his head in acknowledgment before returning to his inspection of knee-high stalks of corn.
“You are delaying,” Travail chided.
He was right, but Fiona wouldn’t be rushed. She more tightly gripped the walking cane she didn’t really need but liked to have with her, a habit from Sinskrill where a stick served as protection. “I don’t dislike it, but it seems . . .” She struggled with her phrasing.
“Soft?”
Fiona flashed Travail an expression of gratitude. As he so often did, he’d managed to give voice to her thoughts in a more accurate fashion than she could. “Yes,” she agreed. “Soft. The people here have no notion of struggle or hard work. Everything comes easy, and they don’t know how comfortable their lives truly are.”
Travail grunted in response, neither agreeing nor disagreeing, and they continued in silence.
Minutes later, the quiet was broken when a pair of shoeless boys, wearing pants hacked off at the knees, sprinted past them. No doubt the two were headed for Lake Bindu, a place where one of the many streams feeding River Namaste opened into a sheltered cove. It was also a great site for swimming.
“A regular pair of Tom Sawyers, those two,” Fiona noted. She couldn’t hold back a smile as the rambling youths ran on, uncaring and happy. Their excited shouts could be heard even after they crested a hill and were lost to view.
Travail smiled as well.
They proceeded onward. A mile later, they passed a vineyard where workers harvested plump, purple grapes and tossed them into woven baskets.
“Hello, there,” a stout man in overalls called out. He wore a wide-brimmed hat. “Wonderful day to be out, isn’t it?”
“Yes, it is,” Fiona replied, with a gladness that surprised her.
She and Travail shared a few more words with the farmer before leaving the man to his work. They pressed forward on Sita’s Song, and a few minutes later the troll cleared his throat.
“What is it?” Fiona asked.
“You speak of these people with quiet contempt, and yet perhaps you misjudge them.”
Fiona frowned. “How do you mean?”
“When first I came here, they beheld me as an oddity, always staring and pointing. Now they accept me as a member of Arylyn. No one even notices me anymore.”
Fiona laughed. “Yes, they do. They’re just too polite to point and stare at you like they used to.”
“Perhaps,” Travail agreed with a warm chuckle, “but isn’t politeness another word for civility?”
Fiona shrugged. “I never liked your word games. Say more clearly what you mean.”
“Consider your situation and perhaps you’ll understand why I think you misjudge them when you consider them soft or self-centered.”
Fiona snorted. “I never liked your riddles, either.”
Travail came to halt. “How did you arrive here?”
Fiona took a moment to collect her thoughts. She recalled the terrible battle by the anchor line in Sinskrill, and the more terrible sight of Jake’s grievous wound. “I came here because a number of magi fought to save me from Sinskrill.”
“Then perhaps they’re not as selfish and self-satisfied as you think,” Travail noted. “Even now, many of them prepare and train for the final assault on Sinskrill. They’re willing to sacrifice themselves based upon the words of Serena and Selene, children of Sinskrill.”
“A fool’s mission,” Fiona said. “No one can defeat Shet.”
Travail shrugged. “Perhaps. But the attempt is worth the effort. Rather than hide amongst the peace and comfort of their wonderful lives, these people give. They don’t lack empathy.”
“I never said they lacked empathy,” Fiona protested.
“You implied it.”
“I . . .” Fiona closed her mouth when she realized Travail was correct. Her thoughts eventually settled on a nettlesome question “Do you think I’m trying to find fault with the people here?”
“I think your time in Sinskrill made you skeptical of the notions of peace, charity, and goodness. You long for it like a flower longing for the sun and yet are afraid to embrace it too completely because you fear the warmth will burn you up.”
Fiona frowned as she considered the terrible notion. Has my time on Sinskrill poisoned me to the possibility of happiness?
Jake Ridley had the front porch of Mr. Zeus’ house to himself as he stared at Lilith Bay. The sun had yet to fully set, but it was close, and a few, stray bands of orange light were all that remained of the day as inky blackness slowly curtained the rest of the sky. In the last hour, a trade wind had kicked up, and it brought much-needed relief from the day’s heat and humidity. The fall of night and the billowing breeze also brought out the bats, and they wheeled in the sky, twisting and twirling in weird patterns.
In some ways, their movements reminded Jake of a great running back juking a defender out of his shoes.
The thought had Jake scowling. If not for the damn mahavans and their damn island, he’d probably be out on a football field right now, playing for the Fighting Irish and trying to put down one of those very same running backs. Instead, he was stuck here. Frustration bubbled, and Jake took a heavy breath. As soon as he did, a surge of pain spasmed from a two-inch band on his chest, the place where Adam Paradiso, Serena’s uncle, had stabbed him. His breathing quickly became ragged.
The hurt caused his anger to fade, and Jake took a more careful inhalation. He paused, holding his breath when he met resistance, but after an instant he drew in more air, pushing past the pain. He couldn’t let the soreness slow him down forever. His chest twinged as he breathed more deeply, and the burning ache soon transitioned to one that was sharp. Jake didn’t let up. He went further, pressing for his limit. Seconds later he reached it and was forced to exhale slowly.
Damn Adam Paradiso. The man had stabbed Jake straight through the chest a few months back in Australia. It had occurred during the rescue of Travail and Fiona, toward the battle’s end, and Jake would have died if Jessira and Rukh hadn’t been there. They’d saved him, using a type of braid no one else knew about. They called it a Healing, and Jake had seen it used a few other times. It basically manifested like lightning, pouring out of Rukh or Jessira’s hands, which they sent into the other person.
It also hurt like hell. Every person Jake had seen who received a Healing went into spasms when the lightning entered them. It was like they were having a seizure. His own Healings hadn’t been any different, except for one. In his, a temporary connection to Rukh and Jessira had been made, a linkage that opened a part of their histories to him. Jake still had trouble believing it was true. Rukh and Jessira were from somewhere else, a world called Arisa, and in this other place, they had been all-but worshiped. Jake had seen the crowds bow to them.
Were the visions real?
Jake suspected they were, but neither Jessira nor Rukh liked talking about it. They always changed the subject whenever Jake asked.
His musings broke off when the front door opened and William Wilde, Jason Jacobs, and Mr. Zeus—the other three men with whom Jake shared the house—stepped outside.
“Hey,” Jake said.
Jason lifted his nose and pretended to sniff the air. “Any one smell smoke?” he asked, sounding worried. Although originally from Louisiana, Jason could have passed for a native born magus with his odd mix of blond, California-surfer good looks and dark skin. He used to smile more though, been more easy-going. The battle in Australia had changed him, made him more intense, private. It was good to see him happy.
Mr. Zeus—also known as Odysseus Louis Crane III—darted his head about in concern at Jason’s question and inhaled deeply. The old man’s face broke into an expression of confusion. “I don’t smell anything.”
Jason frowned severely. “You sure? I swear I smell smoke.”
Jake rolled his eyes, knowing where the comment was leading, and sure enough Jason didn’t let him down.
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“It’s coming from Jake,” Jason said. “Fumes are pouring off his head. I think he’s been thinking again.” Jason cocked his head. “I think I can even hear broken gears grinding in that noggin of his.”
Jake smirked. “At least I’ve got a brain. Whenever you try to think, all that empty space you’ve got trapped between your ears sucks in air like a vacuum. It sounds like a teakettle about to explode.”
William chuckled, and Jake shifted his gaze to the utterly unremarkable young man of average height and build who had become his best friend. It was strange how life worked. Hidden beneath William’s ordinariness was the nerd Jake had tormented for most of their lives. Then wild circumstances had thrown them together, and they’d bonded over their shared misery
“Ha, ha,” Jason said, not sounding amused.
Jake leaned against the porch railing, smug and happy that he’d won this round against Jason.
William kept chuckling, and Jason addressed him. “Don’t encourage him. You remember how cocky he was before all this?”
William’s brow furrowed. “Sure, but how does that have anything to do with what he just said to you?”
Mr. Zeus harrumphed around the stem of his pipe and aromatic, blue-gray smoke drifted about him. The old man bore an uncanny resemblance to Merlin or Gandalf or any wise, old wizard from myth. “I, for one, think Jake could use some of his old self-confidence back.” He stroked his long, lustrous, white beard. His incongruous blue eyes—strangely young where the rest of him was old—held grave concern. “After everything he’s been through, a little cockiness might be a good thing.”
Jake nodded agreement. Too much of his self-assurance had eroded away since he’d been kidnapped to Sinskrill. He sometimes—oftentimes—regarded himself as a shell of the person he’d once been. He was tired of it. Weak. Jumping at shadows like a scared, little rat. Having people shove swords into him. He was sick of being on the losing end of an ass-whooping.
While he didn’t necessarily want to go back to being the person William and Jason had loathed, he could use some of his old fire and arrogance. There were times he missed his old self.