by Frank Tuttle
“We’ll have a beer soon,” said Fromarch. He shot a look at Shingvere. “Think she knows yet?”
“Knows what?”
“She doesn’t know. He didn’t tell her. That rascal.”
Meralda frowned. “Who? Tell me what? What rascal?”
A trumpet blew. A knock sounded at the laboratory door. “They’re telling us we need to go,” said Kervis, through the door. “If you please, I mean, ma’am.”
Before Meralda could speak, Fromarch and Shingvere whirled and hurried out, chattering idly in tones that clearly conveyed their amusement with themselves.
Meralda glared at their backs and hurried to collect her things.
The trip to the park took nearly three hours.
Traffic was choked to a near standstill. Soldiers, some Eryan, some Phendelit, most Tirlish, lined every street and stood on every corner.
Every carriage, even Meralda’s, was stopped and inspected and then stopped and inspected again. The guards were polite and efficient and Meralda was sure nothing escaped their watchful eyes.
If the Vonats intend to start trouble today, she mused, they’ll need to be very clever indeed.
The Bellringers stared out their windows on either side of Meralda, their faces alert and wary. Meralda scanned the streets for Donchen, but if he was there, he was concealed.
The Tower loomed up finally, rising above every other rooftop. The park wall hove into view, its dancing gargoyles still clad in various scraps of Vonat underwear.
It’s nearly all over, thought Meralda. I should be happy.
She thought of watching the Hang five-master sail away, and her heart sank like lead in her chest.
He’ll be leaving soon. I’ve avoided facing that. But once the Accords are done, once the Hang go home, will I ever see him again?
I don’t even know his full name.
“Mistress,” said Mug, his voice tiny and distant over the din of traffic and the rumble of the carriage. “Mistress, I found Donchen. Thought you might be wondering where he is.”
Meralda lifted the speaking device to her lips.
“Thank you, Mug. Where is he?”
“He’s with the Hang. Just milling about, all dressed up in fancy robes of some kind. He doesn’t look happy. Also, he keeps looking about, watching for someone. Wonder who that could be?”
“Thank you, Mug.” Meralda put the device back into her bag.
She thought of the Hang ships leaving again, and pushed all thoughts of Donchen away until her carriage finally reached the park.
From the park down the walk to the stands took another full hour. Meralda spent most of that time resisting a growing urge to scratch at all the places the robes made her itch.
At last, though, she reached the stands, and was ushered to the lofty seats reserved for the king and his retinue.
She climbed past the Phendelit contingent, who nodded and waved. She passed through the glowering ranks of the Alons, who muttered and stared, although Red Mawb did at least nod to her in greeting. The Eryans were friendlier, with several calling out her name and doffing their hats to her as Meralda climbed past. The Vonats, who insisted on occupying seats higher than the Eryans, met Meralda with glares and exchanges of whispers.
Finally, she passed within a shout of Donchen. He waved to her, smiling, and she waved back before the press of the crowd behind her forced her to move on.
The Bellringers were seated at the bottommost rank of the king’s seats. Meralda continued on alone for another half-dozen rows, until she was seated a single rank below the king and queen themselves.
She looked out across the park and struggled to catch her breath.
Not a single patch of green grass showed anywhere. It was as if all five kingdoms of the Realms had somehow dispatched their entire citizenry to take up positions standing in the park.
Hats. A sea of hats. Half bore feathers, half showed flags. All shaded eager faces upturned toward the king.
The noise was deafening, as each of the spectators shouted above the others, until the whole of the park was filled with a growing, thunderous din.
Slowly, the stands filled, as the delegations from each of the Realms took their places. The Vonats stalked in last, their glowers and glares obvious.
Absent from their ranks was Humindorus Nam.
All the while, the shadow of the Tower swung slowly and inexorably over the stands. Mug read off the time at fifteen minute intervals, and Meralda felt her stomach tighten into knots as she realized her shadow moving spell, which was untested and hurried, would be seen by all the Realms in just a few moments.
The king began to leaf through the pages of his speech as the edge of the shadow fell across the podium.
“Mistress,” said Mug, his tone edged with fear. “Mistress. Oh no. mistress, Tower says someone is meddling with the tethers.”
Meralda’s heart froze as she fumbled for the speaking device.
“Tower. The old tethers or the new?”
Mug spoke in the background before answering. “The old ones, mistress. They’re doing the same thing you did. Trying to latch something to the flat.”
“From where? Inside?”
“Tower can’t tell. But no, not inside. From a distance, somehow.”
“Nam.”
“Probably. mistress. Tower says unless he’s stopped, you’ll need to attach your tethers in the next few minutes.”
Meralda stood. She saw the king eye her quizzically, saw a dozen guards tense and look her way.
“Nameless,” she whispered. “Faceless. To me.”
The staves fell into her hands. People about her gasped and stared.
“I’m off to move the shadow,” she shouted, with a smile. “Pray continue, Your Majesty.”
Yvin didn’t blink. “Tend to it, Mage,” he said. “Just as planned.”
Meralda nodded, and the staves lifted her up and whisked her away.
Wind howled in her ears. The robe of office flapped so hard it stung. The air grew cold and then damp and then dry again.
“I need to know where he is,” she said, to the staves. “Show me.”
Tirlin wheeled below her. Meralda extended her Sight, using secret spaces to enhance it, make it more subtle and sensitive than she’d ever dreamed possible.
The city shone below her, laced with magics, old and new. Most were simple household magics. Water was heated. Milk was cooled. Fires were kept from creeping out of hearths. Toys danced and moved.
Others were larger, more complex. Some filtered out the lifting gas for dirigibles. Some pumped water. Some kept lamp gas from leaking and burning.
But that one. That one, blazing a peculiar shade of green, sending tendrils of influence from a tiny basement room in east Tirlin toward the Tower. What was that?
Meralda flew toward the light, watching it solidify around the flat.
Saw it begin to bite into the tethers, one by one.
Meralda willed the staves down, and down they soared, hawk-quick, owl-silent. She saw a single face as she passed, mouth open in shock behind an apartment window, and then she was back on her feet, standing outside a weather-beaten door.
She extended a hint of power, and the door exploded, sending splinters flying in every direction.
Meralda stepped through the ruined doorframe.
Humindorus Nam glared back at her, his staff of bone glowing and hissing in his hands.
A mound of skulls sat atop a table before him. The skulls chanted, issuing dry whispers from between grinning, clacking jaws. Atop the heap of skulls a bright light played, and from that light led the strands of power that ravaged the tethers.
“Why?” asked Meralda. “What would drive you to do this, knowing the consequences?”
Nam spat. “They speak of peace,” he said. “Reconciliation. A joining with the Realms.” He shoved his staff of bone down deep into the light, where it smoked and screamed. “They would surrender. Surrender, to the likes of you.”
“We
’re not asking for surrender. We’re not at war.”
Nam’s staff howled in agony. Meralda smelled the sudden stench of burnt hair and watched as blisters rose up on the man’s arms from the heat pouring off the light.
“We’ll be at war in a moment,” said Nam. “Let your shade’s curseworks fall. Let them burn away the weakness that chokes the heart of Vonath. Let them make us strong again, so we might ride forth and strike you all down!”
The man’s arms turned black and began to sizzle, and he shoved them harder against the light and laughed.
Meralda raised Nameless and Faceless. “Don’t make me do this,” she said. “I don’t want to kill you.”
Nam coughed blood, gripped a muttering skull, and raised it toward Meralda.
“I, on the other hand, don’t mind killing you at all,” said Fromarch.
The old wizard raised the Infinite Latch and shouted a word.
Meralda found the hidden place that slowed time. Even slowed, she was barely able to enclose Fromarch and herself in a sphere of safety, before the combined forces of what Fromarch would later claim were nine hundred and seventy industrial grade thermal spells reduced the tiny boarding house, the mound of skulls, and Humindorus Nam to a fine snow of ash that fell until the next rain finally washed it from the sky.
Meralda bore Fromarch and herself away from the lingering heat before returning to normal space.
The aging wizard blinked. “Still alive. Imagine that.”
Meralda glared. “What were you thinking?”
Fromarch shrugged. “I was thinking my hands are too old to care if they’ve got blood on them,” he said. “My gift to you, Mage Meralda. Now I’m well and truly retired. I see a pub.” He took a step away. “Don’t you have a shadow to move? A kingdom to save?”
“You are incorrigible.”
Fromarch waved, dropped the latch, and ambled away.
Meralda snatched up the latch. “Back to the stands,” she said, as Fromarch vanished inside a tavern. “Quickly.”
The staves caught her up, and the street and the tavern and the blossoming cloud of ash fell away below her.
The king didn’t blink as Meralda settled back into her seat. He merely nodded her way, as though flying mages were as commonplace as sparrows or rain in modern metropolitan Tirlin.
As her neighbors in the stands gaped and stared, Meralda smiled and brought the speaking device to her mouth.
“Tower isn’t sure what you did, mistress, but the interference has stopped.”
“The tethers?”
“Failing as we speak, mistress.” Mug paused. “Yours will have to replace them any moment now.”
“I understand. Tell Tower I am ready.”
“Good luck, mistress.”
The shadow of the Tower engulfed the last column of seats, and the podium moved into its center.
The king nodded.
Meralda rose.
She raised her Sight. Her shadow moving spells hung ready, shimmering in the dark, gossamer tangles of cobwebs moving in a gentle wind. Meralda could see the black masses of Nameless and Faceless flitting to and fro amid them.
Meralda spoke the word of unbinding, and the tangle of spells stretched and pulled and took shape.
The crowd gasped. Applause broke out, grew, became a thunder that drowned out the voices from the park.
Meralda opened her eyes.
The Tower’s shadow was gone, pierced through its heart with the bright light of day.
Donchen’s eyes met hers. His smile was warm and wide.
“You did it,” he mouthed. “Mage Meralda.”
Meralda smiled back, and the crowd stood and kept applauding.
“The tethers,” shouted Mug. “Beginning to tear. It’s now or never, Meralda.” He said something else, but his words were lost in the roar of applause. “…I love you, you know that.”
“I love you too, Mug,” said Meralda.
As the king took the podium, Meralda called the staves to her, and spoke the words that woke her tethers.
“Welcome to Tirlin,” shouted the king.
Meralda watched the curseworks whirl.
One by one, she watched the ancient tethers fail.
The new spells took hold. The curseworks wobbled.
Wobbled, but did not fall. Before the king was done speaking, they stabilized, soaring above an unknowing Tirlin as smooth and sure as kites on a string.
“Mistress,” piped Mug, from her bag. “Mistress. Tower says the you-know-whats are showing no significant signs of instability. I think that’s his way of saying you’ve saved the Realms.” Meralda heard Tower speak in the background. “You’ve done it, mistress. The tethers are holding. Better than the old ones, according to Tower. Throw yourself a parade. It’s done.”
Meralda let go her staves. They took to the air, darting and wheeling and chasing and gone.
“Welcome to Tirlin,” said the king again, in closing. “We look forward to a bright future together.”
Meralda put her face in her hands and cried.
The stands emptied slowly. Meralda waved her guards away, though the Bellringers remained close by her side until she ordered them to go and eat supper and then go home.
The park, too, slowly disgorged its crowds, leaving nothing but handbills and sandwich wrappers and bright bits of trampled ribbons behind, being scattered by the wind. A small army of trash-men, burlap bags hanging empty at their waists, set about spearing litter with pointed sticks and placing it in their bags.
A child with a familiar kite ran among them, and this time his kite soared skyward with no hint of hesitation.
I can’t even stand up, thought Meralda. I’ve never been so exhausted in all my life.
A shadow fell upon her, and she looked up to find Donchen at her side.
He sat, his hands in his lap, his eyes on the darkening sky behind the Tower.
“Quite a long day,” he said. “Especially for you, I gather. Trouble at the last moment?”
Meralda nodded. “Nam. Went after the tethers. Nearly killed us all.”
Donchen nodded. “But here we are. Thanks to you, I assume.”
Meralda remembered that awful moment when Fromarch loosed the latch. “I’d rather not speak of it.”
“Then we shall not. Ever, if you wish it.”
The child’s bat-winged kite darted and swooped Donchen waved to the child, who waved back and shouted a greeting lost in the breeze and the distance.
“There is still much unresolved,” said Donchen. “I regret I have been unable to learn the identity of the man who used hidden spells to gain entrance to your king.”
Meralda shrugged. That seems so long ago, she thought.
“What was the point of all this, anyway?” she asked, after a long moment watching the Tower’s shadow reform.
“The Accords?”
“No. The Vonats. Those among your people who worked with them. The spells in the Gold Room. All of it. Why?”
Donchen sighed. “Politics, for the most part, I suppose. My people are staunch traditionalists. This new partnership with the Realms is upsetting to some of those in power.”
“I’ve noticed something, Donchen.”
Donchen smiled. “And what is that, Meralda?”
“You’re very careful with your words. You said ‘for the most part.’ Which implies there’s something more.”
“Does it really?”
“It does. Is now the time you stop being forthcoming?”
Donchen shook his head. “All I have are suspicions. Suspicions, rumor, and scraps of legend. None of it makes sense, even to me. But I tell you the truth, Mage Meralda. When we’re both rested, we’ll have a nice meal of sweet and sour pork and then we’ll find a comfortable couch and I’ll tell you all of it, rumor and legend alike.”
“Fair enough.” Meralda brushed back her hair. “You’ll be leaving soon, won’t you? Going home, I mean. Back across the Sea.”
Donchen shrugged. “One da
y. But not soon. Perhaps not ever. Politics are involved, I’m afraid. One of the reasons I’ve spent so much time here in the Realms.”
“Fromarch and Shingvere hinted at some dark secret concerning you,” said Meralda. “Please don’t tell me you’re heir to the throne.”
Donchen laughed. “Hardly. Well, only in the most oblique manner possible.”
Meralda turned to face him. “What?”
“I am the second son of the second son of a House that once rivaled Chentze,” he said. “Que-long is childless. The shuffle for power has already begun.” He shrugged. “I want no part of it.”
“Your status as ghost?”
“All of us in line for the throne share it,” he said. “It is meant to protect us from assassination. And perhaps to teach us self-reliance. In any case, my ghosthood expires next year. If I am in Hang when it expires, my own very personal expiration is likely close behind.”
“So you’re a prince?”
“In a manner of speaking. But a most reluctant one. I prefer the kitchen to the throne room. Would you be able to keep company with a humble chef, I wonder?”
Some last vestige of the shadow moving spell careened past and engulfed Meralda and Donchen in a brief, warm burst of light.
Meralda moved closer, turned Donchen’s face toward hers, and drew him into a kiss.
He took her hands in his.
The light failed. The Bellringers grinned and elbowed each other and turned suddenly away.
“Welcome to Tirlin,” said Meralda. “Let’s stay and watch the sunset.”
Frank Tuttle
Frank Tuttle first began writing under the woefully mistaken impression doing so would release him from the burden of ever doing honest work. “It turns out writing is hard,” said Frank as he pulled out great handfuls of hair. “That was never mentioned in Strunk and White’s Elements of Style.”
Frank’s first published works appeared in print magazines such as Weird Tales and Marion Zimmer Bradley’s Fantasy Magazine in the late 1990s. Since then, Frank has published six Markhat novels and a variety of shorter works.
Frank rarely resorts to hair-pulling these days, preferring to weep inconsolably while affixing his toupee.