by Giles Carwyn
Astor swallowed hard at the venom in her voice. “I did not know that,” he said quietly.
She stared down at the hole that led to the Heart and took a deep breath, then she closed her eyes. “I am going back there someday,” she said. “I will return Efften to her former glory.”
Several alarming questions leapt to his mind, but her fiery gaze made him pause. He left them unsaid.
“I have heard such different stories about Efften,” he said politely.
Her face became impassively Ohohhim again. She nodded. “You heard that it was a horrible place of injustice, overcome by its own greed and lust for dark magic.”
He couldn’t gauge her emotions, so he nodded hesitantly. “Something like that.”
“And yet you did not know that the Heartstone contains the soul of my sister.”
“I…no.”
“The stories you know are lies. Those Silver Islanders wanted to steal the glory of Efften, but you cannot steal power, you cannot steal wisdom. It must be freely given. So they destroyed what they could not dominate. I admit that Efften was in a difficult time just before she fell. But all great cities have such difficult times. Ohndarien has. The Opal Empire has had many. But clearer heads like my father’s would have prevailed if we had been given time, if we had not been betrayed.”
She stopped, drew a long breath, then watched him closely. Astor kept his face as neutral as he could manage. With a small smile, she waved a hand. “Look at this beauty, all of the loveliness of Ohndarien. Efften had ten times this beauty. It had ten times the majesty of the Opal Palace. What the Ohohhim know of grandeur they learned from Efften. The splendor of Ohndarien is but a reflection of its parent city. Efften’s Illuminated Scions were the pinnacle of what humans could accomplish, and they would have gone farther. Their magic was a gift to the world, a tool for creating beauty. Now it is scattered. Destroyed. Poured into the ocean like so much dirt.”
Her eyes glowed in the purple light. Astor’s pulse raced as she stared at him.
“I am sure you would feel the same way about Physendria if they had succeeded in destroying Ohndarien,” she said, raising her voice.
“I’m sure I would,” he said, trying to put a convincing tone in his voice, but she wasn’t fooled. She looked like she was about to give him a scathing reply, but a little firefly appeared from behind her ear and began to float around her head. It seemed to distract her for a moment, and her gaze softened.
Astor looked closer at the tiny ball of incandescent light. “By the Seasons!” he whispered. “What is it?”
“Not ‘it,’” she said, holding her hand up so the light circled her wrist. “He.”
Reaching out, she touched Astor’s hand. The little light landed on his fingertip.
“He buzzes,” Astor said, unable to contain a grin.
“His name is Lewlem, and he is one of my oldest friends. He has always been there when I needed him.”
The little glowing ball flew off his finger and disappeared up the sleeve of Arefaine’s gown.
Astor felt the loss immediately, like a fire going out. “How did you do that?” he asked.
She smiled at him differently than before, a sly, mischievous smile. “Magic.” She winked at him.
Astor couldn’t do anything more than stare as she rocked back on her heels and rose. Her gown flowed back down her legs. She glanced over her shoulder at the two Carriers of the Opal Fire, standing like statues just out of earshot. “Thank you for the dance; you are very kind, but I should return now.”
“It was no kindness.” Astor winced. “I mean, I am the grateful one, that you should dance with me.” He shut up. He didn’t want the evening to end.
“I am sorry to burden you with the anger of a girl who lost her family before she ever knew them. You have more than your own share of troubles.”
He shook his head. “When will I…I mean will I see you again?”
“So sweet,” she murmured, and took him by the hands. She stood on her tiptoes and kissed him on the lips.
His eyes went wide. Before he could even think about what to do, the kiss was over. She let go of his hands and stepped back.
“Something else I have never done,” she murmured with a little smile. “I will cherish this moment. Thank you.”
She turned and rejoined the Carriers, who escorted her from the Hall of Windows. Astor watched her leave, his pulse pounding in his ears.
CHAPTER 14
Ossamyr coughed. A thin thread of seawater drooled from the corner of her mouth. Sharp palm fronds scratched her cheek, and she tried to raise her head. The back of her throat was brittle parchment, and her head felt as though it were trapped between two rocks. She did not try to sit up, but instead opened her gummy eyes and looked across the sand and rocks of the beach. Bits of broken wood lingered in the white foam at the edge of the ocean. The last remains of her boat.
How am I alive? she thought, unsure how her desperate swim through the black waters could possibly have succeeded. She didn’t recall making it to the beach. All she remembered was swimming, swallowing more water, losing track of her breathing as she tried to push her body further and further. But somehow the storm was over, and she was here.
She shivered as the sun baked her and the breeze chilled her by turns. A thick cloud of bloodsucking flies buzzed about her, clustering on her cuts. With a feeble gesture, she brushed at them. They buzzed away before settling once again on her wounds.
Through a haze of half-formed thoughts, she got ahold of herself. She wasn’t out of danger yet. Trying to control the pain in her head, she ignored the flies and concentrated on her breathing, trying to gather her strength. The steady cadence of her breath lulled her.
Yes. That was better. She could just stay here for a while. The pain wasn’t so great if she just lay still. Go back to sleep. Yes. She could sleep a while longer.
“Your Majesty, you have awakened at last,” a gentle voice said to her.
Her eyelids flickered open again. Agony rose to the surface. Enemies! The Silver Islanders! Had the bastards come ashore? She could not fight them. She could not even sit up.
She rolled over, and the world wobbled as she panted with the exertion. Every breath was fire against her ragged throat. Her canvas sailor’s breeches were stiff, crusted with salt, and her shirt was in tatters. Climbing to hands and knees, she craned her head upward.
Less than twenty feet away, a middle-aged man sat on the moss-covered ruins of an ancient building. The wall lined the edge of a great city, rising against the encroaching jungle like a shield thrust into a patch of weeds. The man was bare-chested, wearing a shimmering green sarong, and he stood and bowed with an elegance that belonged at court.
“I am so pleased. You lay there so long, I feared for your life.”
Her tongue was so swollen that she could only croak. She tried to swallow, but could not, and bowed her head.
“Please, don’t speak,” the man said, coming closer. He stopped a few feet away from her. “You must be parched. There is a fountain nearby, filled with fresh water.”
Ossamyr clenched her teeth and, leaning on a curved palm tree, levered herself to her feet. She finally managed to swallow.
“Then this is Efften?” she rasped, regretting it immediately. Her throat burned.
The man had a well-trimmed mustache and a long, pointed beard, both streaked with gray. His pale blue eyes sparkled in the sunlight. “Oh yes. What is left of her.”
She took a hesitant step forward. Pain lanced into the back of her thigh, and her leg gave. She pitched forward onto the beach.
Feebly spitting sand from her mouth, she rose to her knees again, looked up at the man. He stood a polite distance away without offering to help. Finally, she managed to stand on her own and shuffled forward. Her arrow wound throbbed.
“This way,” the man said, motioning for her to follow.
She did, one labored step at a time. “Who are you?” she rasped.
“Ah,
” he murmured, pursing his lips. “A shadow of what once was. A thought that refuses to die. An apology for a beautiful dream gone astray.”
Ossamyr wondered if she was hallucinating. How could the man be here? Was it a trick? He acted so calm, as if he lived here, but no one had lived on Efften for centuries.
I am dying, she thought. This is the last fancy of a dying woman. She stopped, put her hand against a moss-covered wall. Closing her eyes, she willed reality to assert itself. She evened her breathing. A tiny wisp of her power lifted her spirits. It was pitifully weak; the thrum of her Zelani was very far away, but not entirely gone.
She opened her eyes.
The man in the sarong stood at a distance, waiting politely. Ossamyr’s knees wobbled, and she locked them straight.
“It is this way, Your Majesty,” he said.
With a tiny grunt, Ossamyr pushed herself away from the wall and staggered onward.
He led her across the sand to a path between two ruined buildings. The jungle had reclaimed the city, moving in and covering everything that had once been tall and grand.
Ossamyr stayed silent as they wended through the broken walls of the buildings. He led her to a shattered, defaced fountain that must once have been breathtaking. Broken pieces littered the lichen-spotted courtyard, bearing exquisite carvings. A trickle of water poured from the center, finding its way through the cracks until it soaked into the green ground between the flagstones.
Ossamyr slumped onto the fountain, wincing at the pain in her leg. She put her cracked lips to the tiny stream. It went through her like a cold jolt of lightning. She sucked the cool, clear water into herself, forcing it past her ravaged throat.
“Slowly, please,” the man said. “Not too fast.”
Despite her dire need, Ossamyr knew he was right. She would vomit if she wasn’t careful. Forcing herself away from the delicious, life-giving water, she blinked up at him.
She spoke again, wincing against the pain. “You are…one of the Illuminated Scions?” she rasped. “An archmage of Efften?”
“I am Darius Morgeon, once an archmage of Efften and now just a very old, very lonely man.”
Ossamyr paused. Everyone in the world knew that name.
“Darius Morgeon?”
“The same.”
“How?”
The man chuckled politely. “You don’t believe me.”
She wished she was fresh, ready for this conversation, wished she could be sure that it wasn’t a fever dream. “You’d have to be almost four hundred years old,” she said.
“Something like that, yes.”
Her head swam. Could it be true? All of the archmages had been slain. Despite herself, a tiny flicker of hope rose within her. She leaned over the fountain and took another mouthful of water, then sat upright and wiped her lips. “I am Ossamyr-lani.”
“I know who you are, Queen of the Golden City. My daughter has seen you in Brophy’s dreams.”
“Your daughter?” she asked quietly, pursing her lips doubtfully, but her hands gripped the edge of the fountain tighter.
“Yes, my eldest daughter, Jazryth. She gave her life to create Ohndarien’s Heartstone.”
“But she’s dead.”
The man shrugged. “Only the body dies. Ani is eternal, surely you know that.”
A hundred questions came to her mind.
“How is he? How is Brophy?”
But Darius Morgeon only smiled. He inclined his head. “Come, let me show you what remains of the City of Dreams. And I will take you to the artifacts you seek.”
Her heart leapt. “You have the containment stones? They are actually here?”
“Oh yes. Dozens of them.”
The warmth of triumph spread through her. She stood up, feeling somewhat stronger because of the water. She extended her hand to him.
“Please, show me the way.”
He held up a hand in a formal gesture, declining the offered touch, and she lowered her arm.
“Obtaining the stones will not be a problem,” he said. “Taking them from the island will be.”
“One step at a time,” Ossamyr said, echoing the words of her dear friend. It was fitting Shara’s words came to her now, when she was so close to her prize. But Ossamyr was well prepared for the next step. Months ago, Ossamyr had stashed a small boat on one of the many tiny islands just to the south. The Silver Islanders patrolled the waters around Efften fanatically, but they were looking for ships. Even they should not be able to find an individual swimmer in the vast ocean. It would be a hellish journey, but after some rest and food, her magic should be enough to carry her through.
“Yes,” Darius echoed. “One step at a time.”
He led her through the ruins into the heart of the city. Despite the crumbling walls, the vines that snaked across and the trees that grew straight up through the flagstones, majesty breathed from the buildings all around her. High, thin arches crossed the wide streets. Some of the arches served as walkways between the third and fourth stories of taller buildings. Some were freestanding decorative structures, triumphant testaments to a culture that had loved power and beauty for its own sake.
The buildings gave way to a huge square, and they started across. A knee-high wall sketched a meandering shape in the center of the square. It must have once been a pool with a series of fountains. The individual fountains had been reduced to rubble, and even the short wall was broken in places. There was no water in the place anymore. Ossamyr tried to imagine what the square had been like at Efften’s height of power, filled with colorful banners and art, the latest fashions worn by the citizens as they bustled about, buying and selling.
She kept thinking of the Water Wall in Ohndarien, of the great locks. Each building in Efften contained the same mastery, but there was a flowing elegance to these buildings that Ohndarien lacked, as if they had grown up in relation to one another, built by a dream rather than human hands.
“Is this the main square?” Ossamyr asked, looking around at the wide expanse.
Darius laughed. “No. This is Gibling’s Square, the fourth largest in the city. If you like, I can take you to see the Silver Wharf, easily three times this large. That is where most of the trading happened.” He waved a hand around. “This was a servant’s market.”
Ossamyr kept the awe off her face, walking slowly, trying to take it all in. As she moved around the dry, meandering fountain, she looked up between two tall buildings and caught a glimpse of a towering spire in the distance. She stopped, her neck craning as her gaze followed it up into the sky. In a daze, she moved toward it.
The pearl-and-silver tower spiraled straight up, the tallest building Ossamyr had ever seen. It made the Citadel look like a stack of children’s blocks. Vines gripped and twisted up its base, but even they could not grow as tall as the grandiose structure and left off a third of the way up. Impossibly high in the air, at the very top, the tower fanned out into a wide atrium.
She stopped, breathless.
“Beautiful, isn’t it?” Darius nodded. “There are five of them, actually.”
“The silver towers of Efften.”
He smiled. “Yes.”
“It looks as if it is made of metal. I can’t believe I didn’t see it before now, it is so tall.”
“From a distance, you can see them all, but they are obscured inside the city unless you’re standing right next to one, or unless you catch a vantage point like this.”
“This is what I saw as I was sailing in,” she breathed. “In the storm.”
“No doubt. That one is my tower.” He nodded at it.
“Of course,” she murmured.
“Well, I had family and servants who lived with me.” He smiled. “So I wasn’t all alone.”
“The Silver Islanders pulled down so many other buildings. Why did they leave these standing?” she asked.
Darius chuckled. “Well, they tried to raze them. But there is a bit more to those towers than granite and silver.” He paused, then b
eckoned to her. “Come, that is where we are bound. I will show you.”
But Ossamyr remained in the middle of the square, her eye fixed on the lofty tower. Finally, she looked at Darius. “Why are you helping me?”
He raised an eyebrow. “Because you defied those hateful savages. Because you bested them. Anyone who has the courage to do that, I will help until my last breath.”
She nodded, gazing up at the tower, then asked, “Why did you stay? There is nothing here for you. You have no family, nobody else to talk to, to live with.”
Darius lowered his eyes, his long beard drooping just a little. “I am waiting for my daughters to return.”
“You mean—”
An arrow hit the man, and he exploded in a flash of light. The blast threw her to the ground, sending her sliding across the stones. Multicolored fire showered her. Another arrow flew, passing through the space Darius had occupied a second ago. But he was gone. Completely destroyed. The arrow clattered on the stones, sparking from the tip.
“By the Nine!” Ossamyr swore, lurching to her feet. Two stocky men and a burly woman burst from behind the cover of a low, crumbling wall. Their long, bound hair was streaked with silver paint. Black and silver tattoos covered their bare skins and faces. They shot their bows again as they ran, and Ossamyr tried to duck, but all three arrows hit her. Two in the chest and one in the side.
She stumbled to her knees, gasping at the pain. She bled from where she’d been struck, but the arrows had not penetrated. One of the shafts fell into her lap. It wasn’t sharp. It was tipped with a small, blunt crystal shining with swirling multicolored lights.
The hunters raced across the square, dropping their bows and pulling short spears from sheaths across their backs. Ossamyr summoned power as best she could, but barely heard the whisper of the magic that usually sang through her body.