by E. Hibbs
Dylana watched the women descend until they were little more than spots in the corrie; then she turned away and entered her home. It was tiny: only one room, but cosy in its simplicity. She combed her thick silvery blonde hair, tied it back with a strip of fabric, and perched by the fire pit in the centre of the floor. She’d put a cauldron of water over the flames to boil before she went outside, and now the trout inside it was nicely cooked. Fenella always made sure she was well-stocked with food.
She drained the tender fish-meat and tucked into her breakfast, using a stick to lift it to her mouth. Then she tidied away, brushed down the front of her dress, and walked back into the night.
Darkness was the time when the Asrians lived. The light was too bright for their sensitive eyes; the heat prickled their pale skin. So they lived with the moon, not the sun. They would close their windows and doors against the day, and when the stars emerged, they would emerge. And so it had always been, since the very first of them had come to the mountains.
Dylana followed the warren of paths closer to the King’s home. She had been in there a few times through her life, but not for a while. She knew it wouldn’t have changed much. And neither would the Tomb Garden which lay nearby. The Asrians did not bury their dead – the rocky ground was far too hard to dig. So instead, they gave their loved ones a sky burial: allowing the birds to pick the bodies clean. A stone engraved with their name was erected in the shadow of the King’s home, so they would know they were never forgotten, and then their bones laid to rest at its base.
Dylana climbed over the wall surrounding the Tomb Garden, and carefully picked her way through to where her father sat. She often came to talk to him anyway, but today was the anniversary of his passing: her fifteenth birthnight. She knew Fenella would have a cake for her later – probably honey or rosemary, knowing her – but for now, she wanted to be with her family.
The faint whispers of the deceased drifted around her. They could sense her; knew she could hear them. She listened as she passed their stones. None of them were shocked or appalled by her; she was their only link to the world now. They would often ask her to pass words to their relatives, and sometimes she did – but only sparingly. If only the living were as accepting as the dead.
She rounded the corner where her father lay, then stopped still. Usually she was the only one here; nobody came to the Tomb Garden unless someone had passed away. Tonight, however, she could see a figure crouched ahead, looking down intently at one of the stones.
Curiosity getting the better of her, she approached, staining to make out who it was. A young man, she could see that much. His face was turned away from her, but she could see two bands around his wrists, woven from hardy grass and decorated with the deep red of amarant blossoms.
It was the King.
She drew in a gasp before she could stop herself. The young man spun on the spot, hurrying to brush away tears. Dylana was so shocked that she almost fell backwards over a stone. She muttered a quiet apology to the bones resting there.
“I am so sorry, Your Majesty,” she said to the King. “I did not realise.”
“There is no need for apology,” he replied, but kept his eyes downcast. “I have not seen thee for some time.”
“There has been no need for me to trouble anyone,” Dylana said. “They have their own lives to live.”
“And so you live yours here,” said the King, glancing at her.
Dylana shrugged. Like many Asrians, she was on friendly terms with their ruler. Even though he was the leader, it was accepted that he was still one of them. And like many, she felt sorry for him. He had only become King two months ago, at the age of just fifteen – barely out of his boyhood. The bands – the sign of royalty in Delamere – had been woven off his dying mother’s wrists and onto his own, passing the mantle over to him. Before that, he was like any other youngster: playing with his peers and running along the lakeshores. But now he had become sullen and withdrawn, still mourning his mother’s death. Now, he was King Zandor the First: Duke of Delamere.
He looked at her again. “Why are you here so often?”
“The same reason you are,” answered Dylana. She motioned to the stone in front of him. “I know you miss her.”
Zandor managed a thin smile. “More than any words may say.”
He knelt down again and ran a hand across the name engraved into the smooth surface. “I wish I could speak to her again. I did not have an opportunity to say farewell. She fell into death’s sleep long before she even drew her last breath.”
Dylana’s gaze flickered to the stone. She could see a little orb of faint light hovering above it. Many of the stones had them: the bones casting memories of themselves into the air. She knew everyone was aware they were there; it was how they could recall their loved ones so clearly when they came to the Tomb Garden. But only she could see them. Once, as a child, her father had brought her to show her where her mother lay. She had tried to play with the memories like balls, and when her hands slipped through them, quizzed her father about what they were. It was then he had realised the extent of her powers.
“Why can you not see them?” she had asked.
“Because I am not special like thee,” he smiled; then swept her onto his shoulders and carried her home.
Now, in the present, ignoring the voices and memories was like an attempt to shut out the moonlight. She could try, but it went against her very nature. She could no easier do that than fly.
Zandor was looking away, so she nodded her head respectfully to the old Queen’s stone. The dead woman’s words echoed in her head.
“Pass my love to him… pass my love…”
I cannot, Your Highness, Dylana thought back. I dare not.
“Pass my love to him… It pains me to see him suffer so…”
I beg of thee, do not ask this of me. I cannot let him know what I do, lest the others discover it.
“Pass my love to him!”
The harshness was so sudden that Dylana cried out in shock. Zandor stood up again.
“What is it?” he asked, voice laced with concern.
Dylana turned away so he wouldn’t see the alarm on her face. The desperation in the old Queen’s voice had struck her like a blow. When her own father had died, it had been a peaceful thing; Dylana had never worried about never seeing him again, because she knew he was still there. She knew it better than anyone. But for others, when it was less peaceful, and when there was none of that comforting knowledge, what was there to do?
The answer stood before her. All the Asrians were aware of how the young King spent more time in the Tomb Garden than sitting on his throne. He missed his mother dearly; the two had never gotten a chance to say goodbye. What must it feel like for both of them, to be torn from each other so slowly and yet deliberately? Nobody could prevent the end from coming, but to have no chance to accept it either… it would leave a puckering wound on anyone’s heart. Dylana could sense it in the air: like invisible throbbing waves of depression and loneliness – and frustration that the other was so close and yet just out of reach.
The Queen’s words echoed in her mind, pitting themselves against those of her father. She had never promised anything about her powers – only about going to the lakeshores. She would not be breaking any vows if she were to do something.
Swallowing down her unease, she turned back to Zandor.
“I… think I may be able to grant thee a favour,” she muttered.
Zandor’s concerned expression changed to one of confusion. “What is it?”
Dylana chewed her lip. “I can see her. Your lady mother. May I show her to you?”
The King’s eyes widened, but Dylana didn’t wait for an answer. The longer she hesitated, the more likely her resolve would flee. So she lowered herself to the ground, held out her hands, and cupped them together over the stone. She closed her eyes tightly, feeling out for the essence of the one she sought, listening for that single voice above all the other whispers. She had ne
ver done this before, but it felt as though it was the right thing.
After a few moments, she sensed the air between her palms grow denser, as though it were half water, pressing against her flesh. Zandor gasped behind her. She opened her eyes a crack and noticed white light was shining through her fingers. She slowly drew her hands apart, and sure enough, an orb was hanging there, exactly like the ones she saw. But this time, it was denser; less ghostly-looking. And Zandor could see it too.
Inside, the old Queen’s face peered through a film of mist, eyes settling on her son. They shone with love; pearly tears of happiness flowing down her cheeks.
It had worked. She had made the memory real.
Zandor appeared beside her on his knees. He reached out towards the orb, fingers trembling, but he stopped before he could touch it. His lips didn’t move, and neither did his mother’s, but Dylana could still hear their exchange as loudly as if it had been spoken aloud.
She smiled to herself. Already, the young man’s face was brightening; the sadness seeped away like rain into a river. This was what both of them had needed, and she had given it to them.
She slowly drew back, so as not to eavesdrop, but as she stood, her stomach flipped. Straight ahead, beyond the low border wall, Fenella and the other women were standing. The look on their faces revealed they had seen the whole exchange.
They stared at her in silence, too awed to say anything. Dylana struggled to breathe. They had seen her. She hid her hands behind her back, as though they were stained with the evidence of what she had done.
“What powers are these?” one of the women, Renna, choked out.
“What are you, girl?”
“What have you done?”
Dylana thought she would faint with horror. She went to turn and run, but a hand on her wrist stopped her. She tried to wrench herself free; then she realised it was Zandor. He put his other hand on her shoulder, silently urging her to be calm. Her heart didn’t stop racing, but she did allow herself to stand still.
When he was sure she would not flee, he turned back to face the women.
“What she has done is nothing short of a miracle,” he announced. His voice was strong, but his eyes glistened with unshed tears. “She has allowed me to say goodbye to the Queen. She has a gift… whatever it is, I am grateful for it. Thou need not be afraid.”
Dylana glanced between him and their audience uneasily. The women didn’t look as shocked now it was clear the King was not in distress, but she still didn’t relax. What would happen to her now? The secret was out. Renna was the greatest gossip in Delamere; soon all the Asrians would know about this. Would they drive her away? If they did, where would she go? To the next valley with its giant ribbon lake, which was still half-full of ice from the melting glaciers? Nobody lived there; it was too cold and dangerous. She would be alone forever, with only the trees for company, without even a single dead soul to listen to…
“Please!” she cried out before she was even aware of her mouth opening. “Have mercy on me! I meant no harm!”
Zandor turned to her. “Do not fret, Dylana. No harm will come to thee. You know we are a people above that.” He paused, facing to address everyone. “What you have done is something to be applauded, not feared.”
“But it is unlike any other, Your Majesty,” Fenella said. “I know her well; she is a harmless one. But she is strange, have no doubt of it. We should seek guidance from the Wise Ones.”
If Dylana had felt uncomfortable before, now it doubled. The Wise Ones, according to Asrian folklore, were the otherworldly creatures who ruled the waters. They were not human, but of an entirely different race; part of a family which cared for all aspects of nature. They had the power of the very earth in their veins; could shift from one place to another through the matter of their element; lived for millennia. It was said that for every century that passed, they only aged the equivalent of one year. It was they the Asrians appealed to on a daily basis, for everything from fish to wishes. It was to them the songs were sung at Midsummer; into their water newborn babes were washed to be granted their blessing.
But the Wise Ones could only be found in the lakes.
“I cannot,” she protested. “All of you, feel free to go to the corrie tarn. But leave me be, up here.”
By this point, several others had arrived, all gazing in wonder at the hovering orb. Renna was quick to fill in any newcomers on what she had seen, and soon the Tomb Garden was full of hushed voices. It even drowned out the whispers of the dead, and Dylana had to fight the urge to cover her ears.
“You must come,” a man named Yanro replied. “You may have the power to grant all of us one of those… visions. So we may all remember our loved ones forever. We must discover it, and the Wise Ones will know!”
His words acted as a rally to the gathered people. In the next few moments, they had entered the Tomb Garden and began rushing towards the two youngsters. As though sensing the King may be trampled, several guards seemingly from nowhere and formed a barricade in front of the throng. They tried to push Dylana back among them, but Zandor kept hold of her and held her by his side.
“She is to stay here,” he ordered firmly. He spoke with an authority many had not heard before; the grief of his heart dripping away with every word.
The guards did not reply, but none of them moved for Dylana again. She quickly turned to Zandor.
“Please, Your Majesty, I beg of you not to take me to the lake!”
He frowned in confusion. “Why ever not? All Asrians are welcome there.”
“It is not a case of welcome. I vowed to my father on his deathbed to never go there again.”
He looked as though he genuinely understood, but a strange determination had set in his eyes. “The Wise Ones will understand in these circumstances, I am sure. And dost thou not wish to discover why you poses such a gift at all? May they not have given it to you themselves? Do you not want answers, Dylana?”
She had honestly never thought of that before. She had always taken her powers at face value; something she alone lived with and had no need to trouble others by. And Zandor had a point: what if it had been given to her for a purpose, to help her neighbours in their times of need?
Twisting her hands together anxiously, she nodded. “But this one time only.”
Zandor smiled. “This one time only,” he promised. Then he raised his hands, and motioned for everyone else to follow.
The walk down to the largest lake was one of the longest walks Dylana had ever taken. Her heart pounded with a raging cocktail of emotions: pride at helping the King, guilt over bending her promise, and both relief and worry that her powers had been revealed. The dread of what may come still played heavily on her mind, especially when more and more people swarmed to join the crowd. They had heard the news, and were eager to join in, many craning their necks to get a glimpse of her.
Dylana hunched her shoulders in discomfort. They all knew her, had seen her grow up. But now they were looking at her as though she were a stranger.
Before long, they were standing on the rocky shore. The surface was still and glassy; the moon’s reflection hung fat and bright over its very centre. The Asrians fanned out in a great arch around Zandor and Dylana, and whispered in anticipation. Would the Wise Ones give any kind of signs about this? If it were to happen, tonight was the time: when light and dark were equal, and the entire world stood still.
Dylana eyed the lake, and a sudden heaviness overcame her entire body as though the entire weight of the water had crashed down on her. Before she knew it, she was on her knees, gasping for air.
The onlookers gasped in unison.
“What is wrong?” Zandor asked under his breath.
Dylana looked up at him urgently. “There is something wrong… I cannot be here! I feel it!”
To her dismay, the King only shook his head. “No, you are merely nervous. I told thee, there is nothing to fear.”
“Not from you, perhaps,” she replied. “But here… I
must leave! Let me go!”
She staggered upright, desperately looking to the Asrians for some point of escape. But they had pressed together like a wall in their excitement; there was no way out. The panic and wrongness built inside her, and like a frightened rabbit she ran into the water, trying to cut around the side of them.
She had barely taken three strides before she fell. Something was grasping her ankles, keeping her rooted to the spot. When she tried to get free, she realised with shock that the restraints were part of the water itself, somehow made dense and firm enough to hold her still.
The lake suddenly rippled, and a deathly silence fell over the muttering crowd. All eyes turned to the clear reflection of the moon. Out of it was rising a sinuous humanoid figure; long hair flowing down past its heels. It stood on the surface as though it were as solid as ground, clad in nothing more than a sparse tunic which seemed to be made completely of shimmering fish scales. Every single inch of its flesh was transparent and sparkling, made entirely of water somehow given form. Out of a perfectly aligned face stared two eyes of the richest violet, alight from within, and fixed on Dylana.
The wretched girl shook, overcome with wonder and terror. She could tell by looking at the creature that it was one of the most powerful of the Wise. Legends had been passed down through the Asrian generations about this one, with the hair as long as all the lakes in the world: the Great Lady.
As one, everyone on the shore sunk into a deep bow. Never before had they seen such a creature. But the Great Lady ignored them, keeping her attention solely on Dylana.
“You have brought her here,” she said, in a voice older than the mountains. “She with the eyes of the Arncæ.”
Zandor looked up from his hunched position. “She has granted me a gift, O Wise One,” he said, words wobbling a little.
“If that is how you choose to view it,” the Great Lady responded. With every syllable, her tone became colder. “But it is a gift which she should never have possessed.”