by Kim Falconer
The area not only hosted the ritual celebrations of the temples, it was home to one of the portals—a corridor to the many-worlds. For eons, only the Watchers knew of this, until the priesthood of Corsanon, quite by accident, made the discovery. Coveted, it was thought a boon, a way to increase the wealth of Gaela and the prominence of Corsanon’s High Temple. Some feared the Watchers and voted not to use the portal, but the majority agreed the Watchers were impartial observers that intervened—or not—as it suited them. They wouldn’t notice the activation of the Entity, the guardian of a portal, or any little trips down the corridors the temple clan cared to make.
The Watchers did notice, though, and they were not pleased. Before they took action, Corsanon and its temple were destroyed.
The city’s downfall came about the same way most civilisations crumble—the misuse of power. A corrupt high council priest had joined ranks with governing officials, making a deadly deal. He had dabbled in a particularly occult magic and had created a spell that would enable him to travel the portal—undetected by the Watchers—freeing him to search for wealth in the other worlds. Yet the work was beyond his skill, the consequences brutal. What he summoned consumed him before he could protect himself: it came from another world—another time, another place. It came from a twenty-third-century Earth.
His tampering had severed the Entity, unleashing one part—an elemental intelligence greater than anything he anticipated—into the immediate environment. The other portion remained trapped in the portal, ever seeking a way to escape and rejoin its sundered half. All the while a sickness leaked into Gaela, a sickness from that other world. Corsanon’s despair was not entirely her own—a good portion of it belonged to Earth.
The temple of Corsanon had rallied to negate the blunder, but their attempts proved ineffective. Other temples had stepped in, also unable to contain the Entity or undo the damage. Debates turned into heated arguments, fights into widespread skirmishes, combat into battles until a full-scale war erupted. Many perished, and the effect of the weakened portal unleashed myriad energies, one causing climatic changes within the province. Crops failed, hunger and desperation ensued. Eventually, temple had battled temple, farmers became vigilantes, and the surviving population deteriorated into a collective of violence and anarchy.
Corsanon, as it had been for countless generations, ceased to exist, but the severed Entity that languished there survived. It adapted, becoming smaller and more self-contained as the riches of the environment no longer sustained it. It lived in back alleys and burnt-out buildings—alone, desperate and aching. Ultimately, all it desired was a way to return to the portal and re-combine with its sundered half. There its nature was harmonious—complete—but it couldn’t find its way.
Kreshkali came upon the drifting Entity, recognising it for what it was. It had also recognised her for what she was: a powerful witch of unknown origin who wore the aura of another world—even though the Entity knew she hadn’t passed through before the sundering.
Kreshkali had come after, with designs of her own.
Archer watched as shadows advanced over the ruined city of Corsanon, its jagged walls turned red by the sunset. A single gas street lamp flickered on and off, like an eye scanning for signs of life. Somewhere in the distance a door slammed.
He turned to the man behind him. Rogg looked skinnier than usual in the shadows, swallowed up by the fading light.
‘Well?’ Archer asked.
Rogg crouched, scooping a handful of dirt from the side of the road. He crumbled it between his fingers, letting it trickle to the ground. The other men gathered around.
Archer stooped until his head was level with Rogg’s ear. ‘Is she here?’
Rogg licked his lips before tasting the dirt that clung to his fingers. ‘Naw.’ He stood up, dust falling from his hands as he brushed them on his pants. ‘What now?’
‘We wait,’ Archer said.
‘Ale?’ Rogg jerked his head towards the tavern beneath the winking light.
‘Why not?’
A gust of wind swept past, blowing Rogg’s hat—a rag tied in knots—onto the ground. Rogg looked at it, shoving his hands into his pockets. The other men stalled as well.
‘What now?’ Archer asked.
‘She’ll skin us. She’ll cook us. She’ll boil…’
Archer whooped with laughter, slapping Rogg’s back and knocking him to his knees. ‘More of this?’ His laughter vanished. ‘Get it, all of you.’ Archer’s hands went to his hips, head cocked sideways. ‘She’s nothing…as good as dead.’
‘And the other?’ Rogg asked.
Archer winked and pulled out a long, thin dagger, twisting it in the space between them. ‘You’ll see. Watch for my sign.’
Kreshkali stood at the edge of the road, staring towards the heart of Corsanon. A single street lamp shone like a beacon in the darkness, flickering with an eerie glow. She took a deep breath, pushed back her hood and smiled.
‘Nothing, am I?’ she whispered into the night air, her breath making puffs of mist in the rising moonlight.
She smiled, tracing the edge of a bootprint with a twig. Intricate tattoos of vines and serpents, wrapped in an ancient caduceus, wound across her wrists and towards her fingertips.
‘Shall I accompany you?’ A young woman stepped out of the shadows, leading two horses. As she spoke one horse pushed forward, nuzzling Kreshkali’s shoulder. The woman laughed softly, holding the mare back.
‘Stay here, Jaynan. You’ll have your hands full minding these two, especially if things get…lively.’ Kreshkali stroked the mare’s neck, flipping stray lengths of black mane over her crest. ‘I won’t be long.’
‘There are at least five of them,’ Jaynan said, pointing at the bootprints.
‘At least.’ Kreshkali smiled. She rolled up her sleeves, removing silver bangles from her wrists and tucking them into her saddlebag.
Jaynan leaned forward to kiss Kali’s cheek. ‘Be safe, my love.’ She handed her a long staff of polished wood inlaid with copper runes.
Kreshkali flipped her hood up and headed towards the tavern. The horses nickered after her as clouds obscured the moon, sending a blanket of darkness over the deserted street.
Archer laughed. The tavern smelled of rancid meat, sweat and sour ale. He called for beer and found a table near the back of the large room. A fire hissed, the blazing logs warming the filthy rushes and soot-covered walls. The tabletop was crusted with food, ash and spilled wine. Deep gouges, from sword and axe, rent the surface. Archer leaned back in his chair, taking it in.
Several other men were seated by the entrance. All were hooded and hunched as if in hiding, except for the barman. His chest swelled under a dirty white singlet, the hair on his back and shoulders sticking up like boar bristles.
Archer filled his pipe and took a deep drag. Before he exhaled, he froze.
In the chair beside him appeared a hooded figure.
Archer felt his heart pound. A magician’s trick, he said to himself. Nothing to worry about.
‘Where’s the amulet?’ the figure asked.
Beneath the table Archer fingered his dagger, sliding it from its sheath.
‘Where’s me gold?’ he countered.
The woman lifted a coin purse from her cloak and placed it on the table.
He nodded, setting an azure-crystal vial on the table. ‘It’s a trade,’ he said.
Idiot! He had her now. He planned to cut her, take the gold, keeping the prize for himself. Rogg had said it’d be too risky, his brow beading with sweat when they’d bickered over it. Archer stood firm. Witch or not, she was only a woman, and he could handle any woman.
I might even have some fun with her before she dies, or after.
She turned to him. ‘Really?’
He spat. Demon psychic. He hadn’t counted on that.
She let her hood slide back, revealing electric blue eyes and a shock of spiky blonde hair.
‘And what’s that?’ she whispered, her fa
ce close to his. She put the vial in her pocket, tilting her head towards the keg.
‘We ran into some trouble, but we got his blood.’
‘You what?’ Kreshkali shrieked, her eyes boring into him.
‘You said you wanted the blood of the witch-child.’
‘I said I wanted to protect the blood of the witch-child.’
Archer swallowed the bile in his throat. It seemed he’d guessed wrong. No matter… He sprang, blade slicing towards her neck. Rogg leapt for the gold.
With her left hand, the witch caught Archer’s wrist, snapping the bones. His blade clattered to the floor. With her right, she pointed the staff at Rogg, immobilising him where he stood. His fingers stopped inches from the coin purse, his thick tongue sticking out of his mouth as though he’d been strangled.
The other men jumped, one leaping towards her, the rest running away.
She raised her staff again, dropping them all to their knees, her voice screeching through the tavern.
Horses trumpeted outside.
Archer stared at her, mute. His limbs were paralysed, blood flowing freely from where the bones protruded. He watched it pool across the table, filling the grooves like tributaries dripping to the floor.
His vision blurred as she leaned over him, lifting her cloak slightly to keep it from touching his face. The bag of coins disappeared back into her robe. She retrieved the keg as well.
‘Who’s the idiot now, Sunshine?’ she asked, heading to the tavern door.
He let out his last breath, cursing her through pale lips.
‘Damn you underworld bitches…’
Jaynan handed Kreshkali the reins. The mare was restless, pawing the ground. ‘I take it there’s no need to rush?’ she asked, securing her staff with double ties.
Kreshkali reached across the space between them and squeezed her companion’s arm. ‘No rush at all.’
She got Archer? How? Jaynan hid her surprise.
A silence built between them as they headed out of town, punctuated by the horses’ hooves clipping over the cobblestones.
‘Much of a fight?’ Jaynan finally asked, eyeing the small keg strapped to Kreshkali’s back.
The moon came out of the clouds, lighting the road with a soft glow as it rose towards the zenith. Kreshkali’s eyes were black, glistening. ‘None at all. The last of them gone.’ She paused. ‘Does that disturb you?’
Jaynan shook her head. ‘It’s a triumph, of course. But one thing’s confusing me.’
Kreshkali raised her brows.
‘Where is Bethsay’s child? Weren’t they going to deliver the girl to us…to you?’
Kreshkali urged her mare into an easy jog, which Jaynan’s horse matched. ‘The child?’ she replied. ‘Seems Archer got his instructions wrong. The child’s dead. Do you know how that could’ve happened, Jaynan?’
She knows! Or at least, she suspects. I can’t let her go back to Earth now, and I can’t turn my back. ‘What will we do?’
Kreshkali stretched her neck, leaning from side to side. ‘We’ll rest the horses and have supper before we head back home. The death changes everything.’
‘But…we have to keep moving!’
‘Do we?’ Kreshkali glanced down at the sheath that held her staff.
‘It isn’t safe.’ Jaynan gestured out into the black maw of trees that lined both sides of the road.
Kreshkali kept her face smooth. ‘What did you have in mind?’
‘Keep hiding, of course. We can go straight to Los Loma. It’s safe there. If we ride through the night, we’ll be…’
‘I’m not hiding any more,’ Kreshkali replied, throwing her voice behind her as she moved ahead at a gallop.
Of course you aren’t, my queen. And that’s why they sent me, just in case Archer failed.
They sped along until the woods thinned out into a grey meadow. Kreshkali brought her mare to a halt, dust rising around the horses’ legs.
‘Does this look safer to you?’ she asked, not waiting for an answer. She dismounted and led her mare out into the field.
She looked ethereal, like she was walking on water, the grass a shallow sea undulating beneath her feet. For an instant, Jaynan’s eyes burned, and she brushed the tears with her fists.
‘Wait up,’ she said, swinging her leg over the saddle and dropping lightly to the ground. ‘There’s something I didn’t mention.’ Not quite all the trackers are gone, my love.
‘What’s that?’ Kreshkali turned back as Jaynan’s thin sword levelled at her neck.
‘You have yet to deal with me.’
Kreshkali let the mare’s reins slip through her fingers. ‘What’s this?’
‘You’re coming back to Earth with me.’
‘Or?’
‘Or die here.’
Kreshkali lifted her head, avoiding eye contact. ‘I’m not going with you.’
Without hesitation, Jaynan thrust the sword tip forward.
Kreshkali’s mare reared, iron-shod hooves pawing the air. Kreshkali stepped to the side, inches out of the line of the blade, her own dagger flashing briefly before it sank deep between Jaynan’s ribs.
The tracker’s eyes went wild, searching for comprehension as her sword fell from her hand. ‘They’ll send more,’ she said, dropping to her knees. ‘You’ll never be free.’
‘Ah, but I will, sweet Jaynan. And you would have been too, if you’d only trusted me.’ Kreshkali bent to kiss the other woman as she slid to the ground.
The mare’s nose fluttered over the blood before it seeped into the grass. The moon went behind a billow of clouds, sucking light from the meadow as Jaynan died.
Kreshkali closed her eyes, no longer able to hold back the tears.
She rode for five days, stopping only to feed and rest her horse. On the sixth night, she arrived at the slopes of the Jacor Mountains above the treeline of Espiro Dell Ray. The stars winked in and out of view as mist drifted across the night sky. The mare rubbed her face on Kreshkali’s shoulder, covering her cloak in horsehair.
‘You deserve a rest.’ She took off the saddle and bridle, giving the mare’s shoulder an affectionate slap, and turned her out to graze.
She slipped the keg from her back and dug a shallow grave with her hands. She knelt in the grass in front of it, tears blurring her vision. With her dagger she cracked open the keg, sloshing the contents onto the ground.
Unwittingly, Bethsay…I had a hand in this.
She covered the site with small rocks, making a stone idol at each of the four directions.
You, and your family, won’t be forgotten.
The veil of mist dropped as the three-quarter moon shone through, dimming the stars. It painted everything with an iridescent sheen, bathing her skin in milky-blue light.
Into the night,
Into the dark,
Travel the worlds
Unencumbered.
The greater mysteries await.
‘Forgive me, Bethsay, and know that you will be avenged.’
She sat by the gravesite for the rest of the night and wept.
CHAPTER 3
‘Stars in the sky, look at you!’ ‘Nell!’ Rosette whooped with delight as she ran to the gate.
Nellion Paree stood in the garden, her long auburn hair playing in the spring breeze. She had the body of a dancer and a spirit like the sea—fathomless, unpredictable, life-giving, life-threatening. Her dark hazel eyes crinkled with her grin. However old she was—thirty, forty, fifty, older—Rosette didn’t know. Nell beamed with timeless exuberance and energy. Her ivory-coloured dress lifted above her bare feet as she opened her arms, its wide neckline slipping off one shoulder, revealing the tattoo of a black raven on her upper arm.
‘Come in, you gorgeous girl. I’ve been waiting for you!’
Rosette unlatched the wooden gate and entered the garden. It was like stepping into another realm where everything around her exploded with colour. Pink azaleas and sunny orange tiger lilies lined the path, and vivid unnamed bloom
s spilled out of the window boxes, setting off the cedarwood cottage with clusters of purple, red and lavender. Huge roses circled the chamomile lawn, their blossoms exquisite shades of pink, peach and tamarind, their fragrance intoxicating. She took a deep breath. The place seemed smaller than she remembered, though every bit as magical.
A creek gurgled in the background as it rushed towards the rugged coastline, a short hike to the west. At night the sound of the ocean crashing against the towering cliffs would fill her dreams. Once she had looked down from that vantage point. Her stomach had turned somersaults. Boulders larger than men were like tiny pebbles from where she stood. It took three hours to follow the winding track to the bottom, but she hadn’t been allowed to explore.
As Rosette raced up the path, ravens squawked and flapped and red-eyed figbirds and brightly coloured finches chattered in the shrubs. Several hummingbirds with ruby throats and chartreuse bodies hovered over the honeysuckle blossoms that draped the fence, their wings beating so fast they were invisible. What a wonder to be so close to the wild woods, far away from the noise and clatter of the city. Her father had said that Nell was a hermit, but Rosette saw a sanctuary teeming with spirit friends.
‘How’d you know I was coming?’ she asked in a rush, reaching for the woman and falling into her arms.
Nell nodded to the three ravens sitting in the lower branches of a central weeping willow. The corvids stopped their preening and tilted their blue-white eyes as if following the path of a fly. Together they cawed again and took flight. Rosette watched them flap away, each shooting off in a different direction, heading for the tall pines surrounding Nell’s home.
‘Every twig, sparrow and snake has spoken of your coming for the past two days,’ she said, looking into the distance. ‘The Three Sisters haven’t stopped yakking about it all morning. How could I not know?’