by Loki Renard
"Out of the question."
"It's not an option." Rog's dark eyes held determination. "I have a fight every night this week. Two at the end."
"Impossible."
"It has to be possible." Rog was as stubborn as his grandmother.
"Why don't you tell me why it is so important you fight?"
"Ugh," Reed said, casting her cup aside. "We need three thousand pieces of gold to get some of our idiot people out of jail before they go before the magistrate and get their necks trimmed."
"I see." Ayla turned back to Rog. "So you will break your body a thousand ways to save those who owe you allegiance. That is honorable. If ill-advised."
"I don't have many ways to make money," Rog said. Spoken aloud, the words clearly humbled him. He avoided Ayla's gaze and Reed's supportive stare alike, casting his eyes toward the ground.
"You shouldn't have to make money," Reed said. "It's not your job to make money. It's your job to... be you."
"Be useless, you mean," he muttered.
"You have broken at least three ribs," Ayla said. "You have twenty four in total, so at the current rate you can perform eight fights before breaking all your ribs. As for the legs, you only have two of those. So I suppose that creates a problem."
"You think this is funny?"
Rog's tone was sharp, but his body language spoke to a deep relief and relaxation. He laid flat out on the bed, his eyes half closed as Ayla whispered a spell over his fractured leg.
"If you insist on fighting each and every day, I can provide relief thereafter," Ayla said. "I do not have much else to offer in the way of assistance."
"That's very kind," Rog said. "But I will not need your help again. Last night was just an off night."
There was an audible snort from Reed. "You never think you're injured," she said. "Your head could be cut off and you'd say it was just a little detached."
"Right," Rog replied, "tell me all about accepting your physical state of health, Reed. You're a real expert in that area."
"A sniffle isn't the same thing as walking on a broken leg."
"A sniffle? You probably don't have lungs anymore. You have two weed pouches where your lungs used to be," Rog teased.
"You're about to have another fight right now if you're not careful."
"Threatening me?" Rog laughed. "What are you going to do, wheeze me into submission?"
"Have you been cutting down on the smoking, Reed?" Ayla interjected.
"I have," Reed said. "Crispin stole my pouch."
Ayla's hands stopped moving for a moment. "Crispin?"
"Yeah, you know Crispin?" Reed cocked her head to the side. "You two related or something?"
"No, I don't know Crispin," Ayla said, returning to her work. "The name sounded familiar, that's all."
"Crispin's a tricksy elf," Reed complained.
"Just as well," Rog replied. "Someone needed to get the herb off you."
"Was there any reason you weren't capable of such a simple task?" Ayla made the inquiry in as gentle a tone as possible.
"Taking Reed's herb off her is dangerous business," Rog replied, deadpan. "Only Crispin would have the nerve to do something like that."
"So this Crispin is above the law even to people who are above the law themselves. What makes Crispin so powerful?"
"Oh Crispin's just Crispin," Reed said. "Crispin has been Crispin since before Clitera was Clitera. I don't mess with Crispin. Even the palace doesn't mess with Crispin."
"Is that so?"
"Oh yes," Reed replied. "My powers never worked on Crispin. It's like... Crispin exists on Crispin's own plane. Steps through the spaces between spaces..."
"You sound like you've been back on the herb," Rog pointed out. "Crispin's just like, this guy, you know?"
"Pretty sure Crispin's a girl," Reed rejoined.
"If this Crispin is so powerful, why not have Crispin get these ratlings out of the trouble they're in?"
"Crispin thinks they deserve it." Reed waved her cup in the air. "Like I said, you don't mess with Crispin."
Nodding, Ayla slid her hands away from the chief's leg. "You should feel better now, Roger."
"I feel like I was never hurt at all," Rog replied, stretching his limbs and arms out. They moved as smoothly as they had the previous day, bones mostly knitted and bruises gone. "You are a wondrous healer. Thank you, Ayla. Thank you very much."
"You're more than welcome," Ayla said. "And, for what it is worth, you are certainly not useless. There is great honor in providing for one's people as best as one can. Remember, no one person can do everything."
*****
The ratlings were easy to deal with. Unfortunately for Ayla, the elf was not quite so easily taken care of. She felt Crispin many times that day. The elf paid her no more direct visits, but every now and then, Ayla could sense Crispin's presence. It was in a soft whisper between spoken words, the note that was not sung when the bard played.
Many times she warded herself, but each time the ward fell, leaving her exposed. Every time the magical protection waned, Ayla waited for Crispin to make an appearance, but nothing happened. She got the impression that Crispin wanted to make her feel vulnerable. Crispin wanted her to know that she was unprotected, that she was easy prey.
Doing her best to ignore the elf's machinations, Ayla sat down to a pleasant dinner with Atrocious and Rogette. Atrocious had just asked Rogette if she could possibly store a complete set of encyclopedias in her vagina. Rogette was replying that it would do no good to store encyclopedias in her vagina, for Atrocious was an uneducated peasant anyway and would not know what to do with a book if it hit her in her ugly face, when the air turned blue.
Ayla felt a cold sliver of something alive and yet metal slip around her neck. It clicked closed and solidified at the base of her neck, cobalt steel hard against her collar bone.
"Daughter of Erwydden," Crispin said, clear as day across the room. "You have grown arrogant. Forgetful of the proper ways."
Realizing that Crispin had been there the entire time, simply unseen, Ayla refused to give into astonishment. "I never knew the proper ways," she replied. "And I have no interest in becoming acquainted with them now. Remove this bauble at once."
"I don't think I will," Crispin said smoothly. Crossing one elegant ankle over the other, Crispin leaned back against the wall. "You have rather captured my attention. So I have captured you. It seemed fair."
Ayla looked upon Crispin with the same expression she might look upon a particularly malignant oozing wound, disgust tinged with a hint of concern. "And what do you intend to do with me, now you have captured me?"
"Well, I suppose I can do as I please," Crispin said, a playful smile crossing thin lips.
Looking toward the edge of the blue tinge, Ayla saw Atrocious and Rogette sitting in precisely the same place, frozen in time. Somehow Crispin had pulled her out of the flow of existence, in much the same way a summoner might.
"This magic," Ayla said. "This is not yours to wield."
"And yet I wield it."
"With an unlikely skill," Ayla noted. "Holding the essence of a moment is not easy."
"Thank you." Crispin almost preened, blue eyes flashing with self congratulation.
"So then," Ayla continued. "I must ask why you allow your friends to suffer. Reed need not be ill, Roger need not break his body to save their comrades...”
"They are not my friends," Crispin said. "They are my playthings. A friend must be an equal. But these mortals, they are mayflies. Even you are destined to be short lived."
"Playthings. So you fancy yourself as a goddess, watching the misfortunes of mortals play out before you without any attachment at all, interfering only when it amuses you to do so."
"I am kind," Crispin said. "Those who know me trust me, for I make myself available to many. But what would be the sense in solving all their woes with a little trickery? Reed tried that, and see how she now lies."
"Drained," Ayla said. "Drained of her
magic. I thought her illness was the result of her smoking, but now I see otherwise. This magic you wield. It is hers."
"She was not making good use of it," Crispin sniffed. "So I have borrowed it for a while. It will teach her a lesson, and Rog too, not to mention all those ratlings who think they are beyond the law."
"The ones with their necks on the line for the sake of your lesson."
"Yes," Crispin said simply. "Perhaps they will meet with the headswoman. It is not a direct concern of mine."
"You are everything that is wrong with those of our blood," Ayla said, reaching up to take hold of the metal band around her neck. "I reject you. I reject all you stand for. Do not come for me again."
She wrapped her fingers about the band and pulled. The metal glowed white hot for a moment and the smell of singing flesh filled Ayla's nostrils, but still she pulled. She pulled though it was agony, though there was no worldly hope in removing the unrelenting steel. She pulled whilst Crispin stood and chuckled, amused at her willful attempt at escape. She pulled whilst her fingers burned and her neck protested. She pulled and she pulled... and then it broke. Under the stunned gaze of Crispin, the charm was shattered into a thousand pieces, steel turning to glass under Ayla's ire.
"I am not one of your playthings," she said, advancing upon the elf who had so foolishly crossed her. "I am not anything or anyone you imagine me to be."
Crispin's face was stricken with cold astonishment as Ayla drew closer. "Impossible."
"Nothing is impossible," Ayla replied, green eyes gleaming as she reached out to grasp Crispin by the front of the silken shirt which beautifully adorned the lithe frame underneath. "Only unlikely."
Pulling Crispin close, Ayla whispered words nose to nose. "I am Erwydden's daughter," she said. "Do not make the mistake of thinking that gives you power over me. I long ago relinquished her blood. What I replaced it with makes me more than you can imagine."
Crispin's lower lip trembled, and the thin, leggy body began to shake from top to toe in undeniable fear.
"What have you done?" Crispin whispered the words hoarsely. "What darkness have you taken into yourself?"
"None," Ayla replied. "You would not know the dark if you were unable to see your hand before your face. Your wisdom is facile, your long years wasted in self congratulation and the idle imagining that you are somehow above those who befriend you by merit of longevity. You have committed the old crimes of arrogance and treachery - do you know what sentence they carry?"
Crispin shook the answer: no.
"Death," Ayla said. "To the betrayer comes death. To the arrogant one who disregards all threats as being lesser, comes death."
"P...please..." Crispin begged. "Do not kill me."
"Me? Kill you?" Ayla's lips quirked. She released her hold on Crispin's shirt and stood back, her usual calm demeanor restored. "I will not kill you. You will kill you. Your undoing will be by your own hand. You may have lived a long time, but you have done little with it. You associate with tricksters and thieves because you yourself are one. You slip hither and thither, imagining yourself ruler of all you survey. You play games with those who come too close to you, because you despise them for not seeing you as you really are. Their admiration produces nothing but scorn in your breast. You tell yourself that the only reason they like you is because they do not really know what you are, because their petty consciousness could not possibly hope to understand the magnitude that is you." Ayla paused for breath. "But even that is not enough for you," she said. "You are so afraid of truly being known that you hide even the most basic parts of yourself. You hide your true name. You hide your gender. You are playing a role inside a role inside a role. All is hollowness to you, for you do not so much as know yourself."
Crispin stood quite still, fixed to the spot by Ayla's green gaze as the witch took apart each facet of the elf and laid it bare. It was worse than any beating, any threat, any physical act. Blue eyes welled with crystal tears, long slim hands went up to cover pointed ears, but still the words came through.
"You thought to capture me, because you mistook me for a creature like yourself. You think the world is as you are. You see no nobility, for you have none. You treat people as playthings, because you have made yourself trivial. You seek control in the shadows because you cannot trust the words on anyone's lips - and you cannot trust the words on anyone's lips, for you cannot trust the words you whisper in your own head."
"Stop!" Crispin cried. "Enough! I see I should not have crossed you. Take mercy on me."
"Mercy? What good is mercy to one who cannot give it?" Ayla's eyes narrowed. "You beg for something you do not understand."
Crispin took a step back and would have made an escape, but the magic no longer obeyed the elder elf. It obeyed Ayla.
"Please!" Crispin cried. "Let me go!"
"Would you have let me go?" Ayla posed the question dangerously softly. "Had I proven as weak as you imagined me to be, would you have let me go? Or would you have made me another of your playthings?"
"I would..."
"Do not lie to me," Ayla said. "Do not speak, for your every word is a lie. You have made a grave error. There will be consequences for this action. You will be my plaything. You will serve me as I command it. Do you understand what it is I am saying to you?"
Crispin nodded hurriedly, blonde hair flying in wisps. "It will be as you say."
"Yes," Ayla purred. "It will be."
*****
In all Crispin's days, she had never been so humbled, or so afraid. Adrenaline ran through her veins, heady like a drug. Every single one of her senses tingled. The air tasted like Ayla and carried the note of her voice long after she had finished speaking.
As the charm faded, Crispin followed Ayla into the present. The old women were bickering, frail voices lifted in strident confrontation. Crispin paid them no mind. She had eyes for nothing besides the witch's curvaceous, statuesque frame. Whatever Erwydden had mated with certainly tended toward the voluptuous. There was none of the flimsy air that so often characterized Crispin's people. There was an earthy solidity even in Ayla's most ethereal moments.
"Fetch us wine," Ayla said, not deigning to look directly at Crispin. She expected to be obeyed immediately and without question.
Crispin was not in the habit of fetching items upon request. Indeed, Crispin was not in the habit of taking requests. For a moment, she paused, uncertain as to what she should do.
"Wine," Ayla clarified. "Fetch it from behind the bar."
The mundane nature of the quest was an insult in itself, but Crispin could not very well refuse it for only seconds earlier she had been close to soiling herself. It was a curious thing, to discover a creature of power lurking in such a pedestrian guise. Crispin supposed she should never have taken the daughter of Erwydden to have been a simple witch. Erwydden had never been simple. She had been the closest thing the elven race had ever known to being a daemon. Perhaps that was the root of the witch's secret. Perhaps she had been birthed of a devil.
"Wine," Ayla repeated a third time.
"I'll get it," Rogette said, raising her rickety bones from her chair.
"No. Crispin will get it. Immediately."
Crispin was not in the habit of processing anything at speed. With an elongated lifespan came a nature of slow consideration. Nothing happened immediately. Certainly not the fetching of inebriating beverages. Whilst Granny Rogette was shuffling herself across to the bar, Crispin was gazing at Ayla with thoughtful detachment. What was the significance of the wine? Was there some meaning in the choice of beverage? Was Ayla thirsty? Or was the order given simply to test her power? Crispin reminded herself that, powerful or no, Ayla was younger than her by many years. Was it at all possible to be mastered by one younger than oneself? Certainly not in the world Crispin knew.