I don’t bother checking anywhere else. The next one should be in the center of the south wall; it is. This hand faces up, fingers flexed in a half-closed fist.
At the east wall, a graceful hand pinches at nothing, thumb and forefinger barely parted.
Now that I’ve seen all four I return to the glade. Nothing has changed. The parchment sits undisturbed. Sacrifico. My only clue.
I struggle with the shape of each hand. Blood? My life would be a sacrifice. Potions? The Gardener already deprived me of a few and I’ve managed anyhow. Herbs? What?
Making my way back to the first hand, I think hard on the parchment and the hand’s posture. Downturned, one finger extended beyond the rest, knuckles raised. It’s familiar. My father held his hand the same way during fealty ceremonies, offering his ring.
His ring.
Removing my pack, I reach for it. The signet strikes my palm.
Its gold is tarnished, oval ruby dulled by time and travel, but its inscription is etched deep and eternal and in my eyes the ring holds no less power. A line unbroken.
It slips over the finger’s tip, and although the stone looked thicker a second ago, my father’s ring fits it perfectly. The handed closes into a fist, and melts into a wall on a ripple.
“No! No-” Clawing, pounding, punching until I’ve painted the white stone crimson. It’s pointless. The hand and my father’s ring are gone.
I bartered with thieves and lords of the smuggler’s dens, and even murdered on occasion, to get something of my father’s. Fuck sacrifice.
My hand is already healing as I grip the astratempus. A glimpse confirms that time is winding down. I can kick my feet all day, but I know what has to be done.
The upturned hand. I drape my mother’s green and gold pennant over the palm. It bears a stag, part of my family’s crest. Her needlework was fine, gold tinsel thread flowing one stitch into the next, not a single pick or pucker in the green silk.
The stone hand clenches, and the last of my mother’s work is gone.
My father broke down a little during the execution. Being made to look on so much suffering before he died must have gutted him. But my mother...I can see her face as I cross the garden, rain spattered, beautiful long brown hair shorn but her eyes...so proud. So defiant. When Iden had begun to ramble about the new golden future of the people, she interrupted to ask him to please send the ax and spare her a boring last five minutes on earth. But she said please, because she was a fucking lady till the end.
I’m not ashamed of the tears painting my cheeks when I reach the curled hand, but I hate that they come so easily, memories so ready after all this time to tear me apart.
I spent a lot of short nights – shortened by long days of the discipline of monks and the lessons of sword-lords and magisters – crafting the tapestry of my vengeance. The last thread always knots with my death. Not because I can’t see another way; because I never wanted another way. I wouldn’t have to live a few more decades reliving the slaughter of my family. Esmanth would marry, bear children.
The line unbroken.
I don’t have to guess what to do here. My brother Tagan was rigid about is duties, dogmatic. He made it easy to be the wastrel, troublemaking, vice-ridden younger brother. But on our birthdays, or in the winter when all the world was ungodly cold and dead, we’d travel to Berheim for outrageous bets and even more outrageous women. He brought his dice of fortune, which everyone claimed were loaded. The trick was that they were not loaded; he was just that good. So he’d allow the dice to be confiscated, his opponent would lay a ridiculous wager, and Tagan would clean the man’s purse down to the lint.
I drop the bone dice into the waiting palm. I can’t watch them disappear.
Last hand. I feel relief at finally getting to the point of this puzzle, but nothing else.
Esmanth’s slim hand, graceful like our mother’s. Her prayer beads sit perfectly pinched between the stone fingers, counting reverence to Dinnja. I hold them for a long moment as they rest there, and then let go.
I take a deep breath.
I haven’t lost everything. There’s still my sister to fight for, and this place may be absolutely mad, but what I’ve seen and done, the women I’ve met...life after my revenge doesn’t feel so bleak. Like maybe there’s something to live for, after.
Esmanth’s prayer beads disappear, and my heart isn’t as heavy. They're just things, a sacrifice, but a worthy one, in the end.
It feels like a dark shroud has lifted from my soul, and I understand the point of this trial.
Overhead the sun dims. The sound of birds warbles faintly. Voices join the noise.
The terrace phases in. A breeze, the pond’s easy slosh. The Gardener appears, sliding from the copse. She moves faster, and her form seems different. When she reaches the terrace, it shades sun enough that I can see her better. Her face and body have color, like a faded mosaic. Dull and primary, but her cheeks show a hit of pink, eyes blue, robes faded mossy green. Each defeated realm seems to improve her. I wonder what this means down the road, but don’t say anything. This place holds an element of chaos I’ll never completely trust.
“Sacrifice,” she murmurs.
“They were just things. They don’t bring anyone back, and they don’t change whether I have my memories.” Maybe this is dangerous to admit, that what felt like sacrifice turned out to me more of a cure.
“Some would not have parted. Some didn’t. They perished.”
The blue stain of her eyes seems to flick over me. It could just be a trick of the light. “A boon has been added to the astratempus.”
The last boon turned out to be pretty fucking great. I wonder what this one is.
The Gardner turns. “Prepare for the last trial of the North wing,” she instructs over her shoulder, already moving back toward the glade.
“Wait! I have some questions...about Cocidius, about the man in Finna’s realm.” I know better than to ask about the boon, however.
She turns, and her arms creak up into a wide vee as though she’s gesturing around us. “The temple is questions, with few answers. You will, for the most part, have to find the answers for yourself.”
Great. That’s reassuring.
Finna appears from around the lake’s bend. Just the sight of her, the soft quiver of her body as she walks, makes me swallow hard.
“Where did you go? What happened?”
“Uh…” I gesture at everything. “The temple happened. Sorry.”
“Ah. I thought something happened to you. The others said it was probably the trial.”
“You’ve met everyone?”
“Mmhmm. The Garden is beautiful, and it’s strange and wonderful to be with other creatures again. Except the succubus.” Finna pouts. “She keeps poking her tail into me when I’m not looking.”
The image of this stirs my cock. “I’ll tell her to stop.”
“No, it’s fine,” Finna says brightly. “I just want her to know her place as lesser seductress before I allow her to poke me with anything.”
Whew. So glad I have another trial ahead. This could get ugly. Really, really hot, but first? Ugly. “Good luck with your witchfight.”
Finna giggles and we start toward the chamber lawn where the women sit.
“Are you alright?” she asks.
“Yeah.” I respond reflexively, but I’m surprised when I realize it’s true. I am alright. It’s been so long. And I’m kicking ass, with three realms down. That’s something. I want to tell her, but something stops me.
“You know I felt it, when we coupled. If you don’t want to say anything, that’s fine.”
I don’t say anything. I want to, but I don’t know how. “I don’t know if you’d understand.” I sound like a dick.
Her voice is distant, wistful. “You might be surprised. I watched my lake, the Great City, the world, and the creatures in it poisoned and twisted, destroyed. I spent year after year alone and hopeless. Sometimes more than that. What was done...it’s
etched in the stone tablet of time. But here I am. Things are better. Hopeful.” Her sigh comes out as a soft gurgle. “For the first few minutes here, I felt angry, guilty. But that was silly. I didn’t cause the harm or make those choices. I’m here, and all I can do is move forward.”
“Wow.”
“Yeah?” She laughs.
“Yeah.”
Finna bumps me with her shoulder. It clings to my leather and tugs me. “Ancient creatures have a little wisdom for you mortals. We’re more than illicit couplings and curses and punishments that involve turning you into strange stuff. At least sometimes.”
Meridiana is on her belly in a spill of small pink flowers, systematically plucking and tossing them.
Freya sits against a column of the chamber where I’ve slept, holding a book in her lap. She raises it when she sees us. “There are books now! They just appeared.”
“I know that book…” Finna bends to see the cover. “These are from the library in the Great City.”
Of course they are. This place is batshit crazy. I glance up at the sun, then check the astratempus because I don’t dare trust my eyes. “I only have a minute. Just saying hello.”
“It’s been a really wonderful day,” says Freya, getting up and taking her book into the chamber’s deep shade.
I don’t miss her hint.
She stands beside the headboard with her back against the wall. “I’m really glad you made it back.”
Her nipples are hard through her sheer white gown, the shape of her body no secret beneath it.
“I’m glad, too.” I can smell her after two steps, her sweet perfume and musky arousal.
“Meridiana told me that each time we couple with you, it strengthens us both. The gifts we share with each other. Did you know that?” she breathes, eyes flicking over me.
“I do, and you do?”
“Or she does, or Finna. Whoever you couple with.”
My hand skims her waist, her hip. “Meridiana tells a lot of naughty tales.”
“That’s what I thought–” Her lips crush mine and our teeth clack together.
“There’s only one way to know for sure…”
Freya hikes her dress, plants one foot on the bed and rocks forward, supported by the wall. Her pussy already glistens.
“Hard. Fast.” She softly snaps her orders while I tear at my belt.
I crouch, grip her ass and work inside her with a single thrust.
Her nails bite deep in the meat of my neck. “Don’t wait...don’t-”
She slouches, raising to my cock, opening her thighs wide. The change in angle rakes the top of her pussy over my head, my shaft. I rip the shirt from her, and her heavy breasts raise, then fall, bouncing as they drop, then keep bouncing as I fuck her, my cock plunging deep inside, over and over.
She leans forward, kisses me, hard. My lip between her teeth is a promise, and she sucks it as she pulls away. Her tits are in my hands, and I roll them, push them together so her nipples brush. I roll them, and they cling to each other, gripping wetly before releasing. They’re hard as I take them both in my mouth at once, and I suck, pulling them backward until they pop from my lips.
Freya moans, takes me deeper, all the way to my root. She grinds against me, and the head of my cock against the wall of her pussy finishes me. I bury my face in the sweat of her neck and cum, and the noise that comes from me doesn’t sound entirely human. She feels so hot, inside, so good, and I slide quicker, lubricated by my cum.
Freya clings to me, and I can feel the moment she tenses, so close. I thrust once more, hard, so deep inside that I can grind her clit with the base of my cock. Her body and pussy writhe a moment before she collapses back against the wall, breathless and pink.
“Fuck me.”
Freya licks her lips and nods. Her hand flashes out and she drags her nails down my arm without restraint. This time wounds hardly form before they’ve healed.
“It works!” she gasps.
“Do you feel different?”
She closes her eyes. Her fingers flex. “I do.”
“Fuck me,” I whisper again.
Freya smooths down her dress. “I don’t think that’s going to be a problem for anyone.”
I feel some serious regret that it’s time to leave.
–The Tyral Wood–
Kumiko
I pass from the garden through a shallow cave set in a cliff that stretches away on both sides. The portal out shimmers into existence next to me. I ignore it and examine my surroundings. No way I’m taking the portal now.
The camp ahead is the sort weary travelers dream of on long treks. A fire crackles in a well-made pit ringed by stump stools. A weathered but sturdy field tent sits beyond. There’s a trestle table set with food, mostly roasted vegetables and greens, and bottles of what look like small beer or. Nearly all of this is housed by ruins, white pillars and crumbling walls similar to those of Finna’s city. But it feels more austere, more ancient or more long-abandoned. The ground tells a story of the history, eroded bricks assailed by weeds poked through their connective mortar.
I turn a slow circle, marveling despite all I’ve seen. This must have been a magnificent room, long ago. Like Finna’s library its broken to nearly foundations and weathered, open to the sky. Its mosaic floor is now more like a yard, plucked by grass and woven with roots.
A path runs from the camp, set by twin pillars at each side just at the place where it reaches the ruins. They tower above the forest like remnants of a Titan city, maybe the skeleton of a gate or triumphal arch. Both columns are set with a face; on the far side it appears as a gorgon mask with wide mad eyes and a tongue that curls wickedly toward the heavens. Closest to me, the face is more human, stone features twisted with anguish. Its eyes loll heavenward, mouth open in an eternal moan.
Almost touching this column stands a side wall, the only one still remotely intact. There’s something carved across its face. Six or eight lines of some long-dead language.
Sword drawn I move close to examine it. I paid some attention to my tutors, but the loops, dashes and diacritic marks are nothing I recognize.
I peer beyond the wall. A pond. A wooded glade. I take the place in details, not a complete picture, trying to understand what to do, how to defend.
A storm roar blows from beyond a tree line that swallows the brown ribbon of road. Its violence and force blow dust and grit from the ruin.
I squint into it and crouch behind a pile of loose bricks at the column’s base.
A crash in the thicket becomes outright destruction. The snap of wood, the terrified shiver of leaves torn free by chaos, and pounding. Furious, war-horse pounding.
What the fuck could make this noise? An ent? A forest giant?
Turns out, it’s worse than I imagined.
The beast tears along the road, aimed dead for the camp.
Its shape is right, but its size and composition are so very wrong.
A wolf. It’s half the height of a tree, like pack beasts of the Eastern rainwilds. It has the face of a nightmare, glowing green eyes against midnight fur. A long snout slavers and reveals the razor peaks of white teeth. A wolf’s body but it has the gait of an ape, paws like a steed’s that tear the ground, pulling chunks of earth that fall behind in a stone rain. It radiates menace, hunger, a machine made to rend and kill.
I almost fall over wrestling my blades free. If that thing is coming to fight me, I can almost guarantee I’m fucked. It’s closed the distance to camp faster than I could ever outrun.
It’s not until he’s a few yards away that I realize he’s not alone.
Compared to what chases her, the creature is miniature, a brown blur dwarfed as she keeps just ahead of her pursuer. She doesn’t make a sound, no cries or screams. Not even the furious padding of her long feet does more than knock up dust.
She’s a bolt of lightning racing along the old road, and she’s losing.
Before I can climb the bricks and intercept them, almost before I can th
ink, the wolf lunges. His breath, like a gale, stumbles her. It’s enough. He rounds the predator’s hook of his head. Massive jaws close around her, snapping shut with a violence I can hear in the meeting of its teeth
Now she screams, not with pain but despair and anguish.
Her scream breaks off and she disappears, evaporates into a thousand sparkles that blow away on the wind.
The wolf stops its flinging and howls its rage into the sky. It circles, noses, and digs furrows in the road, sending up a shower of bricks that ricochet off the wall behind me. I duck too slow; one smashes my back, buckling my knees.
My sword swings around on instinct, to block, defend. Its teeth will be on me any second.
It doesn’t so much as look at me. With a last frustrated howl the wolf disappears, too. It splinters into a thousand shards of darkness that swirl across the ground, melting into the shadows of the landscape.
Fuck.
I stagger back into the camp. How was I supposed to react fast enough? There was no clue, no warning. I failed the fucking trial before I was all the way inside. How could I have stopped that thing?
I pull the astratempus from my chest piece. The hand still moves.
Something’s wrong with all this.
No artifact, no idea what happened to her, and no time. The hand’s position reminds me that Finna’s realm took most of my day.
I run the length of the camp, looking for clues, anything to help me understand this trial, what the hell I’m supposed to do.
From the far side of the camp I hear something.
A whinny.
The horse was not here a second ago. It stands beyond the wall, grazing at well-trod patch of grass. Its calm, tail flicking carelessly, as if there wasn’t a monster on the loose.
Bizarre.
It’s gorgeous, a palfrey built for speed, greater than any my father bred on our estate. Dark chestnut skin ripples in the faded sunlight, and it stamps muscled legs, mashing the grass. The mount is easily fourteen hands at the withers and saddled. It’s obviously trained; it doesn’t gallop away or even rear as I approach.
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