by Jeff Wheeler
The Beesinger stared down at the decapitated snake, then at the dead man, and a slow smile of relief brightened his face.
As Gabe lifted himself up, Rista could hear the noise of running and saw that Trea was fleeing the Ziggurat. She’d left her broken bow behind and Twig was dancing atop it, holding up his puny little dagger with his puny little arm and shaking it and hissing after the fleeing girl. A black bee buzzed around the kobold.
“Twig,” Rista croaked in relief, tears stinging her eyes.
Gabe had welts on his face and hands and he looked to be in a great deal of pain. But he used his dagger and severed the bonds at her wrists.
“There you are, Beesinger,” he said with a wincing look, rising to his feet and pulling Rista up with him. “Safe and sound.”
Rista’s heart nearly ripped open with happiness. She rushed to her father, weeping with gratitude as she hugged him.
“I’m so sorry, Father!” she babbled, hugging him, smelling the scent of mint along with the dirt and sweat.
He stroked her hair, hushing her soothingly. “It’s all right, Rista. It’s all right.”
Twig chattered away down below and Rista released her father and then dropped down. She turned to Gabe. “What happened back at the barrow mound then? I mean . . . you’ve been on our side the entire time? You could have told me!”
Gabe smirked at her, still looking uncomfortable with his sting wounds. “But that would have taken all the fun out of it. Besides, I had to be convincing for Mattson Kree.”
“You are Gabe Doer?”
He nodded. “Yes, I’m the king’s son. Why don’t you explain it, Beesinger? I’m not keen on talking now. Do you have any salve? This really hurts.”
“I do,” her father said humbly. He put his arm around Rista’s waist. “Thank you, Gabe. I owe you.”
The man shrugged. “It’s the least I can do for my father. His scouts should be at the Arvadin by now.”
“Hopefully,” her father said. “We’re short on food, and even I’m getting tired of eating honey.”
* * *
It was well after nightfall and father had built a bonfire on the tiles outside the Ziggurat. The first reason was for warmth, but the second was so that the light from it would be seen across the valley and help would arrive. They’d buried Mattson Kree’s body under a heap of stones, as well as the head of his atrox. Her father had warned them both about getting too near the severed head and explained that even a decapitated atrox could bite someone. They roasted the meat from the serpent’s body and had it for dinner that night.
Twig nestled in Rista’s lap and she stroked his scaly head with the knobs and horns. “So you only pretended to kill Twig,” she said to Gabe after the story had been told a second time. “He did know that you were in league with us?”
“He did try to leave you a clue, but you didn’t understand,” her father said with a small laugh. “We’ll have to brush up on kobold when we get back.”
Rista smiled and patted Twig on the head. “You’re a brave little kobold,” she said.
Twig began to purr and closed his orange eyes with a toothy grin.
“How did you get to the Ziggurat before us? We saw the light from your orb behind us. Did you overtake us then?”
“That was your brother,” her father answered. “I went another way to the Ziggurat and came around from that side,” he said, pointing. “Your brother came down the mountain and then hid the orb and went back for help. He wanted to come along and help rescue you, Rista. But I wasn’t going to risk two of my children.”
Rista shook her head. “I still don’t understand how Gabe and you know each other. How did he communicate with you? I’m confused.”
Gabe tossed another hunk of wood from the battering ram into the fire. “I’m my father’s spymaster,” he explained. “My gift with enmitical magic is with bats and rats, as you know. Nocturnal creatures. Back when your father fought alongside my father, he made a suggestion. People are always looking to cause trouble. I developed a reputation for being discontented—on purpose—to attract to me that kind of people, like Mattson Kree. Last year, a scheming duke tried to convince me to join his rebellion. I went along with it to find out who the ringleaders were. Then told my father. I thought Mattson Kree was trouble the moment I first met him. He was an ambitious and capable man. I came along, before knowing who his target was. Now that I understand his reaction to bee stings, I can see why he feared your father and you so much. It was his biggest weakness. His vulnerability.”
Rista nodded. “So you hadn’t spoken to my father directly.”
“Not at all. If you recall, I was standing behind Kree and Trea at the end. I smuggled Twig with me after leaving the barrowlands and showed him to your father to alert him that I was on your side.”
“So when I told Kree that it was three against one,” her father said with a gleam in his eye, “I should have said it was four against one. I didn’t know about Twig until the end.”
Rista laughed at that and smiled as Twig’s eyes opened again sleepily.
“So you stole ahead of us because you guessed where he was going,” Rista said.
“It was rather obvious,” her father said meekly.
Rista shook her head. “Well, I feel like a fool for not realizing any of it.”
Her father shook his head. “No, Rista. You had information that I didn’t. I thought it was going to be a fight at the end. You were trussed up and vulnerable, but I knew you could use your magic. I thought the odds of all of us surviving were rather small. The swarm frightened away that woman, and the stings killed Mattson Kree. It was your plan that worked best in the end. I’m proud of you, Rista.”
She flushed with his words of praise. The fire was so warm and she was exhausted by the ordeal. Sleepiness stole over her and she yawned. She hadn’t fully slept in days.
“Stop, you’re making me yawn too,” Gabe complained. He lifted the blanket around his shoulders and then curled up by the fire, his back facing it and them. “Good night, Beesingers. I don’t think I’ve ever eaten atrox before. I don’t think I’ll care to in the future.”
“Thanks again, Gabe,” her father said. He scooted closer to Rista and then reached out and patted her back. After a while, he pitched his voice low and stared at her. The firelight played over his face and whiskers.
“You’ve always asked me why I never joined the Enclave,” he said softly. “Not many get invited. Fewer still turn down the honor.”
She stared at him, feeling a strange prickle go down her back. She listened intently.
He glanced at the flames and then back at her. “Part of the reason was because I felt I didn’t deserve the honor,” he said. “It was Twig that helped overthrow the Overlord.”
Rista stared at him in surprise. The kobold was fast asleep.
Her father nodded. “After I crawled through that mess of black widow spiders, I discovered Twig. He was so weak and insignificant. The smallest runt of a kobold you ever knew. He was the Overlord’s drudge. But I befriended him and treated him well. And he showed me where the Overlord kept the bone. I snapped it, like a twig.” A crooked smile came to his mouth. “That’s where the nickname came from. The real hero of Battle Mountain is that little creature in your lap. Without him, we would have all died. So that’s the first reason I didn’t feel worthy to be part of the Enclave. I’ve never told you that story before because the king and I agreed that it was a secret best kept.” He paused a moment. “But the main reason I didn’t join the Enclave with Ilias and the others was the same reason the king didn’t.”
He reached out and poked the fire with a long stick.
“Why?” Rista asked softly. She reached out and put her hand on his knee.
He was trying to master his emotions. Rista waited patiently.
“I learned something about the Enclave during my travels with them. They live in an immaculate city surrounded by dazzling waterfalls and beautiful woods. There is music and po
etry and delicious food. When one goes to the Enclave, it reverses all aging and sickness. It restores you to a younger age. You can, in fact, live forever.” He tapped the stick on the ground and then crushed the embers on the end into the stone. “But if you live there, you can’t have children.” He glanced at her and shrugged. “More than anything else, I knew I wanted to be a father someday.” Then his hazel eyes fixed on hers. “That is a privilege worth more than Beesinging. I’d rather be back home right now more than anywhere else in the world. I’m glad you’ll be coming back home with me, Rista.”
He brushed a tear from his eye and then reached out and squeezed her hand.
Rista’s heart was so full she couldn’t speak. And so they held each other’s hands and stared at each other and listened to the crackling fire, not willing to disturb the magic of that moment with words.
Jeff Wheeler
Jeff took an early retirement from his career at Intel in 2014 to become a full-time author. He is, most importantly, a husband and father, a devout member of his church, and is occasionally spotted roaming hills with oak trees and granite boulders in California or in any number of the state's majestic redwood groves. He is also one of the founders of Deep Magic.
WWW: jeff-wheeler.com
The Churchyard Yarrow
By Cecilia Dart-Thornton | 6,100 words
The Delacey family was of the gentry. During their childhood at Charter Hall, Rose and her three older sisters had known the privileges of riches, respect, and influence, but that was before their father, John, had lost his entire fortune, and their mother had perished of consumption. Now they lived in a humble cottage in Allanwell, with one servant. They all had to work for their living. The new owners of Charter Hall had employed John. Margaret was the eldest daughter, striving vainly to appear older than her years and stand in for the mother they had lost; prosaic Katherine was next; shy, artistic Lizzie was the third; and Rose—who some might call ‘fey’—was the youngest.
This is an extract from their story, “Sundered.”
“I despise teaching,” announced Katherine vehemently as she arrived home late one February evening. Stamping into the kitchen, she held out her chilled fingers towards the blaze in the grate and proceeded to expound on the shortcomings of her students for the information of her sisters, who were seated around the trestle table, finishing their meal.
“If only I could find myself a rich husband, I should never have to teach again!” she concluded, thumping herself down onto a stool. The servant, Mary, placed a bowl of hot stew in front of her.
“Surely, and ’tis payin’ my wages you are with your teaching,” said Mary tartly, smoothing down her apron. “You would not have to be botherin’ yourself with your fretful pupils if you let me go. Sure, you could be peelin’ praties and sweepin’ out fire grates instead.”
Katherine banged down her spoon. “You don’t have to be saying sure all the time, Mary,” she said loudly. “It sounds bog-Irish. Mme Duval was always after telling us so.”
Margaret spluttered, struggling with a mouthful of so many retorts she did not know which to spit out first. “Hearken to yourself, Kitty,” she eventually burst out. “You with your afters and your pixy-led participles. ’Tis you that sounds bog-Irish!”
“All right, Miss Cleverclogs, how am I supposed to say it?” snapped Katherine.
“You ought to say ‘Mme Duval always told us so.’”
“Mme Duval always told us so,” recited Katherine, screwing up her face as though she had just eaten a sour plum. “Mme Duval always told us so.” She picked up her spoon—a greying piece of battered cutlery with a dented bowl—and held it aloft, crooking her little finger. “I do like to have good manners at the table,” she twittered. “Mme Duval always told us so.”
Lizzie and Rose giggled.
“Hold your blither, Kitty,” said Margaret, trying to suppress a smile.
Katherine banged down the spoon a second time. “Hold your blither, she says! How am I supposed to be finding a good example so that I can continue my proper English education? And if I do not end up refined and educated, how in heaven’s name can I find myself a rich husband?”
Fiercely she tore off a piece of bread and poked it into her stew. “Where’s Papa?” she asked, poised with the spoon hovering at her mouth.
“He was called out to a calving,” Rose volunteered.
“He’s not well enough to be traipsing out of doors in the middle of the night in winter,” said Katherine. Hungrily she began to eat her meal. Mary splashed and rattled the dishes in the washing-up tub.
“The ideal husband would love his wife for her humble ways and piety and charity to the poor,” said Margaret primly, “not for the way she speaks.”
“Oh, do you think so?” cried Lizzie, sounding somewhat alarmed.
“Of course!”
“Well, it’s not my idea of the ideal man,” said Lizzie rebelliously.
Margaret looked piqued. “I doubt you can think of a better,” she said.
“My ideal man would love his wife even if she sometimes forgot to be pious and humble,” said Lizzie. “He would be tall and strong, with laughing eyes and a ready smile. He would fear no man, and he would be generous and kind.”
“And have red hair,” put in Katherine, through a mouthful.
“Kitty!” Lizzie shrieked, mortified. “Rose, did you tell?”
“She didn’t have to tell. It is obvious.”
“Who has red hair?” asked Margaret. “Do you mean—”
“Please—” Lizzie said in a strangled croak.
“Let the poor child keep her secrets,” said Mary over her shoulder, taking pity on her.
“Kitty’s ideal husband would be handsome and rich beyond compare,” said Rose, to divert the topic. “Would he not, Kitty?”
Katherine nodded and swallowed. “He would have one manor house in Ireland,” she said, “one in India, and another in America. He would own a fleet of ships so fast they could outrun all others. He would dress in velvet and furs and wear a different hat for every day of the week, each one stuck through with great feathers. He’d have gold buckles on his belt and shoes, and he would be a favourite at the court of every king.”
“And he would love and honour you above all others and be faithful forever,” said Rose.
“Not necessarily,” said Katherine with a shrug. “With all that money, why would I care?”
“Katherine! Sometimes you’re the very devil,” said Margaret exasperatedly.
Mary flourished a dishrag and began to dry the crockery.
“Mary, what’s your ideal man like?” asked Rose.
“Lord, how should I know?” said Mary. “I never t’ought about it. ’Tis a waste of time. A body would be as like to ever find the ideal man as have the brownies come and do all her housework for her overnight.”
“I have heard of that happening,” said Rose. “Anyway if you don’t believe in the brownies, why do you leave a crock of milk out for them every evening?”
“That’s for the cat,” defensively countered Mary.
“We do not have a cat,” mumbled Lizzie.
“And what’s your ideal man,” challenged Katherine, turning decisively towards Rose. “You haven’t told us yet.”
Lizzie and Rose exchanged glances.
“Well,” said Rose calmly, “I’ll be telling you now, if you wish it.” She looked around at their faces. They were all watching her.
“He is tall and strong,” she said, “like Lizzie’s man—but his hair is as dark as a crow’s wing. It falls down his back, and he ties it out of the way like a horse tail. So handsome is he that the very stars hurl themselves from the sky, just to be near his beauty for an instant. His face is lean and taut, as though carved out of stone, and the bones are proud. Yet his look is not hard and cold, but youthful and lively. His jaw is shaven, the line of it well-moulded and firm. Dark are his lashes and eyebrows. His eyes are as grey as the sea in a storm, but they can flash suddenl
y if his passion is aroused, and there is a depth to them that is fathomless. His nose is long and aquiline, like that of the eagle.” Rose’s eyes appeared to be fixed on some faraway point, and she half chanted the words, as though quoting some ancient saga. “Broad are his shoulders, tapering to an elegant middle, and his belly is flat. He stands as straight as a spear, but moves with the grace and power of a wild horse. He is fearless, loyal, and honourable. To his enemies, he would appear to be the devil himself, but as a lover, he would be matchless.”
Katherine was forgetting to eat. She sat at the table with her mouth hanging open. Mary stood motionless, the dishrag in one hand and a dripping platter in the other. A small puddle was forming on the flagstone floor at her feet. Margaret was leaning forward, staring at Rose, wide-eyed, and Lizzie had knotted her hands together so hard the knuckles had turned white.
After Rose finished speaking, there was silence, except for the sizzle of the fire and the moan of the wind under the eaves.
“Good Lord,” Katherine muttered to herself, “I would sell my soul for one exactly like that.”
“It’s as if you have met him already, Rose,” whispered Margaret, breaking the spell. “Have you?”
“No. Well, yes, in a way.”
“What do you mean?”
“I sometimes see him in my dreams.”
“Heavens above, I wish I could see him in mine,” said Katherine fervently. “I am completely in love with him.”
“He does sound fine,” murmured Margaret, in an uncharacteristically mellow and pensive tone.
“Indeed he does,” agreed Mary with a sigh. She turned back to her duties.
“As fine as can be, with the single flaw that he does not exist,” Katherine mourned.
Rose said, with some hesitation, “Lizzie drew a picture.”
“Let’s see it!” chorused her two eldest sisters.
They leaned together over the scrap of paper that Rose produced from her pocket.