by Megan Derr
The priest held out a hand, palm up. "It is never a chore to do the Great Dragon's work. At least He does not make me dance beneath the hot sun. My duties compel me to find a dark room and a cold drink."
"Better songs than prayers," Mahzan replied. "The only part of prayer I ever mastered was getting on my knees." He sank to his knees and leered, causing the crowd to burst out laughing and shout bawdy comments of their own.
The priest threw his head back and laughed, brushing aside the other priests when they frowned and tried to draw him back. He was handsome, for a priest—pinkish-white skin, which was unusual even in the Heart, pale gold hair shaved very close to his head, his eyes the green of the seas rather than the more common brown or amber. A child of the Outer Isles, then; it was rare they came so far inland—even rarer they took up the priesthood. "You're supposed to bow your head after kneeling, Jester! That's where you get tripped up."
"I've never had any complaints!"
"And no one complains of my ability to pray," the priest replied. "We each have our skills, bestowed by the Great Dragon. Enjoy your stage!"
"Enjoy your dark room!" Mahzan replied, and pulled out his panpipes to begin a song while the crowd still laughed and exchanged dirty jokes. He glanced again at the priest, who waved at him with a genuine smile before he finally let his brothers drag him off amidst scowls and warnings.
He entertained the crowds for another hour, then traded off with another jester and slipped away to clean up and dress for dinner. A servant had left a tray of food in his room, for which Mahzan was extremely grateful. Though he was the King's Jester, a fool was a fool, and generally ignored when not performing. It was too easy to forget that the entertainers needed food and rest the same as anyone else.
Stripping off his clothes, he stepped into the bathing tub he always kept in one corner of his little room. He scrubbed off quickly, then retrieved the special soap he kept on a shelf high on the wall over the tub. The soap was costly, but the only thing that effectively removed his face paint.
Mahzan dried off hastily and sat to eat a quick meal before dressing again. His ensemble this time was a brilliant concoction of purple, pink, and white. He painted his face to match, one half purple, the other half a checkered pattern of pink and white. He painted his lips a beautiful dark purple that shimmered ever so faintly.
Ready, he picked up his marotte and twirled it idly, then lifted it to admire the head: a horned dragon wearing the mask of the jesters. The priests had been furious when they learned of it, the sacrilege involved. But the king had permitted it because didn't tradition dictate that jesters offend the church? Was it not the job of the jesters to disrespect everything?
The decree of the king was the end of the matter, though it had not ended the church's resentment. But if the church was not resenting something, they would lose all sense of purpose. Mahzan smirked, remembering the priest who had played with him earlier in the Great Courtyard. Handsome, pretty, possessed of a sense of humor—not a very good priest at all.
He looked up as the bells began to ring, twirling his marotte as he left his room and strode through the halls of the royal castle. In the Hall of Kings, tables were arranged and hundreds of guests enjoyed the best that the king had to offer—and King Yavuz the Fourth was very generous to his guests.
Personally, Mahzan thought Yavuz was overcompensating after having barely won the throne from his brother, Prince Seda, who'd been greedy, violent, and unworthy. But Yavuz tended to try too hard to show he was not Seda—something Mahzan occasionally pointed out to him, when Yavuz was in the mood to be playfully criticized.
Tonight was not one of those nights, but if it was, even Mahzan would not find fault with his king publicly when he was going to so much trouble for his people. Mahzan lingered in the doorway of the servants' entrance, listening as the priests concluded their evening songs—formal prayers were always sung, rather than simply recited, and the priests performing were skilled. Fires, he could even feel sincerity coming off some of them, and wasn't that a rarity. He had never met anyone as insincere as a pious priest, but he supposed there must be exceptions.
His eyes strayed over them, landing briefly on the handsome Isles-born priest from before. He daydreamed a moment of seduction, dirty deeds in a dark hall, the noises the priest would make, skin flushed with exertion and the fear of being caught. How he would taste? Would he be shy or eager? Fun either way. And a priest would be in a hurry to return to his temple, with no desire to linger or become attached.
As the prayers wound down, Mahzan put his full attention back on his task.
Drawing a breath, summoning up his performance calm, he moved—somersaulting in a long series of tumbles into the middle of the room, stopping directly in front of the choir of priests. "You've sung long enough," he said imperiously, and waved his marotte toward the door. "You are dismissed, dragonets. Run along back to your cave now."
The Isle priest laughed, ignoring the looks his brothers sent him. He tossed his head and smirked, "La la la, Fool. I was promised bread and milk before I was sent to bed."
Mahzan leered. "Be good, dragonet, and I'll give you milk later."
"Fool!" the High Priest snapped from where he sat at the king's table. He was puffed up like a fishwife with a cheating husband and looked about ready to scream twice as loud. "You go too far!"
"If you think that is going too far," Mahzan retorted, turning to face him, twirling his marotte in one hand, "you had best leave now before my next set of jokes makes you blush like a virgin on their wedding night."
The king laughed and motioned, his heavy, jeweled rings flashing in the light of hundreds of candles. The High Priest fell reluctantly silent, and Mahzan did the same. Still laughing, King Yavuz said, "Now, Mahzan. No picking fights before the fourth course."
Mahzan swept a deep bow, his head nearly touching the floor. "Sire, as you command." Rising, he whipped back around to face the priests and gestured imperiously. "You heard the man. You may not be offended by me until he's had his fish! Go along, then. Tell the cook to give you bread and milk, and if you behave, you may have half a tart each!"
Rolling their eyes, some of them muffling laughter, the priests bowed to the king and then moved to their table on the far left side of the room, beneath a banner of the Church—dark blue, with the Great Dragon in green and gold, bands of silver along the top and bottom.
"Lords and ladies, dearest king and queen, thank you for coming to see me today," Mahzan said to the room, sweeping another exaggerated bow as they all laughed and clapped. "Now that evening prayers have been said, let us undo the hard work of the priests by beginning the evening with tasteless jokes and stories. You, there, sir! In the blue doublet! You remind me of a tale of a man deceived by a lovely set of twins…"
He told stories and jokes for two hours—easy entertainment while people ate and talked and relaxed. As he finished one of his most popular stories, involving the follies of a man who tried to pretend to be his brother, the king beckoned him forward and handed him a cup of wine. "Well done, Mahzan. You are never disappointing."
"Your Majesty," Mahzan said, and bowed respectfully, then drank the wine and returned the cup. Refreshed, he returned to the center of the room and raised his marotte high in the air. "Now that you are warmed, mine audience, shall we—"
He stopped as the doors crashed open and several people spilled inside, collapsing to the floor in a pile of blood and bile. City folk mingled with castle guards, all of them shaken and pale. The terror pouring off them gave Mahzan a headache so sudden and strong he fell to his knees, marotte tumbling away as he cradled his head and tried not to vomit.
"Fearmonger!" one of them finally got out—then fell over dead as his wounds got the best of him. Around him, two others died, and the rest did not look as though they would survive the night.
If any of the remaining survivors said anything, it was lost in the cacophony of screams and rush of people either trying to help, or trying to get a
way. No one took lightly the scream of fearmonger, especially as more people came rushing in, bleeding and burning and dying.
Mahzan ignored them, turning and bolting for the royal table, even as a soldier—North Captain Sule—did the same. "Get the king to safety," Sule bellowed as more soldiers appeared to do precisely that, but he didn't bother to wait for them to act, simply grabbed King Yavuz's arm and hauled him up and away from the table, toward the archway that led deeper into the castle—
Right as the high, arched ceiling exploded. Stone, plaster, and wood came crashing down, causing a full-fledged panic. Mahzan saw Sule, Yavuz, and other soldiers and nobles vanish through a doorway. Looking around at the dead already filling the Hall of Kings, he mourned that only Yavuz and those with him would get away. He jumped out of the way as more ceiling came crashing down, and heard someone scream as they did not get out of the way in time. Mahzan's eyes blurred from the pain of trying to block out so much overwhelming misery, pain, and anguish.
Someone grabbed his arm and Mahzan whipped around with a snarl—and drew up short as he stared into the eerie blue-black eyes of Warlock Binhadi. "Calm them," Binhadi ordered. "If people do not stop panicking, we will never save any of them. Right now, you are the only one with mind magic strong enough. I know you can calm—look out!" He shoved Mahzan hard, sending them both the ground just as a large piece of stone fell where they had been standing.
Mahzan stared wide-eyed, then rolled to his feet and dragged Binhadi up with him. He looked around, the emotions assaulting him beginning to affect him. Everything was a mess. There were too many dead people, too many dying people. Blood, stone, ruined tables, fire and brimstone.
He looked up as the smell made him gag, startled by a sudden rush of hot air, and froze in terror as a fearmonger appeared in the hole where the beautifully painted ceiling of the Hall of Kings had once been.
He had hoped, deep down, that it was a misunderstanding. That it was not really a fearmonger, but some other, lesser creature. Fearmongers had not been seen for nearly a hundred and fifty years, by the grace of the Great Dragon. But that was definitely a fearmonger, a nightmare born in the depths of a sleeping volcano and somehow brought here to a place it would normally avoid. It was massive. Mahzan had never seen a living thing so enormous. He trembled, suddenly too cold and too hot all at once. He couldn't move, couldn't breathe. Couldn't do anything except wait to die.
Instead of dropping down to crush them all, however, the fearmonger launched into the air and vanished from sight—but not before bathing the air with fire.
"Damn it!" a voice snarled, and Mahzan saw North Captain Sule rush up, hands held up and fingers spread as he fought fire with fire, his eyes glowing red-orange.
Binhadi shook him again. "Calm them!"
"There is no one left to calm!" Mahzan snarled, but he tried anyway, closing his eyes to get hold of his own emotions, grabbing hold of everything that made his head ache, wrapping it in his performer's calm, and then pushing it out again.
But just as he could feel the calm affecting those most susceptible to such magic again, he heard more screams—and then was overwhelmed by the rush of people dying in fear and pain. He screamed in agony, falling to his knees again and heaving up stomach fluids. "Dead," he croaked. "The fearmonger—"
He looked up again, pale and shaky, when he heard it growl, smelled the brimstone, and bit back his own scream as it landed on the edge of what had once been the ceiling.
Movement from the corner of his eye made Mahzan look reflexively, reaching for the daggers he had not worn that night. Sule lay sprawled on the floor, head bleeding from where falling stone had struck him. The Isle priest Mahzan had teased earlier knelt by Sule to examine him. Mahzan could feel the man's relief a moment later, so Sule must be all right.
He could not say the same for anyone else. Beyond the four of them, he could feel nothing. Everyone in the castle, and very likely the city, was dead.
"We need to share power," Binhadi said, his eyes on the fearmonger. "We four are the only ones left. We need to link our power."
"I'm not giving anyone my power," Mahzan snapped, and he could feel the agreement of the other two.
Binhadi glared at them, dark eyes sharp and hot and more than a little frightening. Shivers ran down Mahzan's spine. "We don't have time—it's moving—your power! All three of you, now! It's our only chance if you want to live!"
Mahzan opened his mouth to protest, to name all the reasons it was stupid to simply throw your power at someone else—never mind a stranger, never mind a shadow mage with a reputation blacker than his eyes. But they were facing a fearmonger, and everyone else was dead. Binhadi was right: if they did not act, they would join the piles of bodies.
Opening his mind, Mahzan laid his hand against Binhadi's face for a connection. If they knew each other well, touching would not be necessary, but they were strangers, and so physical contact was necessary.
The fearmonger roared as the priest and North Captain Sule joined them, and moved as they too touched Binhadi—
Everything went quiet. It felt as though he were being grabbed, being choked, being smothered, couldn't breathe, couldn't feel—
Then he was free, and he could feel his power moving as Binhadi took it, used it. Shaken, disoriented, Mahzan fought not to fall to his knees again. Beside him, the other two looked as though they fared no better. They watched in silence as Binhadi battled the fearmonger with his shadow magic, unable to do more than feed him power.
Well, there was nothing the other two could do. But Mahzan had power in abundance, more power than a mere jester should, and Binhadi was nowhere near to depleting it. There was something Mahzan could do… but then he would be of no use to anyone when he passed out.
Fear and mistrust rolled through him, as strong and sharp as his own. The others. He could feel Sule, Binhadi, and the priest. He wanted them gone, wanted them out, but he could only watch as Binhadi fought the fearmonger.
Even in the midst of a nightmare come to life, a shadow mage wielding the full force of his notorious magic was a thing of wonder. Some said that as shadows were caused by light, shadow mages actually controlled and manipulated light. Mahzan had always dismissed the debate as semantics. Whatever they controlled, very little compared to seeing someone tear shadows from the ground and use them like a soldier with shield and sword.
Mahzan just hoped that one shadow mage and the power of three additional mages would be enough.
The fearmonger landed on the stone floor, crushing tables, bodies, and stone as it prowled toward them. It looked like some horrific bastardization of the Great Dragon himself, a contortion of scales and spikes, breathing fire and dripping stone-melting venom, reeking of blood and brimstone, shaking the hall with every step. It threw its head back and howled, a terrible, awful sound that made Mahzan clutch at his ears and bite back a sob.
Then it lunged.
Mahzan jerked back, knocking into Sule, who caught him with a grunt and impatiently shoved him off. "Fool."
"Fool yourself," Mahzan snapped—and then they all jumped as the fearmonger lunged again, only to roar in fury as Binhadi's shadows held him back.
Beside Mahzan, Sule swore in frustration. "We can't let him fight alone."
"No, but I don't see what we can do." Mahzan rubbed his forehead, trying to ignore the throbbing pain. "La la la," he muttered, and decided he didn't really need to be conscious. He was a jester, and his magic mostly useless, so what did it matter if he knocked himself out? It was not as though he had an audience any longer.
On that bitter note, he summoned what remained of his power, stole what he could from Sule and the priest, and focused it on what was left of the once beautiful ceiling—and with a scream brought it crashing down on top of the fearmonger, dragging the crumbling walls with it, and piling on any furniture not already crushed. He threw all of it at the fearmonger, everything his power could manage. Pain tore through him, black spots obscuring his vision, and he fell to h
is knees, struggling desperately to breathe through the agony.
He only barely noticed when Sule drew his sword and raced toward Binhadi, the priest alongside him… and around the priest, large dogs made of shimmering blue magic. So the priest was a shape mage, more commonly called a shaper.
Mahzan felt—something, hot and cold and tangling—and then it was all too much. The last thing he remembered was the sound of the fearmonger screaming.
*~*~*
A voice, hoarse and thin, was the first thing he heard when he woke. He stared uncomprehending into a face that looked vaguely familiar. "Isle priest," he rasped, then coughed, sat up, turned around, and threw up again. There was nothing remaining in his stomach, but it tried anyway, until Mahzan's muscles were sore and his throat scraped raw.
Wiping his mouth on a grimy sleeve, he turned back to the priest. "What's going on?" There was smoke everywhere, stinging his eyes and clogging his mouth. The priest helped him to his feet, and Mahzan went stumbling and tripping along as he was half-led, half-dragged from the ruined Hall of Kings.
Through the castle they went, and he could just see Binhadi and Sule in front of them, one a black figure in the smoke, the other brilliant scarlet. Mahzan was too tired, too drained, to block out emotion, and it just made him more nauseous and tired and afraid. They were all afraid, sick with it, angry and offended.
Eventually they spilled into the kitchens, equally blackened and ruined—but a hole where a wall had once been had cleared away most of the smoke. Binhadi led them to the hole and climbed over what remained of the wall. Then they were running, tumbling down a steep slope to the bank of the Great Lake.
A fishing boat was still tied up at the pier where the royal fishermen went out every day. All the other boats had been taken by other survivors or destroyed. Clambering into the boat, Mahzan collapsed again. He caught the sneer Sule cast in his direction, and snapped, "Let's see how well you walk after feeling the dying emotions of tens of thousands of people."