by Chris Evans
“You didn’t, dear,” Rallie said, reaching out a hand and patting her arm. “I myself have questioned the role I play on more than one occasion. I am cursed with an overpowering curiosity and thirst to know the truth of things, no matter how tawdry…or bloody.”
“Don’t you ever get tired of it?”
“Constantly, but then a new day dawns, a Star returns, and I find myself standing there in the middle of it all soaking up every morsel I can.”
Visyna chose her next words carefully. “You do more than simply observe.”
“I do what I can to help things along, no more. If my dispatches can aid them in any way, I would be pleased,” Rallie said, pointing toward the Iron Elves.
“I wasn’t referring to your writing,” Visyna said. “You wield power, Rallie.”
“I am not without…abilities,” Rallie said.
Visyna decided to push the issue. “Are they any you can teach me?”
Rallie turned her head slightly to look at Visyna. “You weave magic I couldn’t begin to understand. You pluck and stroke the very essence of the world around you. What I do is something very different, and not nearly as wholesome.”
“Her Emissary was afraid of you, at Luuguth Jor. It said this was not your time. What did it mean by that?”
Rallie turned back to look straight ahead. The wagon rolled along the cobbles, passing more people. An open square appeared off to their left, its center adorned with a cluster of thick-trunked palms. Visyna was about to try again when Rallie spoke.
“I’m not entirely sure what Her Emissary meant. I do have a theory, but it’s not one I can share with you yet,” Rallie said. “Tell me, my dear, how old do you think I am?”
Visyna recalled a similar question arising on board the Black Spike and decided to tread carefully. “Early…fifties,” she ventured, figuring Rallie was probably closer to seventy, possibly even eighty.
Rallie laughed and slapped a hand against a thigh. “Early fifties! Oh, you are a jar of honey, aren’t you? The thing of it is,” she said, lowering her voice again, “I have no idea. I can remember the last two hundred years quite clearly, but everything gets hazy after that.”
Visyna sat up straight. “Two hundred years? Do you have elf blood, or is this your magic?”
Rallie gave her a quizzical look. “That’s just it, I don’t know. There are pieces of memory in my head clear as a bell on a cold winter morning, yet I don’t recall ever being there, or doing the things I seem to remember doing. Quite fascinating, really.”
“Were you bespelled? How far back do these pieces of memory go?” Visyna asked. She knew Rallie had secrets, but this was amazing…and a little frightening. Who was this woman?
“There are memories that I have no right to remember,” Rallie said, brings a hand up to rub her nose. Visyna realized it also served to cover her mouth as she spoke. “Memories of when the Stars were first born.”
The questions piled up in Visyna’s mind until she almost couldn’t speak. “How is that possible? What does it mean?”
“That, my dear, is what I am working on. At the moment, I have no good answer, but like you, many good questions. I had hoped being at Luuguth Jor would unlock more of these memories, and it has, but they are giving up their secrets rather slowly. I need to find a way to speed things up, because I have come to believe that what I remember might be very useful.”
“At Luuguth Jor, you welcomed the Star back as if you knew it,” Visyna said, remembering the event clearly.
Rallie looked over at her again. “The thing of it is, I think I do, but for the life of me I cannot figure out how, or why. Too many pieces of the puzzle are missing. I hope being here will fill in a few more gaps,” she said, looking around at Nazalla as the wagon rolled on.
They sat in silence for some time after that. Visyna tried to imagine what it could mean. Was Rallie really over two hundred years old? And if two hundred, how much older? Could she really have been there when the Stars were born? But why would someone with such power have such a poor memory? A thought occurred to Visyna.
“Kaman Rhal’s Lost Library might have some—”
“—of the answers I seek,” Rallie said, finishing her sentence. “Yes, the thought did occur to me.”
Visyna marveled at the realization. “All this time I thought you were here because of Konowa and the Iron Elves. You’ve really been following the Prince, knowing he would eventually lead you to the library.”
“True, but I think I’d have followed these Iron Elves and the major at some point regardless. They are endlessly fascinating, especially Sergeant Arkhorn.”
Visyna decided to leave that subject alone. A few tossed dates landed on the canvas tarp stretched over the wagon. Rallie turned around to look over her shoulder. “Be a dear and grab the one that doesn’t look like the others.”
Visyna turned, half expecting a joke, but she immediately saw that one was indeed very different from the others. She reached out to take it and realized immediately by its feel that it was a chunk of polished wood carved and stained to look like a date.
She leaned over to give it to Rallie, but she shook her head and kept her eyes on the street ahead.
“Open it, but in your lap so that no can see.”
Visyna pulled the fake date apart. Inside was a tiny piece of rolled-up parchment. She carefully unrolled it. The script was foreign to her. She held it in the palm of her hand and tilted it so Rallie could read it.
“What does it say?” Visyna asked.
Rallie reached out a hand and gently touched the paper, which immediately turned to ash. “It says three things. The first is that we are not the only ones searching for the original elves.”
Visyna batted at more flies, finally giving in and artfully weaving a touch of magic to ward them away. “We already know the Shadow Monarch is seeking them out.”
Rallie continued. “It also says something other than the Shadow Monarch looks for them, but what it is and what its designs are remain unknown.”
“Something else? Could it have something to do with what happened on the last island?”
Rallie passed the reins into her right hand as she rubbed her chin in thought. “As I told the major last night, I don’t know, but it seems as good a guess as any at the moment.”
“What is the third thing?” Visyna asked.
“The third thing it says,” Rallie said, her gravelly voice growing quiet so that Visyna had to lean in to hear it, “is beware the one bearing many shadows.”
Visyna sat back up and looked again at the people lining the street. “The one with many shadows? I’ve never heard of such a thing. Is it a riddle?” She looked at the column of marching soldiers. “The Iron Elves have many shadows.”
Rallie flicked the reins and stared straight ahead. “An interesting thought. That could be it, though as we’re smack in the middle of them, I suspect my informant is talking about something else.”
“Why wouldn’t he know?”
“She,” Rallie said, “is in a unique position to know more than most, but not perhaps to piece it all together. Whatever this thing of many shadows is, at the moment I have no good answer.”
They rode on in silence, the crowds watching with guarded expressions as the troops marched past. There were many things in this world that disturbed Visyna, but hearing Rallie say there was something she hadn’t heard of suddenly shot to the top of the list. Visyna was certain that couldn’t be good.
FOURTEEN
Not exactly a stroll down the Boulevard of Heroes back in Celwyn, but I’m damn proud of the lot of you all the same,” Yimt said. “You kept it together and paraded like the shiny siggers that I knew you were. The major himself said seeing you march like that brought tears to his eyes.”
“The major really said that?” Scolly asked.
Yimt rolled his eyes. “Sometimes I don’t know if I want to pat you on the head with my hand or the butt of my shatterbow. Now listen up, lads, and you might jus
t learn something, even you, Scolly.”
They stood at the crossroads of six alleyways in a labyrinthine marketplace that made the one in Port Ghamjal in Elfkyna look positively orderly. Blind beggars lined the street with wide, flat bowls at their feet, their milky eyes staring sightlessly into the distance while their hands reached out, palms up, imploring. Market stalls were crammed in tight with little more than a hanging rug dividing them. Wares of every shape, size, and color spilled out into the alleys, and more hung from canopies restricting passage to little more than one person wide. Lanterns were flickering to life as dusk settled over the city. Everything was becoming shadow.
Alwyn pushed forward as the other soldiers gathered round. Emotions were close to the surface. Weeks of floating on the high seas with only one nightmarish island after another to break up the monotony had taken their toll. The whole regiment was ready to give the cauldron a stir and see what bubbled up.
Fortunately, they had been allowed to leave their packs and greatcoats at the temporary camp now set up on the grounds of the Viceroy’s palace near the center of the city, but all had their muskets slung over their shoulders. By order of the Prince, their muskets were not supposed to be loaded. Yimt, however, had a different view on the subject, and every soldier had rammed a charge and musket ball down the barrel before they set forth, but out of view of the Prince.
Yimt looked around him and scratched his beard. Everyone leaned in a little closer.
“We’ve been given a night to dust off the old crystal ball and peer into the depths of our depraved and sordid souls. In a place like Nazalla, whatever you desire is most definitely available…for a price. After what we’ve been through I ain’t judgin”, so whatever you want, now’s the time to shout it out. Now then, what sort of mayhem and mischief are you looking for?”
Roars of beer, wine, and other liquid refreshment echoed off the walls and startled a few beggars, who suddenly found their sight wasn’t as bad as all that and quickly took off for other parts. Alwyn had considered staying in the temporary camp, but Yimt wouldn’t hear of it, and now that Alwyn was here, he was glad he’d allowed himself to be dragged along.
“Easy, easy,” Yimt said, motioning with his hands to calm down. “Let’s try not to frighten them off before we get our drinks, shall we? What about you, Inkermon? They have fruit juices and arr as black as tar that they serve in tiny little cups.”
“Wine is permitted on certain occasions, in moderation, of course, and with the proper rites observed,” the religious farmer said. Looks of stunned surprise greeted this statement.
“Now I know the world’s coming to an end,” Hrem said, eliciting a few laughs. “Our holy man is going to lift a few with us heathens.”
Yimt nodded his approval. “There might be hope for you yet, Inkermon. Wine, you say? If my memory serves, they make one here from watermelons that’ll have you dancing the night away. Well, maybe not dancing exactly.”
“I’m starving,” Scolly interrupted, pushing his bulk forward. “All that talk about bread and crumbs earlier got my gut all worked up. I could eat just about anything right now, but no salt.”
There were nods of agreement. Alwyn was convinced that if it rained now, he’d melt into one large pile of salt. How the sailors ate that food for months on end, he didn’t know.
“I asked around at the palace,” Yimt said. “Most of the food here will clear your pipes and set sparklers off behind your eyeballs.”
“Drink and wine is, well, fine,” Teeter said, “but where would a fellow go for a little…companionship? Doomed or not, we were on that ship a long bloody time.”
This time there was some muttering and shuffling of feet. Alwyn was embarrassed to feel his face flushing. Until now, his thoughts had been so consumed with the oath and the nightmares that he hadn’t even considered the possibility of anything normal. From island to island, there had been no chance to think about a time beyond the horrors. Now that they had a whole night to just be themselves, he didn’t know what to do with it. Others, but not all, appeared to be equally perplexed.
Yimt hung his head in mock shame. “I’m embarrassed to say I know you. Laddies, are you familiar with what the fine folk call reet-oracle speaking?”
Blank stares greeted Yimt.
“It’s when I already know the answer to my question. Like I said, I did some asking around at the palace. The place for us is the Blue Scorpion. If the palace guard weren’t lying through their teeth, whatever you’re looking for tonight, and I do mean whatever, we’ll find it there.”
“I was thinking of wandering the market a bit,” Hrem said, “maybe picking up a little something for the missus.”
Yimt shook his head. “Forget that. You saw the crowd today. We’ve got to stick together, especially at night. Wasn’t like this twenty years ago, I can tell you that. Nazalla’s changed, and not for the better.” He turned and pointed to a wall where a long scroll was pasted to the dusty-white stucco. “They can paper this entire city with the Prince’s proclamation, but it ain’t going to stop your purse being stolen or your throat bein’ slit. There’s dangerous folk here that would just as soon knife you as say hello.”
“Let them try,” Zwitty said. He held out his hand and frost fire burned to life. Everyone jumped back. Very few soldiers, of whom Alwyn was one, exhibited a natural skill in wielding the flame and could control it. With the rest, like Zwitty, it was like giving a loaded musket to a child.
“Douse that!” Yimt ordered, quickly looking around to see if they’d been seen. “You want a riot? Listen up, all of you. It was one thing to play with the frost when we were out on them islands and the ship, but now we’re in a city where people got funny ideas about magic and curses. I don’t want to see so much as a spark tonight, is that clear?”
Zwitty sneered and closed his hands. The black flame continued to burn.
“Was I not clear? Put that bloody flame out now,” Yimt said.
“Quit playing around, Zwitty, and put it out,” Teeter added.
“All of you stop yelling at me and I will,” Zwitty said, his voice rising an octave. He squeezed his fists tighter and closed his eyes, but the frost continued to burn. The air in the immediate area began to turn cold.
Yimt blew out his cheeks and raised a fist. “Zwitty, this is your last chance. Put that blasted fire out now.”
Zwitty opened his eyes and looked around at the group. Though he tried to hide it, there was terror in his eyes. Alwyn realized the problem. He can’t put it out.
“Stay calm,” Alwyn said, walking toward Zwitty.
“I am calm!” Zwitty shouted, starting to back up. “Just leave me alone. I can’t concentrate with everyone yelling at me!” The frost fire was now creeping up his forearm, and mist formed with every word he said.
A few passersby stopped and stared. Hrem took a step toward them and they quickly continued on their way.
“We’d better get him out fast or all of Nazalla’s going to know about it,” Hrem said.
“Ally, can you put him out like you did Kester?” Yimt asked.
Alwyn nodded. “I think so. This isn’t the white fire, Zwitty’s just not in control of the magic.”
“I know what I’m doing,” Zwitty said, even as the black flames grew higher. “I just…it’s so cold…” He staggered, then stood upright again.
“Ally, put him out. Now!” Yimt ordered.
Alwyn strode forward and grabbed Zwitty’s wrists in his hands. Immediately the frost fire sprang to life in Alwyn’s hands, and he felt the cold flow of the magic coursing through him. “Easy, Zwitty, easy.”
“…help me…” Zwitty said, his eyes shut tight. His lips were quivering and black frost was forming on his face.
Shadows appeared, their spectral shapes forming a ring around the group of soldiers. The air temperature dropped to freezing. Someone screamed, and running feet were heard disappearing down an alleyway.
“People are watching, Sergeant,” Hrem said, pointing
to a gathering crowd several yards away.
Dead hands reached out to Alwyn and Zwitty. Alwyn gritted his teeth and focused. The black flame roared higher, bathing everything in a cold, dark light, then went out without a sound. Zwitty collapsed to a knee and Alwyn blew out his breath, releasing Zwitty’s wrists.
The shades wavered, then they, too, disappeared. The air immediately felt warmer.
“Nothing to see here, folks, just a little trickery by a jokester,” Yimt said, his metal teeth glinting as he smiled broadly. “Get him up and get moving,” Yimt whispered under his breath.
Alwyn and Scolly helped Zwitty to his feet and they all started walking down an alley.
“You okay, Zwitty?” Scolly asked.
Zwitty coughed and shook off their grip. “Course I’m okay. I just about had it when Ally here stepped in to play hero.”
Yimt led them down an alley, then through a couple of turns until there didn’t appear to be anyone following them. “He saved your arse is what he did,” Yimt said, finally bringing them to a halt.
“I—” Zwitty started to say, but Yimt cut him off.
“You were a heartbeat away from joining the Darkly Departed is what you were,” Yimt said, jabbing a finger in Zwitty’s chest. “Personally, I don’t give a rat-dragon’s scaly little hide if you do join them, but you ain’t going to ruin our night.” He looked at the rest of them. “Lads, in case you hadn’t noticed, we’re in it up to our necks already. The last thing we need,” he said, turning his gaze back to Zwitty, “is to make matters worse on our own.”
Alwyn looked down at his own hands.
“Now,” Yimt said, his voice sounding jovial again, “follow me, stay close, and try, try not to do anything stupid. Again.” Yimt set off at a quick pace, motioning for Hrem to walk beside him. Alwyn was momentarily hurt by this, then realized the reason why. It sometimes took a moment for people to recognize the danger Yimt presented. Hrem’s hulking frame, on the other hand, made it immediately obvious, and their route through the crowded alleyways quickly cleared.