An old man met them at the entrance to the temple, his pale white eyes watching, staring blankly into the noonday sun. Despite his blindness, his face wrinkled with concern as they reached him, and he stepped forward to offer a hand.
“My child, what happened?” he asked as he took Enala’s other arm beneath his shoulder.
“I’m not sure, Elynbrigge. I found her wandering alone in the marketplace,” Margaret replied.
Enala tried to find the words to reply, but the power of speech had abandoned her. She shook her head, tears stinging her eyes. “Mistake,” she coughed.
“Obviously,” Margaret said with a smile. Her eyes turned to Elynbrigge. “I’m not sure if it’s safe for me...”
The old priest waved a hand. “Of course, my child. I will help her. Are you okay to help bring her to my chambers?”
“We’ll make it,” Margaret replied.
Enala nodded, though the priest obviously couldn’t see the gesture. Together they stumbled through a cavernous hall that Enala barely noticed. Darkness swirled at the edges of Enala’s vision as they moved into a corridor. She kept her eyes fixed on the ground, and concentrated on putting one foot in front of the other.
When they finally stopped, and Margaret started lowering Enala to the floor, all the strength went from her in a rush. Only the woman’s firm grip beneath Enala’s shoulder kept her from tumbling head-first onto the carpet. Soft laughter whispered through the room as the old priest settled himself across from her.
“Lie down, child. I am here to help,” Elynbrigge said, his white eyes staring vacantly at the space behind Enala’s head.
It was all Enala could do to obey his instructions. She shivered, feeling the cold stone beneath the thread-bare carpet. Her teeth began to chatter, and her body shook uncontrollably. She flinched as Elynbrigge placed a hand on her arm.
“The infection has spread throughout her body,” he said softly. “This will take time.”
Enala cracked open her eyes and looked up at them. “Thank you,” she managed.
Margaret smiled. Reaching down, she squeezed Enala’s other arm. “Don’t thank us yet,” she said. “Healing is not without pain.”
“Just…do it,” Enala breathed, darkness swirling across her vision. “Please.”
Elynbrigge nodded. “Prepare yourself, child.”
Warmth spread up Enala’s arm from where he held her wrist, slowly at first, then faster, hotter, until her whole body was burning. Enala gasped, trying to sit up, to break free, sure now this had all been a trap. Firm hands held her down, and a voice spoke from a great distance, telling her to be calm. But her body was aflame. An inferno had taken her, would burn her to nothing. She had to get out. Opening her mouth, she screamed.
And fell away into darkness.
15
When Enala finally woke, she sensed a considerable amount of time had passed. Opening her eyes, she was surprised to find herself in a clean, unadorned room. A thin mattress lay beneath her, and several blankets had been tucked up to her chest, keeping her warm. Looking beneath the covers, she found herself in clean clothes. The fabric felt soft against her skin, obviously of far better quality than what she’d scavenged off the streets.
Remembering the old priest and the woman, she sat up and looked around again. The room was different from the one she’d been healed in, but it had the same feel, and she guessed she was still in the Earth Temple. Pulling off her blankets, she stood and moved to the doorway.
An empty corridor waited outside, filled with the noonday sun. Frowning, she wandered along its length, drawn by the green light reflecting through the empty windows. A doorway beckoned beside them. Stepping through, she froze, unable to believe the sight that greeted her.
It was almost like stepping back into the forests of Dragon Country, so different was it from the rest of Chole. Beyond the doorway, a jungle garden grew in the courtyard within the temple. Crawler vines covered the brick walls. Tall trees stretched skywards, tiny compared with those in Dragon Country, but no less a miracle for their presence in the drought-stricken city. Dense undergrowth covered the ground, cutting off sight of the far side of the courtyard. A thin path led away through the forest.
Enala had just stepped onto the path when a voice came from behind her.
“You’re awake.”
She spun towards the voice, surprised to find the old priest standing behind her. He smiled, his blind eyes as white as snow. Leaning against a walking stick, he moved slowly into the garden to join her.
“Thank you…for healing me,” Enala managed to stammer.
“It was my pleasure, child,” Elynbrigge replied, “though, I am curious how one so young came by such wounds.”
Without waiting for a response, he moved across the garden and lowered himself onto a bench. He patted the wood beside him.
Enala hesitated at the invitation, still distrusting despite everything the man had done for her. Finally, reason overcame caution, and she nodded. Taking a seat, she shook her head. “I…don’t remember,” she said softly, “It’s all a blur. There was a man, a woman had been kidnapped... Some kind of explosion. I got hurt, by a sword I guess, but I don’t remember the wound. Next thing I knew, I was waking up in an alleyway somewhere.”
Elynbrigge nodded. “And before that, child? What is your name? What was a girl such as yourself doing on the streets to begin with?”
Enala pursed her lips and looked away. “My name is Enala,” she replied, “and…I made a mistake. That’s why I was there.”
“It must have been quite the mistake, my dear Enala,” Elynbrigge mused, his white eyes staring off into the distance.
Suddenly, inexplicably, Enala felt tears in her eyes. She blinked, trying, and failing, to keep them from falling. A sorrow, one she had carefully hidden from herself all these months, came rushing to the surface. She realised in that instant how lonely she was, how much she missed her parents and Nerissa. How much she longed for her old life.
“I ran away,” she choked on the words.
“I see,” was all Elynbrigge said.
Enala closed her eyes, struggling to control her sobs. An arm wrapped around her, pulling her into a hug. Another sob tore its way up from deep in her chest as Enala cried into Elynbrigge’s shoulder.
“I don’t know what to do, Elynbrigge,” she gasped. “They must hate me!”
For a long while, Elynbrigge said nothing, just let her cry, let the sorrow pour out of her. When they finally disentangled, he looked down at her. When Enala met his gaze, it seemed as though his white eyes could see into the depths of her very soul.
“You believe this?” he asked. “That your parents hate you for running away?”
Sobbing, Enala nodded. “They must!” she gasped. “After everything they did for me, I ran away without even saying goodbye. How could they not hate me for that?”
“They are your parents,” Elynbrigge replied simply. “You think there is a limit to a mother’s love? To a father’s devotion to his child?”
Enala hiccupped, the wheels of her mind slowly turning. “You think…they would forgive me?”
“I do not think, my dear Enala, I know,” Elynbrigge said simply.
“You know?” Enala asked, blinking, “How could you possibly know that?”
Elynbrigge’s smile spread. Without answering, he got to his feet and offered Enala his hand. She stared at it for a moment, confused, before accepting it. Silently, Elynbrigge lead her from the courtyard, back into the sun-filled corridor.
Enala walked meekly alongside him, surprised by how refreshed she felt, as though his magic had done far more than just heal her wounds. Somehow, his green light had banished the darkness in her, had cast out the shadow that had clung to her since that day by the river. She found herself smiling.
They moved together out into the main hall, where a dozen worshippers knelt before a marble alter. Leaves and vines and trees had been carved into the stone. A young woman stood amidst the foliage, h
er hands spread, rays of light seeping out to touch the life around her. It was the Goddess Antonia, mistress of the Earth, deity of Plorsea.
But the alter did not hold Enala’s attention. Her gaze travelled on to where the worshippers knelt, drawn inexorably across the green carpets, as though a part of her already knew what she would find.
They knelt near the back of the temple, backs straight, heads bowed. Enala’s heart began to pound as she recognised them. Her fear came rushing back, and with it the desire to flee, to escape the consequences of her foolishness. She tensed, readying herself. Silently, the hand around her wrist tightened. She glanced up and found Elynbrigge’s white eyes on her.
“They have come to this place every day for the past year,” he said softly. “Rain or shine, they have come, and prayed for the return of their daughter. They have never told me their names, where they come from, how she was lost. Only that their daughter had blue eyes and blond hair, with a single lock of purest scarlet.”
Enala swallowed, her mouth opening and closing, unable to speak through the lump in her throat.
A smile twitched on the old priest’s lips as he went on. “I knew who you were the moment I saw you, Enala. But I have not told them you are here. For two days you have slept, and they have waited, not knowing you were so close. How I have longed to tell them. But I know now, so much better than I did as a young man, that we must make our own choices. I did not want to rob you of this choice. It remains yours to make. Your parents are here, waiting for you. What will you choose?”
Looking from the priest to her parents, Enala slowly shook her head. Her fingers trembled as Elynbrigge relaxed his grip around her wrist. She pulled her hand free. Her legs were already moving, drawing her across the temple towards her kneeling parents.
They didn’t notice her until she was halfway to them. Her mother looked up first, her blue eyes widening as they found Enala standing there. A hand went to her mouth. Tears gathered, and streaked down her cheeks. Beside her, her husband looked up at her gasp. His eyes locked on Enala, and his lips tightened. A tremor went across his face, before the emotion of the event caught him, and he, too, began to cry.
Gasping, trembling, sobbing, Enala ran to them. Coming to their feet, they caught her in their arms, hugging her so tight Enala thought she might explode. Enala didn’t care. All that mattered was that they were there, that they were holding her, that they were real.
“Mum, Dad!” the words tumbled from her in a rush.
“Enala,” they cried back, voices choked with emotion.
Together they sank to their knees, a pile of hugs and joy and wonder.
When Enala finally recovered enough to speak, she looked up at them, hiccupping, shivering as her fear returned. “Mum, Dad, I’m so sorry,” she choked.
“Ssssh,” her father replied, hugging her to his chest, “ssshh, it’s okay, you’re home now, you’re safe. We’re here.”
“But…”
“No buts,” her mother cut her off. Joy radiated from her face as she stroked Enala’s hair. “We’re here. And we’re not going anywhere. You’re home.”
“Home?” Enala asked, pulling away for a second, staring up at them. “What do you mean?”
Her mother smiled. “We’re not going back to Dragon Country,” she replied, “You’re ready, Enala, we see that now. We can stay here. We can make Chole our home again.”
Closing her eyes, Enala let out a breath she hadn’t realised she’d been holding. Even as she’d walked towards them, a part of her had been terrified of what would come next, of returning to Dragon Country, and her solitude. But now they were saying she didn’t have to go back, that they could start a life here – a proper life, not one spent skulking in dark alleyways.
Shaking her head, Enala buried herself in her parents’ arms again.
“Thank you,” she whispered.
About the Author
Aaron Hodges is the author of The Sword of Light series and The Praegressus Project.
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CAMBION
By
STEVIE COLLIER
1
Cambion /ˈkæmbiən/ is the offspring of an "incubus or succubus" and a human, or of an incubus and succubus.
My eyes opened and I felt completely rested just as I did every morning. Growing up, I'd always heard people complain that they woke up feeling tired or that they just couldn't get to sleep. Not me. I always fell right to sleep and awoke at the same time every morning feeling pumped and refreshed.
I yanked my legs out of the covers and stood. I didn't yawn or stretch, but walked straight over to the cracked mirror on the far side of my room. There was a crack in the ceiling in the room behind the chapel where I was grateful to live. I did not fret over the hole but actually used its sunlight every morning to look at the face the Almighty had given me.
At first I couldn't believe what my eyes were showing me, but after rubbing them for a few seconds, the image still remained: there were two lumps on each side of my head.
My heart began to race as I carefully ran my finger over both of them. Pain flooded my brain and I pulled my hand back.
"What the fuck are these?" I said out loud. Then, I quickly added, "Sorry, my Lord, the Almighty."
Were these tumors? Was I going to die? How was I going to go out in public with these? Better yet, how I was going to do my sermon! I couldn't ask Mother, no. I couldn't worry her. Well, it didn't really matter anyway. She’d been gone for about three weeks now on a mission trip to the three neighboring kingdoms, leaving me with the morning sermons.
I looked back into the mirror and, ignoring the lumps, gazed into my own face.
My black hair was getting long and perhaps it was time to take a trip to the local barber. The light blue of my eyes this morning seemed like they were even bluer than usual. So blue in fact that it seemed they radiated a light of their own. Wait...were they?
I shook my head and stepped away from the mirror. I must have hit my head on the headboard while I slept. Yeah, maybe that was it. Anyways, I didn't have time to stress over it. I had to feed the chickens, grab their eggs, and make breakfast for the needy.
I put my servant of the Almighty robe over my shoulders and walked out of the room and into the chapel. I thanked the Almighty that these robes came with hoods as I pulled mine over my head. Light flooded in through the stained glass windows and onto the floor. Why was it so damn hot in here? It was winter for heck's sake! But still, I was burning up.
I had the temptation to drop my robe, but that would be a slight against the Almighty. To be nude in his home... it just sounded silly.
I walked out of the side door and was met not only by hungry chickens, but by hungry orphans as well. The dirty-faced boys and girls held out their palms waiting for their morning egg and slice of bread. Some were even jumping up and down!
"Now, now! Let me finish my morning chores! I can't feed you children just yet, but first I must feed the chickens. They are what gives us breakfast in the first place!"
I stepped out into the yard and, upon seeing me, the chickens did what I had never seen them do before. They fled.
The orphans watched with me as the chickens practically fell over themselves trying to get as far away from me as possible. Feathers filled the air and fell onto us all like rain.
"Well, that was strange, huh?" I asked the little ones.
Each of them turned slowly towards me, their eyes wide in fear. Their begging hands dropped to their sides and they too backed away from me.
One in particular, an orphan boy I had come to enjoy speaking with, pointed at me and whispered something.
"What was that, Jonni? I couldn't hear you."
He whispered again, taking another step back.
"What’s gotten into you?" I asked him, putting my hands on my waist.
This time he spoke a little loud
er. "Evil..."
"Now, that is quite enough!" I took a step forward and the orphans did as the chickens did, except without all the feathers.
I watched as every living being, beings that had depended on me daily, ran away from me like… like I was some sort of monster...
Was I?
2
I was left standing in the backyard of the chapel all alone. I didn't know what to think of all of this, but what I did know was that I could feel frustration filling my veins. Anger. Hatred. Then, thoughts of Mother came into my head and I relaxed a bit. What would she do in this situation? What would she do to rid herself of these horrible thoughts?
But I knew exactly what she would do.
I walked over to the well we had constructed years ago when I was just a young boy. We'd built it at the very far right of our fence, situated right next to the chicken coop. There, leaning on its stone was my wooden practice sword. I grabbed it and held it to my eyes. The old hardwood was chipped in many different places from years of training and I would need to build a new one soon.
I took it to the center of the yard and began my sword forms, the ones Mother had taught me. I moved in fluid motions, the sword a wooden extension of my arm. I swung right, blocked high, spun, thrust, and stepped back. After about sixty minutes of constant practice, my face was drenched in sweat, but already I felt worlds better. My hands, however, did not. I had been squeezing so tightly that blisters had started to form on my palms. I took one of my hands off the hilt and studied it. The blisters weren't red and filled with yellow puss, but were purple and filled with black.
I closed my eyes, took a deep breath, said a prayer to the Almighty, and rested the practice sword back against the well. I drew up the bucket and bathed myself in the cool water deep from the ground. I took a sip and quickly spat it back out. Was there an issue with the well? Why did the water taste like... dirt? It wasn't the crisp sweet water I was used to.
Defiant Guardians Anthology Page 32