by D. P. Prior
A shrug.
“And who created the Crafters?”
“Ah, well isn’t that just the question?”
Theurig fished about inside his bag and produced a vial containing some dark liquid, and a metal tin. He showed Snaith the tin’s base, where a coarse brown material had been stuck over the metal.
“Gather some wood,” he said, “then I’ll show you how they make fire in Hélum.”
Snaith frowned, but he had to admit he was interested. He hobbled to the outside of the seating, where the encroaching forest had left plenty of fallen branches. Most were damp. One day without rain hadn’t been enough to dry them. He could only gather a few at a time with his good hand, but he’d given up expecting Theurig to help him. As he went back and forth, slowly building a pile of firewood, he started to construct a picture in his mind of what the temple must have looked like in its heyday.
Even tired, he had no trouble mentally reassembling the broken arches, pillars, and walls, rebuilding the edifice one piece at a time. If he’d had longer, he’d have made a better job of it, given it the attention to detail he’d used in his simulacrum of Tey, but for now he just wanted to see for himself what the Hélumites had built here on Branikdür. The image of the temple he constructed seemed too vast, too majestic, too impossible to have really existed. Yet here he was, gathering wood amid its ruins, and he was left with the sense that he’d lived his life up until now in a dark and dismal hole.
“How did it get destroyed?” he asked Theurig as he brought back the last batch of deadfall.
“The temple?” Theurig rose from his stone bench and brought his tin and vial over to the wood pile. “They did it. The Hélumites. Probably didn’t want anyone to benefit from what they left behind.”
“But that’s—”
“Wasteful? Tragic? Not to them. What they built here is nothing in comparison with the City of Hélum.”
Snaith’s heart skipped a beat. “Will I get to see it?”
“Unlikely,” Theurig said. He looked pensive for a second. Shook his head. Sniffed and straightened up, as far as his twisted spine would allow him. “And that might be a good thing.”
Good for who? You got to see it, so why shouldn’t I?
Or did Theurig mean it might be good not to see Hélum because of what he’d witnessed there as an apprentice? Any culture that made use of fonts for blood…
It still made no sense to Snaith, though, why the Hélumites would make something so magnificent as the temple and then destroy it. It must have taken an age to build. Years. If the stories were true, and the Empire had abandoned the isle due to the weather, then why had they waited so long? Why had they started building in the first place? He said as much to Theurig.
“To be honest, I’ve never given it much thought.” The sorcerer shrugged, but there was a shift in his demeanor. He’d either never considered the question before, or he already knew there was some other, more plausible, reason for the Hélumites’ departure.
Theurig unstoppered his vial and turned his attention to the wood pile.
“It’s damp,” Snaith said. “Might not take.”
“Oh, it will with this.” Theurig poured dark liquid over the wood then passed Snaith the empty vial.
The glass was oily and slick from where the liquid had splashed the sides, and there was a pungent odor, almost sweet. It made Snaith’s head swim when he inhaled it.
“Might give off a bit more smoke than I’d like, though,” Theurig said, opening his tin and plucking a thin stick from it. One end was slightly bulbous and brown. He scraped it along the abrasive base of the tin. Sparks flew up, then the end of the stick was consumed by fire, the same as the sorcerer’s staff had been the day of the bear attack.
“Stand back,” Theurig said, as he flung the flaming stick onto the wood pile. With a whoosh and a flash of blue, the branches ignited.
Smoke plumed into the air, carried into Snaith’s face by the slightest of breezes. He stepped to the side, out of its way, wiping stinging tears from his eyes. Sorcerous blue flames wavered beneath the orange of natural fire, but slowly, they died away until there was no difference between this and any natural blaze.
Theurig took back the vial from Snaith and returned to his bench so he could pack it away in his bag, along with the tin.
“Was that one of the effects that look like magic?” Snaith asked, hobbling over to join him and seating himself on the hard stone of the first tier.
Theurig sat next to him, gazing out at the flames, which fizzed and spat as they consumed the damp wood.
“The Black Viscosity,” he said, absently. “There’s some evidence that our predecessors on this isle drilled into the bedrock to get at it. Now it’s a rare commodity, known to very few people outside of Hélum. Some of my brother sorcerers once started a project digging for it, but after a series of setbacks, and the death of an indiscreet number of clansfolk, they abandoned the work.
“It is a slow path back to greatness, I’m afraid. These things can’t be rushed, especially if we don’t want to draw the attention of Hélum. Branikdür is a simple land filled with simple people, but it was not always so. Mighty civilizations flourished and died here. That is why I have given you Cawdor to read. His book, despite the embellishments, provides a context for all you will learn, and for all you may later discover on your own. While it is true that Hélum exceeds us in lore and might, there are things buried beneath the soil of this isle that surpass even the pinnacle of their achievements, things older and more stupendous than this temple in all its former glory.”
“What things?” Snaith asked. “What lore?”
“Patience, Snaith. One step at a time. Continue with Cawdor, and then you must turn your attention to the rudiments: the identification of flora and fauna, the preparation of salves and potions, the myths of the gods of the Malogoi, and the corresponding demons; the study of numbers, shapes, and forms, the inclinations of the mind and the body, clarity in thinking. You must pry into the nature of things.”
Snaith couldn’t help thinking of his father cutting open insects, and of Theurig mocking him for it.
“Take the stars, for example,” the sorcerer said. “Do you even know what they are?”
“Lights in the sky,” Snaith answered with a shrug. “Like the moon and the sun.”
“Pinpricks in the canopy of the heavens,” Theurig said, “that give the impression of being lights, but that is an illusion. They are openings onto what lies beyond: the pleroma of the Weyd. The sun and moon are indeed lights, as you say, one a ball of fire, the other ice lit from within by the same kind of glow we find in the tails of lightning bugs, or in the scales of the lunatine mushrooms. You know the ones?”
Snaith shook his head.
“Probably just as well. One bite, and it’s a long, painful…” He coughed, then rubbed his eyes as if he’d gotten smoke in them.
Death? Snaith thought. A long, painful death? Like the rot? He couldn’t stop from glaring at the sorcerer, boring through the layers of falsehood with his eyes. Had Theurig lied about Vrom in the face of Tey’s accusation? Was he responsible for what had happened to Bas and Jennika Harrow, after all?
“Nasty things, mushrooms,” Theurig said. “At least, some of them are. But a necessary part of our craft, and the edible kind are quite tasty.” He ended with an exaggerated yawn and a stretch. His eyes briefly met Snaith’s, then he turned away, made a show of appreciating the ruins. “We’ll be safe enough here for the night. Didn’t I tell you superstition was our ally?”
Snaith continued to stare. To wonder. He no longer felt the night’s chill. Beneath his goose-pimpled skin, his blood was boiling.
“How are those feet of yours?” Theurig asked, rifling through his bag.
The question broke Snaith out of his seething reverie. It was unexpected, almost baffling.
“Take your boots off,” Theurig said, “and I’ll apply a salve.” He unscrewed the lid from a jar and sniffed at the contents,
wrinkling his nose in distaste. “Why do I always do that? Smells like a three-day-old carcass, but it does wonders for minor wounds.”
“No,” Snaith said. He was particular about what came into contact with his skin.
“Don’t mind the maggots,” Theurig said, scooping out a congealed mass of writhing grey with his fingers. “All part of the healing.”
“I said no.”
Theurig met his eyes then. Gone was the earlier nervousness. He was back to his old imperious self.
“I insist.”
Those two words were backed up with all manner of unspeakable curses and threats. Or at least they were to Snaith’s mind. It’s how he’d grown up: afraid of what the sorcerer would do if he didn’t listen in school, or if he broke any of the ordinances of the Weyd. It was all very well learning it was mostly superstition, but that didn’t mean Theurig’s were empty threats. Snaith was starting to view the sorcerer as more dangerous, more ruthless than ever.
He removed his boots and let Theurig apply the salve. After that, the sorcerer took a tightly bundled ball of cloth from his bag and cut off strips with his knife, with which to bind Snaith’s feet.
Snaith bit down bile at the thought of the maggots wriggling against his flesh, burrowing into it. Maybe they’d be squashed when he stood. Maybe some would survive. But when he put his boots back on, he had to admit it was an improvement. The stinging gave way to a pleasant tingling, and his feet felt cool and refreshed.
“Early start in the morning,” Theurig said, putting the salve and the cloth away. “There’s still a fair distance to go, and you’ll need all your faculties about you. The Wakeful Isle will give you your first glimpse of how things really work on Branikdür.” He yawned and lay down, clasping his hands behind his head and closing his eyes. Within moments, he was lightly snoring.
Snaith peered closer, certain Theurig was pretending to sleep. It was a way out of the uncomfortable tension that had congealed between them. Had the sorcerer merely stopped talking about the lunatine mushrooms mid-sentence out of sensitivity, knowing the kind of death they produced was likely to remind Snaith of the rot that afflicted his parents? Or was it more sinister than that? And if it was, how could he best use the knowledge? Theurig had already stated the rot was not a quick death. Bas and Jennika Harrow might endure for weeks yet, even months. But if he had been the one to introduce the rot, as Tey had implied, was it not possible he also knew of a cure?
Before he knew he was doing it, Snaith had his good hand an inch from the sorcerer’s throat. His fingers twitched, and the muscles all along his arm tensed with the desire to throttle Theurig where he lay. Just long enough to force him to confess he had done it, and to make him give up any antidote. And if he denied doing it, and he had no cure, then there would be no need to let go. Sharp as his image of Tey, Snaith saw the sorcerer’s purpling face, the bulge of his eyes, the drool from the corner of his mouth as he stiffened and died.
He snatched his hand away before he lost control. With a gasp, he turned back to the fire, letting its flames burn away the violence of his imagination.
He needed to do something to reset, to shift his mind from its tortuous speculations about what Theurig might or might not have done and the answering compulsions it engendered in his body. He needed to move, to run, to swim, to fight. But how could he, with only one decent arm and feet a lacerated mess?
In frustration, he sat before the flames, and that’s when he remembered his father’s pig-skin book inside his mother’s satchel along with Cawdor’s The Four Invasions. He took it out, lay it in his lap and turned the pages, squinting at the sketches of weapons and stances, the detailed instructions beneath them.
At the back of his mind, he was already adapting the stances, formulating what could be done with his disability.
Many of the pictures were of warriors with shields. They only used the one hand for sword and axe work. And then there were the movements he was most familiar with, those that required no weapon, save for what the warrior was born with.
But it was the section on how to kick that struck him, and made him feel a fool for being so quick to give up, so full of self-pity. There, the warrior was shown with hands tied behind his back, so that he had nothing to rely on but his legs and feet. It was an exotic form of fighting Bas said had evolved among manacled slaves in the Emerald Lands beyond the Wastes of Necras, outside the boundaries of the Hélum Empire. The Malogoi had never adopted it. It was too demanding, took too much time to master. But Snaith had learned the basics from the book, and even then his kicks had been second to none.
With a surge of renewed vigor, he left the book and the satchel on the ground by the fire and stood. His enthusiasm was almost quashed when he remembered his blistered feet. Theurig’s salve had numbed them, but he didn’t want to risk making them worse. After some hesitation, he decided he’d start gently today, and maybe tomorrow he could build on it.
With a grunt of determination, he headed back toward the main ruins in search of a secluded space in which to practice. The last thing he wanted was for Theurig to wake and see him.
It was time he had some secrets of his own.
THE VISITOR
Tey sat within the ambit of the silvery light that painted the floor of the workroom, perfectly still, good leg tucked under her, bad one stretched out in front. She stared unblinkingly at the dust motes swirling along the length of the moonbeam lancing through the clerestory window. She should have been asleep hours ago, but each time she closed her eyes, Slyndon Grun’s burst and bloody eye was there watching her.
Judging by the silence of the house, Hirsiga and the others were bedded down for the night, though where they slept she couldn’t say. Wherever it was, it had to be better than the cellar. Likely they’d want to thank her in the morning. She could hardly wait.
Besides the soft susurrus of the ocean, all Tey could hear was the song of the cicadas from outside. Their continuous clicking and humming filled her skull, and she listened acutely, until she thought she could distinguish scatters of different calls and answers, the intimate patterns of attraction and mating, the continual struggle of life in the face of inevitable decay.
[I have been thinking,] the Shedim said, interrupting her reverie, [about Snaith Harrow. You said yes to him, did you not? But would you have gone through with it? Would you have really married him?]
“Would you?” Tey asked, surprised to find the Witch Woman still present, in spite of her contemplative mood.
A shudder passed through her marrow. [We do not mate,] the Shedim said. [We cannot.]
It had said as much before, when she was locked in the cellar. That they did not reproduce like the beasts.
[We are an abomination to nature, a melding of beings that was not meant to be. From our fathers we inherited immortality, and from our mothers we received the protection of flesh. The two intertwined to make us what we are. What we once were. Manifest and immune to the ravages of time.]
“Your fathers had no flesh?” What did that make them, some kind of spirits?
[Nevertheless, they mated with humans.] Again, a shudder. [I cannot conceive how. Nor do I wish to. But it was necessary. Our fathers, the Wakeful, believed it was the only way they could endure in the face of the sorcery unleashed against them. These Gardeners Slyndon Grun spoke of: do not believe all you hear. It was their allies, your ancestors, who wrote the histories, and the vanquished Wakeful were treated most unjustly. What you call Branikdür was once the heart of their empire. Hélum has been the dominant power for centuries, but the Empire of the Dark Isle that preceded it endured for aeons.]
“Dark Isle?” Tey said. “Is that what history has labeled it? It sounds demonic, or was that the intention?”
[No, the Dark Isle was its true name. At least that is how it translates. But once again, do not be deceived. What is it that is said of the Weyd? The closer you get, the more you are blinded by its brilliance. The same could be said of the Dark Isle and its rulers. But
we have strayed from my initial question.]
“Snaith,” Tey said. “Would I have married him? Would I have shared a home with him and borne his children? Is that what you mean?”
[Is it not the case that, in marriage, two humans become one?]
“No,” Tey said. She only had the example of her mother and father to go on. “I don’t think so.”
As for the others in the clan, she’d always assumed everyone else’s parents were the same as hers, though over time she’d come to think she’d been mistaken. But if marriage made them one, how come Brok Lanis used to meet Grisel Vret in the woods, and his wife, Orivia, was none the wiser? Still, now Grisel was buried in the Copse, Brok might not be so keen on her. Maybe he and Orivia had gone back to being one.
But what about Snaith? Would she have married him? She’d felt she had no choice, he’d been so persuasive. And she did like him. Really like him. But she could never have been what he wanted. It wasn’t his fault. It was hers. She’d been selfish to hide her scars from him. He’d thought she was something she wasn’t. But when he saw her for what she really was, the way she saw herself, he’d have regretted taking her for his wife. His reaction after the bear attack was testament to that.
Did she want him? Yes, in some indefinable way. That’s why she’d made him hers that night on the tumulus; why nobody else could have him. She felt safe around Snaith, and there was a kinship between them, though she suspected it was more the camaraderie of misfits. But that didn’t mean she should marry him, and the thought of him lying with her and filling her with his seed…
“No, I wouldn’t have married him. Well, I might have, back then, but it would have been wrong.”
[Oh?]
“We could never have been one.” He’d have been a rutting pig, and she’d have been his prey, until she awoke the Witch Woman within her and harnessed the power of her scars. “It would have ended badly.” With Snaith lying at her feet, flesh livid, as in her vision of the Queen of Oblivion, a smoldering hole ripped through his chest.