by Faith Hunter
Everyone on the quarterdeck laughed, even Arcadia, who Katara could tell was more than perturbed with her for trying such a conjure without warning her first.
“Here,” Gamon said, handing Katara a flask. “I made a new batch while we were in Ranong.”
Katara’s nose wrinkled. “Does this one taste like horse manure?”
He laughed, “You exaggerate, Captain. It’s not great, but it’s a healing potion. Drink half and share.”
Hesitantly, she took the flask, opened, and drank. With a shudder, she handed it to Miku. “Here,” she choked out.
“Sounds promising,” Miku muttered before finishing off the flask’s contents, and handing it back to Gamon. “Thank you.”
“See, it’s not so bad,” he said, encouraged by Miku’s appreciation.
“Oh, no, it’s horrible, I’m just more polite than she is,” Miku explained.
“Isn’t most everyone?” Arcadia pointed out.
“Funny, ha ha,” Katara said. “Look, I get that you’re mad, and I’m sorry there wasn’t time to fly the idea by you, but—”
“Fly? Ha, punny,” Gamon commented without thinking.
All three women stared him down and he stepped backward, “I’ll just be over here at the wheel.”
“Wise choice, Little Liran,” Arcadia said.
An amused silence settled on them and Katara looked to her quartermaster. “You did great work today. If you didn’t already own the best sword and armor I could make, I’d build them for you in honor of your sacrifice and a battle well-won.” She paused, searching for words. “Know that I always hear what you say, Arcadia. You and your advice are invaluable to me. I am truly sorry to have scared you and made choices without making you aware. It won’t happen again.”
Arcadia stepped forward and knelt beside her captain. Grinning, she said, “Yes it will, but I appreciate the promise that you’ll try.”
Katara smiled at her champard.
“I’d not say no to a second sword or set of throwing knives, though. Just saying…”
Katara laughed. “Noted.”
“But actually, I returned here to the quarterdeck for something other than to throttle you.”
“Oh?” Katara prompted.
Standing, Arcadia said, “The crew are asking what course to set. We haven’t burned the name Persephone since we never re-etched it into the wood after construction, so no one knows who killed Saval or kidnapped Havâ, but everyone thinks we should stay out of Malaysian waters for a while.”
“I agree,” Katara said, laying a hand on Miku’s knee. “But didn’t the crew see what we did?”
“See what specifically, Captain?” Gamon interjected before Arcadia could answer. “That you and Miku are powerful mages who just saved their lives? I think they all saw that, sir.”
“Don’t get smart with me, Sea mage, or I’ll tell—”
“Oh, the crew figured that out ages ago,” he said, grinning.
“I was going to say, ‘tell your Dad’,” Katara said, a mischievous grin on her face.
Gamon’s eyes went wide. “That’s just mean, Cap . . . You wouldn’t really, right?”
Ignoring Gamon, Katara turned her attention back to Arcadia. “So they haven’t demanded a vote to replace me?”
“No. Why would they?” Arcadia asked.
“Because accepting that they will encounter and work with neomages is what they each agreed to when hired. Not to work for a rogue mage. That’s another matter altogether.”
“To be honest,” Gamon explained, “they’ve had their suspicions for a while. I mean, the strange construction of the new Persephone, all the secrecy over the years, and the hydrofoil system, too. Besides, if anyone has a problem with it, I’ll toss them overboard myself.”
All three women stared doubtfully at the slender young man.
Gamon cleared his throat. “I mean, I’ll have Arcadia toss them overboard.”
“Now you’re talkin’,” the warrior woman said.
Laughter bubbled up from Katara. “They’re not a big crew, but they’re an amazing one.”
“So, once we stop in Sri Lanka to let your power sink charge, I suggest we rename the ship for a while, just in case. Question is, what to name her and where should we go to lay low?” Arcadia asked.
“The name is obvious,” Gamon said, “Mettilwynd.”
“Good call,” Arcadia said.
Katara nodded. “Why not?”
Miku snickered. “You’d name this gorgeous ship after our band?”
“Band?” Arcadia prodded. “Oh, do tell!”
“Saint’s balls . . .” Katara complained. “Fine. Okay. Back when we were young, we daydreamed of having a band. We were going to name it after our elemental affinities.”
“But we couldn’t use the normal spelling of metal and wind. Oh no, that was too boring for a certain someone,” Miku teased.
“Who will remain nameless,” Katara grumped.
Arcadia laughed, yet with a side-long glance from Katara, she pretended to cough it to a halt. “I’ll get the crew prepared. Sri Lanka to. . .”
“Mumbai,” Katara informed her.
“Why there?” Miku asked.
“To take you home,” Katara explained. “I can’t go back, but you can.”
“Mumbai isn’t my home anymore. I have no family there. You are my family and you’re here.”
Katara took Miku’s hand. “Seraphs bless us, I missed you.” Throwing her free arm around her, Katara pulled her friend close. “I love you so much.”
“I always knew you’d come for me,” Miku whispered in Katara’s ear, tears gathering in her eyes. “That’s why the break to my trance was my prime amulet. I knew you’d never lose it.”
“I guarded it with my life.”
Miku gently placed her hand along the crescent scar on Katara’s face. “In doing so, you guarded me. Most of your life has revolved around mine. It’s time you did something for yourself. When’s the last time you went where you wanted?”
Arcadia smiled. “I like this woman. So, Captain?”
“If we had the funds . . .” Katara began.
Miku patted the pouch tied to her belt. “We might.”
“Ah, yes, the bag we couldn’t open,” Arcadia said.
“It’s spelled closed to all but me and Katara,” Miku said, opening and holding it out for them to see the gold inside. “Will it help?”
“Fire and feathers!” Arcadia burst out, as Gamon whistled low.
“I’ll take that as a yes.”
“Glory and infamy, Miku!” Katara said.
“It’s all mine, so now it’s all ours. Where do we go?”
Katara looked at Arcadia, “Should we?”
“It’ll be dangerous, but I say we do it.”
“Um, where exactly, Captain?” Gamon asked.
Katara’s eyes lit up. “The Red Sea to the Gulf of Aqaba. Dock at Port Eilat before heading overland to the Dead Sea. Indira always said if we wanted to truly make a difference . . .”
Gamon almost choked. “That means seeing my dad, which I’d rather not do, plus a journey past Africa with the glowing . . . things. No one goes to Africa, Captain. Not even mages.”
“It’s the best way to Israel, your father’s homeland,” Katara pointed out to Gamon. “Unless you’d rather we sail around all of Africa . . .”
“Noooo . . .” Gamon protested.
“Indira and Liran would be happy to see us,” Arcadia said. “They could use our help mining salt from the Dead Sea and shipping it to neomages around the world.”
“Yay, my father, so excited,” Gamon grumbled.
Katara laid a hand on his shoulder. “If we want to hurt Jet, Nakir, and others like them—”
“And we do, so I’m in.” Miku put her hand into the center of the group.
“You know I am,” Katara said, placing her other hand on Miku’s.
Arcadia put her hand on Katara’s and turned toward Gamon. “You in, Little Li
ran?”
“As long as none of you ever calls me that again,” he said. “Deal?”
Katara ruffled his hair to avoid answering his request. “Nice haircut.”
“Cap?” he prompted.
Katara sighed. “Okay, okay. I promise to try.”
“That’s the best you’re gonna get,” Arcadia pointed out.
He slowly laid a hand on the pile. “Seraphs save me, I’m in.”
“Oh man,” Arcadia said. “The Darkness has a new enemy, and her name is Mettilwynd.”
TAMSIN L. SILVER is a writer of urban and historical fantasy. Originally from Michigan, Tamsin currently lives in New York City. She holds a BA in Theatre and Secondary Education, with a minor in Creative Writing and Shakespeare, from Winthrop University. She’s also taught both middle and high school drama, and run two award-winning theater companies. She loves her dog, cat, swimming, Wild West history, and visiting New Mexico.
You can learn more about her web series, books, short stories, and social media links by visiting her website, www.tamsinsilver.com.
Sons
100 PA / 2112 AD
Faith Hunter
He reared back in his chair, his taloned toes clicking on the tile floor. The woman stared at him, her body scented with fear but her limbs loose and relaxed, her face composed, eyes seemingly serene. Her hair was a soft brown, neither reddish nor blonde, but rather nut-brown, like a pecan. At the thought, the taste of pecan flooded his mouth. Better—the taste of pecan pie, hot and rich and sweet from the oven, with whipped cream on top. He smiled at the thought.
The woman flinched, dragging his attention back to her. Baalfilel, son of Baal-Hadad the Storm Lord, let the smile widen, knowing that his fangs would terrify. She gathered herself, drawing up the strands of her dignity and courage. Her eyes narrowed in defiance.
Baalfilel wanted to laugh with delight, spreading his leathery wings. The red and orange that banded his body brightened with the energies of amusement. He had seldom met a human woman who could withstand a Fallen’s true form, the shape of the dragon, without fear, without tears and mewling. For that he detested the lot of them. In curiosity, he opened one clawed hand, letting the candlelight glimmer on his razor-talons. She started. He smelled her bodily fluids shifting, altering. Her mouth went dry. But she stared at him, almost daring him.
He smiled, touching his lips with his tongue, delicately forked and black as soot. Her eyes followed it, but she didn’t back away. This human female reminded him of Celvdia, his one love, his darling, the human for whom he gave up everything: paradise, his seraphic shape and form, the ability to transmogrify—and most important, gave up his innate right to be in the presence of the Most High. That right that had been part of his former nature, the right and ability to gather with the seraphs and sing beside the glassy sea.
Pain, like a lance-point of seraph steel, pierced him. Baalfilel closed his eyes. He had once thought that to lie with Celvdia was worth the loss of everything holy; to bear children with her was worth the loss of the River of Time. He had learned that nothing, not even the world’s grandest passion, was worth banishment from Paradise. Not even Celvdia was worth what he had suffered.
When he opened his eyes, the woman still stood before him, trembling, the tiniest vibration of muscles and flesh. Much time had passed as he’d recalled the early times. Baalfilel sighed. He was getting too old to be dwelling on such ancient history.
He glanced at his second in command, the demon son he birthed off of Celvdia, his firstborn, Gilchamshriel. Most Fallen kept their children close by, safe from the predations of seraphs, mages, mules, and humans of the Light. Many of their children had been lost in the first hundred years of the Last War to warriors of the Light. With Paradise denied them, there was little else to fight for except their children, and the faint—ever fainter—hope of victory.
He brushed his hand through Gilchamshriel’s aura. The tingle of energy was rich and dark, luscious as human flesh. His son leaned into him, drawing power from his sire, sating his own needs.
Gently his demon son leaned closer, merging their energies, a familiarity no other of his offspring would dare. “Let me have her, Father,” he whispered. “Let me play.”
“No, Son. Not tonight. You have other prey to taste.”
Gilchamshriel sucked in energy, a hard, fast inhalation, as breath once filled his lungs. “Tonight?” he whispered, the woman forgotten. “You send me hunting?”
“Yes. Tonight, my child. But first, this woman.” Baalfilel studied her. She had been standing for half a day as he considered her request. She was exhausted. She needed food and drink, and to refresh herself in the baths. But if he offered, she would shrink from that, having heard tales of his frolics.
She had come to him before dawn, begging the release of her son. The lad had been caught out after dark by his youngest son, captured, and brought here, to the deeps of his hellhole. The boy had been a comely lad, naive and delicate, his skin a perfect golden sheen.
Alas, he was no longer innocent and lovely to look upon. The child had been a plaything for two days for his demon sons Shagnarak and Ranc’arek. His screams had echoed down the long dark hallways. Now, if Baalfilel concentrated, he could hear mewling. Good. The boy was still alive.
“I will grant you your son,” he said. The woman almost fainted, her legs growing weak as the blood rushed from her human brain in relief. “You will honor me for my benevolence by bringing me whatever I desire for the next moon. My first desire is you in my bed.”
The woman fell to the ground. Her shock and fear were potent aphrodisiacs to Baalfilel. He felt heat pool in his groin. The dragon nodded to two Dark mages who stood watch against the wall. The men, Stone mages both, stepped close, the banded tattoos marking them as his coiling up from their feet and over their bodies. The pattern matched the pattern of his own coloration, coils of beauty that covered him from the claws of his feet to the scarlet crest on his head. They were powerful, these mages, their tattoos so instilled with his might and authority that they were like extensions of his own will. Few dragons had discovered ways to bind mages to them with such finesse. His skill was unsurpassed.
“Take our guest to the baths and prepare her for tonight. Take her son to the surface and release him.”
“Your sons will object,” one of the mages said, his voice expressionless.
Baalfilel nodded thoughtfully. They would indeed. His sons would kill the messengers, and he had no desire to create replacement Dark mages; it was profitable but tiresome work. And the woman interested him now. “Show them this.” He removed a ring from his little finger. It was a demon iron setting in the shape of a queen dragon laying an egg. The stone of the ring was the egg, a fire opal in shades of stunning orange and flame. The first mage took the ring and the other lifted the human female. The three left, and he could hear the fast beating of her heart and her fearful exhalations. Tonight would be a thing of joy.
He turned to his son. “You hunt.”
Gilchamshriel quivered, his noncorporeal energies swirling like thunderheads and lightning. He was beautiful, though not nearly as lovely now as his original physical form. His son had been worth everything; worth far more than the woman who had captivated him, lived only five hundred years, and died. “I hunt for you, Father, at your command and with your leave. Who do I hunt?”
“The humans who convey our dark product across the border have taken too much. A little pilfering is expected, but this time they have paid too little for what we gave. And the slaves were sickly. You are my vengeance. Go. Hunt. Destroy. And return with their ears.”
The form that was his son rose from the floor and swirled, a dark cloud, a first-generation demon, a Darkness to be feared. The energies coalesced, thickened, and formed a shape, winged and taloned and banded with color; an image of his father—an honor to his sire. And his son was gone.
Requiem Of The Sea
101 PA / 2113 AD
Melissa McArthur
I followed the tracks until they faded under the canopy of trees, hoping I’d find Betta—my best friend and littermate—and her horse, Wanderluck, before someone else did. I’d heard stories of mages who’d left the Enclaves and been found by humans, stories of pain and death and regret. If I could reach Betta before she reached the shoreline, I might be able to bring her home with little or no disciplinary action.
My face was frozen and my nose ran with the cold as we moved deeper into the forest. The little warmth that the morning sun afforded us vanished when we entered the cover of thick evergreen trees. I slowed Wicket to a walk and looked around, hoping for some sign of which way they’d gone. I thumbed one of the charms that hung around my neck, and warmth started to flood my body. Wicket snorted and shook his head, perhaps hoping it would extend to him as well.
I halted the large palomino and closed my eyes. The ground around me was cold, hidden from the sea and moon, drained of the energy I could use. “Seraph stones,” I whispered. “I should have looked for you last night.” I’d sensed something was wrong when Betta didn’t come to dinner, but I’d convinced myself she was just in one of her moods. She’d taken to bouts of melancholy lately. I mentally kicked myself for not seeing the signs months back.
I took a deep breath to settle myself and extended my senses outward into the forest.
“Let’s go, Wicket.” I shook the reins and nudged the horse forward, headed into deeper woods and even deeper darkness. And with that darkness came danger.
Wicket slowed as the trees became denser and the undergrowth caught at his feet. I ducked under the low-hanging branches that crossed our path and patted the side of his neck, reassuring myself as much as him.