Lamplighter

by Law, Lincoln

  “The Gardens of Heaven was a beautiful place, where Gods walked amongst men. Though it is called a Garden, I must say that it is actually more akin to a city. I have been there. The streets are paved with light, the towers made from stone that cannot crack or shatter, and everything is peaceful.

  “At the head of this city and this people is a God called Tyndibar, who knows all, sees all, understands all. It is said he drew the city from the very earth itself, casting it with his hands, as he then did with the sons he formed from clay. Then, with the help of his sons he populated this garden, this tranquil city, creating life to fill the emptiness.

  “The people worshipped the trio, but their God especially. From this life, a shockwave spread, forming more cities and forests and deserts and oceans. It was a shockwave of life and birth, causing everything to rise from the barrens of the world.

  “And so it is that the Well of Life, the Fountain of Youth, the Well of Blessings appeared, alone in a vast wasteland. Unknown. Untouched. But so very pure.

  “And life continued to thrive in the Gardens of Heaven, the city peaceful and the citizens experiencing absolute bliss.

  “But one of Tyndibar’s sons, Castoro, saw that his father was corrupt. In a moment of anger, he attempted to assassinate his father; the Creator; the True Architect, and in that attempt, was captured. He was then banished from the Gardens of Heaven.”

  There were gasps of surprise around the room from those less familiar with the story.

  “Near-death, he was forced to wander alone through the wastes, living each day as it came, moving closer to death with every step. He had no goal now, except to wander into death’s arms. And when all seemed lost, and his life nearly spent, he found the Well.

  “He then consumed the water, and passed out across the stone.

  “When he awoke, he was marked by the Well; Blessed by its waters. And then it was around this Well that he built his might city of Tyndibar, calling across his Vindicators to police it and protect it from falling into chaos.”

  She took a moment to look about the room.

  “All of this is, of course, a complete lie.”

  “Can she say that?” Nataniel muttered.

  “Who are we going to tell?” Marlowe replied.

  He nodded. It made sense, he supposed. It gave him a sense of hopelessness, though, like he would never leave this place. Never see Delilah or Byron again, or Elenor. It was like he was doomed to die here.

  “Now let me tell you of the truth.

  “Tyndibar was a King living in the capital city of a not-too-distant country. He had two sons, Castoro and Pollock; twins, in fact. None of them were ever gods, though the King and Pollock were Blessed with unnaturally long life. They could exist for nigh on two millennia, while Castoro had rejected this particular trait, being born a perfectly mortal boy.

  “Out of greed, both brothers worked together to assassinate their father, and when that failed, both were cast from the city, with eight other men caught in the act of assisting the brothers.

  “Wandering the desert, they arrived upon a Well, from which all drank, and when they were full, they passed out. When they woke, they found themselves strong once more. But not only that. They had strange abilities. The eight that had joined the two brothers were now able to hover and fly, like birds, and the brother Pollock was strong enough to draw from within the wastes a vast city, pulling it from the earth as a syringe draws blood. It surrounded the Well on all sides, making it the Well its centrepiece. Its masterwork. Its cornerstone, upon which a society of citizens would be built.

  “People were lured to the city with promises of power and Blessing, and people did come. They came in droves, crossing the desert with supplies so that the long journey would not kill them. And when they arrived, they were Blessed and given places to stay. After a short time, Castoro and Pollock decided it best to make the Blessings more selective. Some say it was to distinguish the upper class from the lower class, while others suggested it was something to do with the magic being imbued into the people. Either way, fewer and fewer people were Blessed, until it eventually became something you were chosen for specially.”

  By now, Nataniel was fully entranced in the story. He cared not for the man having a rather heated argument in a corner of the room with another man, nor the card game happening across to room where one man had just betted his underwear. It was Hana, him and the story.

  “But of course, a rift appeared between these two, sprouting from the use of the well. The brothers had two towers that stood opposite each other on both polar ends of the city, and since the Tyndibar Well sat in the middle, both felt they deserved equal right to its use. Neither agreed of course, and so before war could break out between the two, a massive wall was built cutting the well in half.”

  What!Nataniel gasped inwardly. He could believe it for a moment; didn’t want to believe it. But it made sense. The stories always said the city was built aroundthe Well, he mused. I suppose we’ve known all along.

  “Pollock’s Well flowed free and fresh, and does so still to this day. Meanwhile, Castoro’s began to recede. Thirteen years ago, what remained of the water was tainted after a man drowned in the shallow waters, and the fiends began to appear.”

  There was silence for a time, the listeners watchful.

  Hana finished, “To consume from the Well was to be one with it. If there are any Blessed still alive today…” she turned to Nataniel, glancing at him long enough for him to register it, “…I pray for their soul.”

  She rose up and left the crowd speechless. Nataniel could feel Marlowe’s gaze on him, along with a dozen others. but he refused to return it. Instead he stayed quiet, staring into the distance. processing the information.

  Perhaps it was that his eyes were milky white that people stared, thinking him blind.

  So it was the Architect Castoro’s fault that people are turning into monsters! If he had never wanted the wall built, the Tyndibar Well would still be in one piece and wouldn’t have receded.

  He looked away from the wall, glancing at the ceiling, where the hearthfly of his shimmered into being, for only a moment.

  If she’s a storyteller,he thought suddenly, then she might know how I can stop this Curse. If she knows the truth about this city, then she must know something about the Curse. Perhaps I can stop it!I have to wonder if my magic will ever fail me, will my people ever discover the truth about the past? The fact that the story they know—of the man who wandered the desert, of the Well, of the Blessings—may in fact not be entirely true.

  Pollror

  What would my citizens do if they knew of the second city my brother built…or rather…the city we built together, and later split? I have done all I can to hide the history books explaining the world before the split, and my magic has been able to instil in the minds of my people the fact that the city has always been one, and that I was the one who built it with my five Vindicators.

  Faulkner awoke surrounded by light and warmth and the smell of fresh air.

  And people.

  As he opened his eyes, he realised that what he thought had been many people turned out to be three. There were a man and a woman, with bright, glowing faces and pale eyes, and another woman who was only slightly less…vibrant. It was a difficult attribute of their skin for Faulkner to define in his thoughts. Their skin seemed to shine, but the light didn’t come from the skin itself, nor was it reflected from the open window across the room. It seemed almost as if their hearts were a sun, shining brillianly golden, and through the pores the light was filtered. Their eyes were pale, too. The man’s green, the woman’s gold. It was the slightest bit frightening.

  “Where am I?” he asked.

  “You’re safe,” said the blonde woman, stroking her hand through his short hair. Her skin was soft and warm, like a pillow after one had rested one’s head upon it, and the scent that surrounded her sweet. It reminded him largely of Harriet. He felt a resurgence of pain in his heart, but trie
d to fight it from consuming him.

  He turned his head slightly, to one corner of the room where a hearthfly floated about, watchful but alone.

  “We found you with a few more,” the woman explained, “but most of them scattered when we came along. This one was the only one that followed.”

  “Thank you, little one,” Faulkner said, forming a weak smile.

  “Ethel,” she said turning to whom Faulkner suspected was the maid. “Go and get some water for this man, please. I think a nice drink will do him some good. And then once you’ve done that, get some food. We’ll see how we’re going from there. And while you’re at it, call up Elenor. She can keep this man company while I go and get him some medicine for that infection that’s spreading on his belly.”

  The maid nodded and left.

  “Now I really must go, but I will be back with that medicine shortly. You just lay there, okay?”

  Faulkner nodded quickly, pulling his blankets about him.

  She patted him on the chest and left.

  “You’re in good hands with her,” said the man, who stood nearby, arms crossed. He was a handsome fellow, but softly spoken; a good match to his kind wife. “You’re lucky she found you when she did, else that infection on your stomach might have gotten worse.”

  “Yes…well…thank you.”

  He smiled and turned around as a young girl of fourteen entered the room. She still had the softened features of her youth—her face was round, her arms thin—but she had a beauty about her that Faulkner found difficult to describe.

  “Mother wanted me up here?” Elenor said to her father.

  “Yes, actually. We want you to keep Mr….err…what was your name, sorry?”

  “Faulkner.”

  “Mr. Faulkner here company. I have to run off now. Can you do that for me?”

  “Of course,” she said. Her father nodded, pecked his daughter on the cheek, and left the room.

  “Mr. Faulkner,” she said, doing a little curtsey.

  “Just Faulkner,” he said.

  “Very well.” She drew up a chair in the small room, sitting beside the bed. “So what are you doing here Faulkner, if it’s not too rude to ask.”

  “Not at all,” he said. “Actually…it would be rather nice to talk. I’ve been so…busy lately that it’s been difficult to find time just to reflect.”

  He paused as he remembered wandering through the city, surrounded by hearthflies as they guided him to the bridge. He’d been allowed a period of reflection then, but very little time besides. Everything up until then had been to run, sleep, run, sleep, and eat wherever he was given the opportunity. The few days since he had lost his wife had blurred together, and it was only now he realised he had not eaten.

  His stomach rumbled.

  Elenor laughed quietly at the noise. “Ethel is a good maid. Food will be here shortly.”

  Faulkner smiled appreciatively, but it quickly faded.

  “If you don’t want to discuss it, I’ll understand.”

  “No, I have to tell someone.” He paused. “Harriet wouldn’t want me to bottle it up.”

  He told the young girl of his wife, the pregnancy, the trouble he had gone through to conceive. She listened intently as she told him of her kidnapping, of the meeting with Ophelia, and especially at the mention of Nataniel and his markings. He told her of Harriet’s death, saving her of the gory details, and then of the hearthflies.

  “I can’t remember what happened after I went into the tunnel. I don’t know whether I passed out from exhaustion, or whether the hearthflies had something to do with it. All I know is that I’m here now, and I’m safe.” He hesitated, biting his lips, but went on. “Where is here anyway?”

  “Of course!” she said. “You’re from Castore. You wouldn’t know.”

  “Of what?”

  “You are in the twin city of Pollror.”

  “Poll-what?”

  “Pollror. Joined onto Castore, but never to meet.”

  He blinked. “I think I’m going to need some explanation.”

  Elenor chuckled to herself, but Faulkner could only stare blankly. “You’re not the first to get through, and I’m sure you won’t be the last. Pollror is the second half of Tyndibar, the city that existed hundreds of years ago before the brothers decided to build the wall dividing the two.”

  “Brothers?”

  “Castoro and Pollock; twin brothers who were thrown out of their kingdom because they tried to murder their father. They both built a city with eight other men and women, and brough people to populate it. When the rift appeared between them, they decided to split the city in half. Castoro, realising he was the lesser of the two brothers, as he was gifted with neither immortality or magical powers, decided to keep the twin city a secret from his people so that they would not cross over. It’s the reason it’s always raining on that side of the wall. If it were sunny, you would be able to see our own tower.”

  She pointed out the window on the wall Faulkner was facing away from. He rolled over, groaning, and stared out the window, over the hundreds of houses, to a tower quite similar to the Architect’s, sitting about a kilometre away, its peak burning with a cauldron of fire.

  “It’s just like ours,” he murmured, as he rolled himself back over to face Elenor.

  “Exactly. It’s why we’re called the twin city. It was Pollock who kept this side of the city, and Castoro who cared for your side. The wall was built, and everything went downhill on your side, while our side developed like any other city in the world.”

  “So you don’t have fiends?”

  “No.”

  It seemed a strange concept. People could leave the house at night and wander the streets freely, without fear of being attacked by the ravenous, terrible fiends. It took almost a full minute for Faulkner to grasp at it properly, and when he did, it seemed entirely alien to his mind. Being so cut off from the outside world made it seem like he had never considered other cities in the world. This is why Castoro doesn’t want us to leave! If his people knew how much greener the world was on the other side of the wall, they would leave without a moment’s hesitation. He would be alone; powerless with no people to control.

  “And you have no Cursed.”

  “The Blessing didn’t ruin us like they did to your side of the city. Our Well still flows. We still do Blessings, but we don’t bind them in an Obl-Obligi-” She struggled to get the words out. “Obligaturgical contract.”

  He didn’t bother asked what that meant. Language was not his strong point.

  “And the rain?”

  “Only every so often. From what I understand, it is Castoro’s only magic that he can still control. So long as it rains, this side of the wall is protected from your sight. The days he isn’t strong enough to summon rain, he just creates an illusion.”

  Faulkner nodded, processing all of these thoughts quickly.

  “So why do you have your own tower peaked in flame? If you have no fiends, surely you don’t need it?”

  “We’re the twin city,” she said. “Our layout is almost an exact mirror of your city. The towers peaked in flame existed long before the cities were divided.”

  “And no one has crossed from my side…why?”

  “A few have,” she corrected, “but very few attempt to and survive. That channel you went through is the only way, and as I’m sure you can guess, getting through without the spiritflies can be difficult.”

  “Spiritflies?” He rose an eyebrow. “You mean hearthflies, don’t you?”

  “No, spiritflies.” She grimaced. “Hearthflies seem like a very odd name.”

  “Well it’s what we call them. I think spiritflies is an odd name.”

  “How is it?” she retorted. “They are the spirits of the Cursed, after all.”

  The Knowing Hearthflies

  But I do have a plan to save my city. I can rebuild it from the ashes I have created. I have failed, and now I must make up for my mistakes.

  All it shall t
ake is a spark.

  Ophelia was surrounded by hearthflies when she returned home. After leaving Nataniel’s house behind, she had walked tirelessly and quickly through the rain-swept streets, careless that her boots had begun to leak, or that the gas bags about her waist were beginning to run low. She couldn’t remember much of the walk home—it had all become a bit of a blur—but she could feel the hearthflies around her, protecting her with their glowing flames.

  She opened the door and entered the warmth of her house, the hearthflies following her in. Strange, she thought. They had never done that before. Occasionally, they had followed her, but never had they followed her into her house. They didn’t have to care about the rain, for their fires continued to burn brightly no matter how heavily it fell.

  “What are they doing in here?” asked Ophelia’s mother as she closed the door behind her. Amelia rolled into the entry hall on her wheelchair, her expression strangely frightened.

  “They followed me,” Ophelia said quietly, almost carelessly.

  “No, no, no. They can’t come in here.” She tried to shoo them away with her hands, but she was bound to the wheelchair and couldn’t reach high enough.

  “Don’t do that. They’re fine.”

  “No, we can’t have them. I don’t want them in here. Get them out.”

  Ophelia tried to shoo them away too, but they didn’t budge. They dodged her hands as a mouse dodges a cat’s swipes.

  “Are you all right, mother?” Ophelia asked, pausing mid-swipe. “I’ve never seen you so…scared.”

  She looked almost in tears at the creatures fluttering about her.

  “I just don’t like seeing them. They remind me too much of your father.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “It’s their fault your father’s gone. They’re the ones that made him go away.”

  “In what way?” she asked. She noticed out of the corner of her eyes that the hearthflies were beginning to close in on her, their fires burning more brightly than they had before. Ophelia got the impression that they were listening more intently now. “No, actually. Not now. I have too many other things to worry about.”