by Brindi Quinn
In time, the Pates let out an: “Aha!” because they think they have found their answer. They have not. I have observed their so-called wit. I have predicted their guess. And it will be wrong.
The thick-chinned woman approaches.
“Have you an answer?” Awyer asks, aloof.
“We have,” she says. “It is one of the Greats of Eldrade. A phoenix. It holds a wealth of knowledge within its crown; spreads its wings; sits upon a bottom of feathery down. The answer is a phoenix.”
With the answer given, the Pates are smug.
I am far, far smugger.
“Incorrect,” I say via Awyer, and the woman’s smugness falls. “The answer is the Grand Grimoire Library. Its wings stretch – north and south and east and west; it sits upon a hill without trees – a down; and a wealth of knowledge is stored in its shelved crown. Therefore, the library is the correct answer.”
The gold of the Pate woman’s hand dims, while the light of Awyer’s grows. She scowls at her comrades, though there is naught she can do. The deed is done, the riddle solved, and the Pates have no choice but to retreat. The deal is such that even if they wished to go back on their word, the blessing of the sphinxes would not allow them. A riddle of gold’s outcome is undeniable. Their riffraffed feet begin to walk on their own. In a line, the Pates do go, and a zipping hummer appears in the place they once were. A tiny bird of teal and scarlet, the hummer flits about the scene, sweeping the air and collecting information. It is building a report to bring to the elders.
Yes, Awyer’s reputation will surely grow.
“A phoenix could have worked too, Grim,” says Awyer gruffly as he hops upon the umbrellaed platform.
“But that was predictable. The greatest riddles have three layers. I knew they would not be able to see past the first, which is why I told you the second.”
“And what of the third?” he asks.
The third involves things beyond Eldrade’s border. I say nothing. Awyer folds his arms and looks at me slyly.
Our flat begins a sloped descent, through the misty offspray and away from Fountain Terrace. Awyer’s arms remain crossed. Not only has he been in a mood all day, our rapport has not been in the best standing as of late. Things between us have been wrong. Tense. And seventeen’s emergence of power is not all to blame. The truth of the matter is that it has been a while since we last . . . diverted. In Awyer’s younger days, diversion was all we did.
For beings in our situation, diversion is everything.
“Here I go, Awyer!”
Without additional explanation, I hop to the top of the umbrella and give it a kick. Awyer perks as, once more, our flat changes course.
I command the lift go up, and it rises straight into the sky. Though the barrier’s warning looms overhead, we press on. We will not break it, but we will come close. Pressing the limits in this way is an act most exhilarating. Awyer does not necessarily feel the same.
I take care to tiptoe around the umbrella’s edge. “Look into the distance, my fief, and tell me what you see,” I say.
Using the umbrella’s handle for grounding, Awyer stands and scans the horizon. The expanse beyond Eldrade’s barrier is blurred – enchanted to be so – but if Awyer will use just a whit of the Amethyst writhing about in his veins, he may be able to see a hint of clarity. “There, Awyer.” I point to a particular peak through the dense lavender of the upper sky. “Press at the center of your eyes with your mind, and you will see it,” I tell him.
Awyer’s animal-like irises become intent.
“Can you discern what lies beyond?” I ask.
“It is foggy.”
“Stare into the blur and push it away. Only then will your vision clear.” Awyer gives it more concentration, but still he cannot see. “Focus, Awyer. Enough Amethyst writhes in you to perform a spell so small.”
Belittling the issue works. “A . . . mountain?” he guesses.
Yes, a mountain. But more importantly, a story. A story he must hear. I make my voice to be ominous:
“For on that mount, two witch sisters lived, collecting unlucky animals that wandered into their lair. Theirs was a nest of things unholy, and the witch sisters, called by their underlings ‘Hamira’ and ‘Gorma’, were known throughout the land for their acts of treachery. Most treacherous was their lust for enchants.
“Only three powers were ever meant to exist within moral reality, Amethyst being the daughter of the other two; but the witch sisters, they pulled from a fourth magick, a darker magick – an accumulation of the evil thoughts thought but never carried through; and the secrets kept in shame, never to be shared.
“Aye, secrets and malice, those were the things that fueled the witches, and it was no small sin that it was so; for unused malice is sent to a place beyond the Eternity Vessel – a blackness no man or god has ever seen, and a place no mortal should ever touch. But touch it they did, and corrupt they became, and from that day forth hoarded forbidden magicks alone within their shrine. While the other powers of the world spun, their control over the darkness grew. An unbalance into the balance. A wrinkle into the fold.
“Ages passed. Stars faded. And what became of the witch sisters? They yet reside on the mount, rotting in spite, and their power continues to grow. Any who encounter them be wise: The peak is named Ensecré, for a witch will always trade a spell . . . for a secret.”
Awyer gazes into the hazy skyline as I finish my tale. I have offered him just a little of the knowledge he should not know. “Two powers that birthed Amethyst?” he inquires. “Grim, explain. Excluding storytales, Amethyst IS the only power.”
I cannot say any more. All I can give him is a nod. Small and deceitful, the nod makes Awyer frown.
In due time.
In time near.
But not now.
I float from the umbrella’s top and to the platform itself. Next to Awyer I settle. Together we kick our legs over the side of the flat. Over the whole of the polished stone city. Over the Pates and the street officials and the elders and the casters. My ward and I sit in silence.
“You cannot tell me.” Awyer does not ask, merely states.
“I cannot,” I respond.
Awyer gives a sign and stares down at his own changing flesh. “It grows stronger.”
I put a hand to his wrist, finishing: “And it aches.”
He nods. “Mm.”
“Not for long, Awyer.”
The silvery skin of my arm rests against the healthy tan of his. The longer parts of his hair, dark as untilled under-earth, toss in the enchanted breeze. Mine rest, for I do not exist enough to be kissed by the wind. My hair is short and shifts in color during the hours, from palest white to deepest onyx. I could will it longer, but there is no point in that. There would be no one to see it but Awyer, and if I were to do so, he might think I had for his sake. And that would be . . . compromising.
Ever compromising are the things I should not imagine.
“You can lean here, Grim.” Awyer pats his tattoo-marked shoulder.
“You know I do not tire, Awyer.”
“I do know,” he says. “I offered because you looked like you wanted to.”
Compromising.
It is compromising.
Both that I wanted to.
And that he could see it.
We cannot have that.
I float to my toes and return to the top of the umbrella. “Time to go home, my sphinx.”
“I am more man than sphinx,” he says.
“You are more boy than man.”
But as I watch his hair toss about behind his neck, I realize the differentiation is becoming as blurred as the enchanted horizon. Boy, sphinx, man, ward – of those things I am not certain, though there is one thing I am.
Awyer is mine. He will be mine until the day that he dies. Awyer’s destiny: A little more of it is revealed to me each day.
That is how I know something is brewing, even before the first blast of red smoke hits Grand Grimoire Lib
rary and shakes the enchanted city of Eldrade.
Chapter II: Bloőd
“Remain in a duck, Awyer!”
Red blast after red blast, the lavender sky of Eldrade turns crimson as its enchanted clouds are stained with outside magicks. Our lift zooms through the sky, fully freed from the constraints of silver guiding light, while I perch atop its bewitched umbrella, pressing it on with enchants.
We may be guideless, but our destination is clear.
To me, at least.
Awyer, on the other hand, is far from clarity. “What is happening?!” he shouts from the floor of the lift. He is spread and clutching the edges of the rickety thing. My fault for choosing the shabbiest one is now Awyer’s peril.
“Bloőd has made a move,” I tell him.
“Blood?”
“Bloőd. One of the mothers of Amethyst.”
This makes not sense to my ward, who continues to clutch and frown. It will take some time for the truth to sink in, that Eldrade, the castle town which has not been attacked for nearly a thousand years, is under siege. The time to act is upon us at last.
Mere minutes ago my fief and I sat together tranquilly staring into the blur beyond Eldrade. Now, as we whiz through the early evening sky, the buildings to either side of us shake in the wake of blasts of red smoke balls.
In a handful of seconds, Eldrade has turned to chaos.
The blasts responsible for the uproar have form of their own; alike lit boulders of condensed fog, they catapult though the sky from some unseen source to the west. Hummers flit about the air, dramatically attempting to gather their reports for the elders who are holed within the strongest, tallest building in all of Eldrade. Will its towering guardians protect them when the red bombs make contact?
KRRRSH!
Barely scraping the side of the underpass to the Grand Grimoire Library’s connecting bridge, our flat loses a bit of trim. Awyer loses a bit of patience.
“Grim?”
Just a little longer. Our destination lies to the east of the library. To the very place the elders now hole. I answer him not, and concentrate on steering our lift above the underpass’s water, which has become tinted red from Bloőd’s influence. Ever rickety, our lift bobbles above the upset waves. Might it serve better as a raft? Enough life is left within the umbrella to make the vehicle putter. Its base dips into the river and splashes up droplets of red-dyed water. The specks that land upon Awyer’s skin soak in and mix with his purple-hued veins. He does not notice. He is preoccupied with clinging to the teetering platform.
We reach the edge of the non-residences, but continue to skim the top of the water. The flow will carry us to our destination. At our backs, red blasts continue to paint the air, remaining noiseless until landing against their targets – only then do they each let out a hissing BOOM!
One such boom rocks a raised condominium on the northern bank of the river. The Eldradeans therein respond by shouting and retaliating with enchants of their own. Purple bombs of smoke shoot from the condo’s windows and encase the red. Alas, the red is resilient. It breaks through and engulfs the building in the power of Bloőd.
In no time at all, Eldrade has become a battle zone. Red versus purple. Bloőd versus Amethyst. Mother versus daughter. After centuries, Eldrade will feel the consequences of its stolen color.
“Grim!” Awyer shouts my name out of frustration. The modest boy has never had reason to utilize speech carelessly; his words have always been few. Today, however, he will begin to use them more. It is imperative if he wishes to survive. Today marks the beginning of a struggle only I have foreseen.
Again he shouts, “Grim!” as our whizzing, bobbling flat smacks into one of the river’s concealed boulders. I hop from the umbrella just as it is knocked from its holding place by the intrusive rock. Into the river it goes, where it is swallowed by a cloud of red. Another such cloud blocks the path before us. Pushing the Amethyst from my hands into the middle of the now umbrella-less platform, I command the enchant’s last energy be spent propelling us into the air. I am obeyed. In one final bout of power, we fling over the cloud blocking our path. Over it we go, in an arch, and land squarely before our destination:
Eldrade’s stacked whitestone castle.
Castle Terrlgard, as it has always been called, is taller than any other building of Eldrade. It holds more wings than the Grand Grimoire Library, shines more brightly in the midday sun than any other polished structure in the non-residences, and houses more riches than all of the clean-cut condominiums put together. One of those riches will ensure Awyer’s safety and open the path to his future.
The boy yet clings to the boards of our ride that no longer hold together. In the aftermath of the fall, our flat has become smashed to fragments. Fueled by leftover momentum, Awyer rolls in the grass, groping the largest piece of debris. I float to him.
“Rise, Awyer!”
The scene we have departed is a mess of smoky red, howling Eldradeans, and shattering stone. Even the statues, Great Ones of Eldrade, have begun to fall. The castle is our brink.
“GRIM!” Awyer’s formerly-few-expressioned face shows off a new one: cross annoyance.
“Come, my sphinx!” Grabbing the bottom corner of his tunic, I pull him along. Awyer quickly tires of being led like a companion animal, however, and is swift to swat my hand away. He tramps into place beside me.
“You think to enter Terrlgard?” he apprehends. “It is impossible without invite, Grim.”
Wrong. It is possible. I answer him naught and continue up the gated walk. The gate that awaits us at the end is little cause for concern. The Amethyst below Awyer’s skin writhes, along with something else: The golden blessing of the sphinxes – a gift unique to Awyer’s line alone – stirs within his being.
Gold and Amethyst: Awyer claims them, and he will use them to break through the enchants surrounding Terrlgard.
Rows of square-cut hedges line either side of Terrlgard’s walkway. Cubed greenery, many of them are alternately stacked upon each other, forming a checkered wall to the right and to the left. The stacks grow taller the nearer we get to the castle’s front entrance, and in the last stretch, even rise and curve to form a tunnel. The sun shows through the open squares and patterns the walkway to match.
A few more strides take us to the gate. Of polished stone like the rest of Eldrade, the gate would be easy to climb, were it not enchanted to keep away any uninvited guests. For that reason, there are no weaponed guards to welcome us. No traps to catch us. No signs to warn us.
“Place your hand to the latch,” I instruct my ward.
Unhappy that I have chosen to refrain from explanation, Awyer is reluctant; but the backdrop for our adventure is a mess of foreign blasts and chaos. Realizing this, Awyer obliges. His hand touches the lock uninterrupted. If he would venture any further, a repelling from the gate would be in order. We will act with haste.
“Speak this,” I tell him, and he repeats:
“A riddle of gold: If I have not been invited, then why am I here? The invited, the uninvited. One cannot be both. A being whom has not NOT been invited, must have been . . . what? And a being whom has not been uninvited must be . . . what? This truth I speak to you: I have not NOT been invited, nor have I been uninvited.” Awyer’s hand upon the gate glows golden. “In the presence of gold,” he finishes, “what does that make me?”
The gate clicks.
Awyer gives me a look. “That was less of a riddle,” he says flatly, “and more so word trickery.”
“All riddles are word trickery,” I tell him. “Now come!”
The gate spreads to allow us passage. We do not tarry to enter the castle grounds.
The grounds are strewn with more shaped hedges – some of block, some of sphere, some of guardian likeness. A leafy phoenix rises among a circle of fig trees. Other miniature flowering trees wind in scrolling patterns along the clean, even lawn.
Awyer sprints – I float – to the second blockade: the front door. Again I i
nstruct my ward to place a hand upon the impasse.
“We are not uninvited,” he repeats at my directive. “Open.”
The doors swing, and Terrlgard itself welcomes us with warm arms. Inside is nothing so warm. Casters dash this way and that in disarray. Several of them gather in clumps surrounding flat silver discs that show of Eldrade’s current state. The casters mutter and twitch, and their skin glows of Amethyst. Elsewhere, elders clothed in folding plum-colored robes bark orders at their minions, instructing which enchants to use over which plated discs. The discs are the windows into Eldrade, and the casters are its true protectants.
Awyer slinks through the entrance gallery, my shadow trailing his, until we reach the connecting hall that will lead us to our destination. The hall is small and adorned with enchanted cutouts of fabric guardians. They slide along the walls after us, portraying legends of the people. Our task is not with them, so I bid Awyer forward, past doorway and offshoot, and guide him straight. We will find what we seek at the end of this hall.
A third obstruction, an ornately carved door of stone, meets us at the far side, but there is no need to tell it our intent. After all, any who have made it this far surely have done so with purpose. With this in mind, the door swings to allow us entry into the Terrlgard throne room.
A daunting stretch of clean white walls box an area much longer than is wide. The walls are adorned with nothing, for they are meant to be nothing but blank canvases to be cast upon by light streaming through painted glass windows high on the walls and ceiling. Dyed colorful, the light showcases the windows’ true artwork. Images of kings in kingly glory are depicted here and there, along with scenes of Eldrade’s most beautiful locales, Fountain Terrace included.
The light cast through the painted glass is enough. There is not a need for other clutter. Thus, the room is empty. So, too, is the smooth, chiseled throne. The King of Eldrade is elsewhere, as are his attendants. All are scattered throughout the levels of the castle, doing what they can to ward off the threat they have not yet identified as Bloőd. The only sign of life, my ward excluded, are a dozen lagging hummers keeping watch. They will see what is about to transpire. They will report it to their masters. And Awyer’s reputation will grow more than ever before.