by Brindi Quinn
Awyer and I are not resting in a mere cavern: We are resting beneath a burial ground. And what is more, we are in the middle of a dead-raising ritual. The concealed bones, the reversed rain, and Bloőd all surmount to one thing: Somewhere above us, a necromancer is working his trade.
“Awyer!” I am over my ward’s body in a flash. “Get up!”
On this occasion, Awyer is not slow to wake. His eyes snap, and to his feet he bolts. In slight disarray, he paws at the smoky air. “More of this?” he grogs, tongue heavy with sleep.
“A necromancer is using the adverse weather to his or her advantage.”
“Necromancer?”
“A raiser of the dead. We have been unlucky enough to wander into a tomb!”
Awyer notes the bones at the same instant I mention them. “So let us go!” He makes way for the cave’s mouth.
“No!” I zip to cut him off. “There is power in the water. Necromancers are masters of water. And behold,” – I gesture to outside – “there is much water from which this particular necromancer may draw. We must develop a strategy.”
“All right then, what would you sug–” Awyer’s words are cut short, for he is distracted by a new disturbance.
With the necromancer sucking moisture from the air, the cave is becoming increasingly dry – a most favorable outcome for the bone-loving slaywings, who, no longer under the shackles of dampness, decide to take immediate flight. All at once, they spread their pointed wings and fly to the center of the cave’s ceiling, crowding around a rather large grouping of skulls.
The skulls in question have just begun to vibrate stronger than any of the other bones – so strong, in fact, that the hum emitted from them becomes audible to even Awyer and me.
Awyer’s attitude toward them is stony. “Will they come to life?” he asks, eyeing them up with begrudging.
“It depends entirely on the wishes of the necromancer. It would be foolish to raise the dead so far gone. The task is far easier with a fresher corpse. It is probably the necromancer’s will to liven a corpse up there.” I point to the ceiling. “A corpse buried freshly and shallowly or not buried at all.”
“Then why are the bones here reacting?”
“It may be a side effect of a young necromancer with too much water to draw from. Notice the rain being pulled upward from ground to heaven. Too much power for a new sorcerer can often have unpredictable results.” As Awyer knows all too personally. The shattering glass is ripe in his memory.
“And if the bones awaken?” Awyer’s attitude turns suspicious. He sizes them up as though they may spring to life at any moment.
Indeed, they may.
“If they awaken, they will seek out new flesh to cover their bones,” I say, shrugging to belittle the threat.
“Ours?” he says.
“We are nearest.”
“Pray tell, Grim, then why are we waiting?”
“Because you are going to combat them with your Amethyst. Amethyst power trumps Bloőd and Azure in a head-to-head duel. You will take charge of the bones and force them to combat their master.”
Awyer looks to his swimming veins. “Two days remain before I am seventeen.”
Aye, but emergence is on the verge.
“Heed this, Awyer: Seventeen is merely a cultural standard – the acceptable moment for one to release the tap. True, it will release on its own at that time if you do not do it before then, but it is by no means the only way. You, my fief, have already tapped into a small portion of the power within your veins. YOU may choose to force emergence along. It is difficult, yes, which is why I did not suggest it before now, but it grows easier the nearer you come to seventeen; and when faced with danger, the task becomes necessity and is therefore natural. You have no choice but to release it.”
As what I have said sinks in, the focus of Awyer’s negative attitude turns from the bones to me. Per usual, he would rather not.
“There are other ways,” he says. “Like running.”
“Into the rain where the unstable necromancer draws his very power? Do not be daft.” I challenge him: “And more importantly, do not be cowardly.”
“And YOU do not be deceptive, Grim. You know there are other ways, but you plan to force my emergence so that the way to the Golden Lands will be revealed sooner. You use this to your advantage.”
Ah. My ward sees through my tricks.
“Is that not what you want as well?” I say in defense. “To make way to the Golden Lands and unhand the burden of your power?”
Awyer looks at me dryly, and then –
“What must I do?” he says with an outbreath.
I have him. And his cooperation is in the nick of time. The vibration of the bones has grown to roaring. Two of them fall from the ceiling to the hard, rugged ground. Being brittle things, they should crack, but Bloőd catches them and cushions the fall. Several of the slaywings swoop to follow.
One of the fallen skulls, vibrating even more vigorously than the others, rises from the floor, embraced in a cloud of Bloőd, and hovers at man height. The skeleton’s pieces are readying to form. The skull is commander.
From somewhere at the back of the cave, another white piece – possibly a femur – flies to meet its leader.
“The body is gathering, Awyer!”
“Again, what must I do?”
Ah yes. It is time to coach him through the process. If we are successful, we will have gained two days. Success is imperative.
I glide to his side. “Your arms burn,” I tell him, “and while it is natural to numb the pain with your mind, you must not. You must give in. Allow it to burn. WILL it to burn. Delight in its burn.”
“But I do not delight in its burn.”
Another piece of skeleton flies from the wall to join the skull and leg bone. The slaywings react with zest; some begin to swoop from ceiling to skeleton and back to ceiling. Over our heads they fly, white eyes rolling.
“The key is to force yourself to relish in it. Here–” With a backdrop of reversed rain and an audience of crazed fliers, I position Awyer at the mouth of the cave, directly across from the forming foe. I take stance behind him and speak into his ear:
“Lock eyes on the threat. Feel the burn of your arms. Your body wishes to react.”
Awyer, in an attempt to overcome reluctance, nods at his opponent, who has just gained several vertebrae and a piece of pelvis.
“Now,” I say sternly into his ear, “close your eyes.”
Disinclined to allow for a moment of spirituality, Awyer gives a disobedient look from over his shoulder. Because I do not anticipate the action, my lips, still close to his ear, brush against a bit of his hair. I am swift to pull away. But Awyer reacts something peculiar. The corner of his mouth twitches. He is an imp. He finds my seriousness amusing. In the midst of danger, he yet maintains his blasé outlook.
I was wrong. He is not a coward. But he is a fool.
“Do it,” I order.
Sighing, Awyer closes his eyes. I check to be sure before resuming command, this time with more haste. The skeleton has gained several vital pieces, and the possibility that it might truly complete and attack is becoming more and more tangible.
I slide a hand down Awyer’s arm. His skin reacts to the Amethyst in my body by hissing hot. Awyer flinches.
“You make your breathing short to cope with pain. Cease. Take in long breaths. Indulge in the burn. Your own Amethyst is in there, mingled with the rest. Find it and take charge of it. The rest may not naturally wish to obey you, but your own Amethyst will. Find it and force it from your hands – palm and fingertip.”
For a moment, I wonder if Awyer is trying, even. I hear no change in his breathing as I rapidly flick attention from him to the forming bone mass.
And then I spot it. Awyer’s skin begins to darken in hue.
“That is it, my ward! Delight in your pain!”
But Awyer visibly does NOT delight in his pain at all. “Grim.” He struggles to speak through his teet
h.
I float to his front side and place my hands at either side of his face. “Breathe, my fief. Breathe and burn.”
His cheeks are cool compared to the searing of his arms.
“Let it go. Make a conscious effort not to resist the burn. Embrace it, and force it down your arms. It may feel like dragging a rake over seared skin now, but in a moment it will be over. Endure, my ward.”
Teeth bared, Awyer’s face becomes configured into a grimace of pain. I steal a look at the nearly complete skeleton at my back. Though it has clearly borrowed some parts – the ribs are inconsistent, and one arm is much longer than the other – it almost resembles a full set.
“Make haste!”
My ward’s shoulders jerk. His jaw grinds. His brow twitches. I am to be stern with him. I am to coax him along. I am to be his keeper.
“Focus, Awyer!”
But as I shout at him, I cannot keep from developing an ache. In the chest region, I ache. Small at first, the intrusion brings to light latent unwanted sympathies. This emergence must be, . . . yet I wish it were not so. Whether boy or man or ward, Awyer’s unwilling, unsocial manner has always been overshadowed by a quiet elegance. Even a watered-down sphinx is still a sphinx. And sphinxes are enticing creatures all on their own. It is . . . painful to see a naturally urbane creature under duress.
I should be firm with him. I should be strict with my charge, but I am not. I cannot. Without understanding quite why I do so, I move my lips to Awyer’s forehead and show him something I ought not: physical vulnerability. A very small kiss is followed these words: “You are nearly there, my sphinx. I am sorry for your pain. It will be worth it. Please trust me.”
Sincerity is not becoming of a naefaerie. I sound far, far too weak.
Yet, somehow, my weakness gives Awyer strength. No sooner do I utter the words, than he opens his eyes. Imbued with new ferocity, dark-lined, they find mine. “All right,” he says. And then, yet looking at me, he draws a breath and makes concentrated his brow.
The frenzied slaywings shoot through the Bloőd smoke. The formed bones rattle and shake. And from somewhere above, atop the cave, an escalating rumble sounds. As suspected, the true corpse is up yonder with the necromancer. Our skeletal foe does not seem to know or care. It continues to gain animation.
I look again to Awyer, and he has not taken his eyes off of me. His posture and expression remain how they were, but a change is occurring within. I can sense it.
“Now?” I ask.
Awyer’s breathing is finally even and deep. He gives me one concrete nod and then –
“HYUUUUUU!”
From his hands, smoke is born. Purple in color and thick in weight, the purest Amethyst smoke emits from his body. I see only a glimpse of it before the entire cavern erupts. In a flash, rock and bone and slaywing go bursting through the air as Awyer’s immeasurable power is released in a terrible explosion.
Because Amethyst will not directly attack Amethyst, he and I are spared from destruction. Even so, the force knocks us to our backs.
I am pushed to the ground, unable to move until the din has subsided.
When I am at last able to catch my bearings, I see that our surroundings have changed greatly. I hover in the middle of a cleared space, surrounded by all manner of debris from the explosion. An entire cavern lies scattered in bone-covered bits to every side of where it once stood. The rain has reverted to a natural fall. The necromancer is no more.
All-powerful Awyer lies a few strides away on his stomach, unmoving.
“My fief!” I attempt a dash to where he is but quickly find that the wind has been knocked from me. I cannot lift from the ground. Awyer’s Amethyst might not have attacked me per se, but it DID move through me. As a result, my composition is temporarily vague – even vaguer than usual.
Faint, I fall back into a hover just above the wetting soil. In the midnight hour, my hair has come to match the blackened sky. I stare into the heavens. A sky without stars, clouded by rain.
I do not see Awyer rise. I hear him rise. And a moment later, he staggers into view.
“Awyer.” My voice comes dim.
Awyer recognizes it. Squint and frown equally intense, he enters into a crouch over where I lie. “Grim. You are–”
“Do your veins yet burn?” I cut him off.
He shakes his head.
“But they are heavy?”
“Heavier.”
I observe the way they now blare full Amethyst. “Emergence is through,” I say. “Your power is rivaled by none.”
His eyes show contempt. “I will not use it.”
He is naïve. Volatile magicks have been unlocked, and it will be impossible to keep them contained. Furthermore, if we are to reach the Golden Lands, we will require as much power as is possible. Exertion is a necessity.
No matter. Something more pressing must be discussed. “Has the way become clear to you?” I ask hopefully.
“No.”
That is unfortunate. I attempt to keep my disappointment from showing. “We will find another way,” I say.
But Awyer is not at all concerned about that. “You are weak, Grim.” He serves to impede the rain from falling on my face.
“I am fine. Merely unstable for a time.”
The boy-turned-caster is quiet. Nearly drenched, his hair sprinkles droplets onto mine.
“Find somewhere in the rubble to take shelter,” I charge him. “Leave me to lie here.”
“I will carry you.”
I shake my head. “I think it best I remain as I am until I steady. The rain is becoming nothing more than mist anyway.”
Awyer scans the blast site and nods. “All right.” But instead of scurrying to find some bit of dryness, he settles into place next to me.
“What are you doing?” I say.
“I will stay, too.”
“But the rain–!”
“Is not bad. As you have just said.”
Cheeky. But I have not the strength to argue with him. And so we lie, wet against the unforgiving ground of a cavern that no longer exists. The smoke has cleared, both Bloőd and Amethyst. A great power has been untapped, and we are left in its fearsome aftermath. What more will the stolen power do, I wonder, before we are through?
I do not, by nature, sleep, but in the interest of rejuvenation, I let my mind drift and allow my eyes to close. Even so, I am wholly aware . . .
“Mm.”
When Awyer leans over and returns the kiss. At some point in the wet darkness, I feel his lips. Upon my forehead, they settle – too improbable to be real, yet I know without a doubt his mouth is there. For a few seconds, I feel him, his breath and warmth. Regardless, I cannot comprehend what is happening.
Why should he return the kiss? Why should he ever think to? Warden and ward. Naefaerie and boy. Because the situation is impossible, I am left unknowing how to react, and so I do nothing. I pretend I have not felt it at all.
Awyer offers no explanation before rolling over and falling into slumber.
The feeling of his kiss remains with me.
I am guilted by the compromising elation it brings.
The morning sun sheds no light on the confusing events of the night. Though I wish to discern the intentions of the kiss, I am not allowed to think on them long.
Falling rubble alerts that we are not alone.
Chapter IV: Deathly
Awyer hears the rustling at the same moment as I. He springs to his feet, on his guard, while I hurry to hide my shadow in his.
“Awyer!” I speak rapidly into his ear. “It is imperative none discover your identity. If any inquire as to which power you belong, lie. Tell them you have none. As far as your arms . . .” Additional clothes were packed for such an occasion. “Find a sleeved shirt to toss over your tunic.”
Awyer nods and begins to fish about in his satchel. He pulls on a tawny knit just as the rustler steps into view.
From over the top of a pile of rubble comes a very gaunt looking boy.
With skin as pale as moonlight, eyes sunk deep into his skull, and short ashen hair stuck straight from his head in all directions, he appears to be on the verge of death after a long sickness – or perhaps after being stricken by lightning.
“Sorcerer,” the boy calls from atop the pile. In contrast to his appearance, his voice is full and youthful. Equally full are his fists, which are balled in anticipation of casting enchants.
Awyer takes note and roots his feet in preparation. “I am no sorcerer,” he says.
“Really? Weren’t you the one that got on interruptin’ last night’s ritual?” says the boy.
Awyer’s jaw becomes tight.
“Tell him you were not!” I urge.
But though I command him, my ward says nothing; merely stands, appearing menacing.
The gaunt boy slides down the side of the pile, giving a hop at the end; then brushes his hands together and takes survey of the scene. “What a mess,” he says. “You alone?” He has failed to detect me, taking no notice that Awyer’s shadow contains a strange lump at the side. “Strong and silent kind, eh?” he goes on, when it becomes apparent that Awyer will not be giving response. “Not a problem. Take it you were campin’ out in the Tomb of Deát when the raisin’ went down?”
I float at the ready – prepared to enchant the rubble if the situation turns sour. Awyer does nothing but stare the stranger down. At least my ward is able to portray intimidation fairly well. The newcomer appears ill at ease.
“Oka, well, you don’t got to tell me anything you don’t want to,” he says, fiddling with his hair spikes. “Just so it’s known, say you were the one who’d stopped the ritual, I’d be real grateful to you. No matter how many times I try to tell them I’m only half necromancer, the maestros insist on forcin’ their rituals on me. Imagine my surprise when the whole place went kapooey smack in the middle!” He chuckles with gleeful remembrance. “See, all the dead I try to rise turn right crankin’ on me. They understand I’m not a true-standin’ necromancer. Not sure why those old croops don’t get it. Anyhoop, I wasn’t too keen on having to battle off a horde of half-formed zombies, so if you’re the one what put an end to it, a big thanks your way!”