by Brindi Quinn
Awyer chews his teeth, never taking eyes off of the stranger. He does not know whether or not he should deny the thanks, and quite frankly, neither do I.
The self-proclaimed half-necromancer approaches and holds out his fist. “By the hoo, I’m Bloőd. You Azure? Didn’t recognize the power. Looked dark, but I couldn’t tell for sure ‘cause it happened right fast.”
Awyer offers no answer.
The stranger lowers his fist. “Right. You can’t tell me ‘cause you aren’t the sorcerer what conjured it. Oka, oka. I get it.” He winks and makes a motion that pantomimes sewing his lips shut. “Anyhoop, I’m Pedj.” He offers his fist once more.
My ward, uncertain as to what to do to the fist, holds up his own an awkward moment before letting it fall. “My name is Awyer,” he says at last.
“Ower, eh? Weird accent you got there. If you won’t tell me your color, I’s guessin’ you won’t tell me where you hail from. Guess that just leaves us with where you’re going.”
Awyer clears his throat – a signal to me that he is unsure of how to answer.
“Tell him that you are on a pilgrimage.”
“I am on a pilgrimage.”
The boy called Pedj wrinkles his pointed nose. “A pilgrimage? Pilgrimage to what?” He is skeptical. A thousand years ago, pilgrimages across the land were fashionable amongst the youth. Apparently the same is not true of now.
“To Yel’ram,” I instruct.
“Yel’ram,” repeats Awyer.
“Yel’ram?” Pedj kicks at a cracked clavicle. “Not buyin’ it so hot. But hey, that’s oka. Your backstory needs some work, just so’s you know.”
Awyer clears his throat.
“The fault is not mine!” I say in defense. “I know as much about the outside world as you. Much has changed in a thousand years, I am sure!”
Awyer’s mouth twitches.
“Somethin’ funny?” says Pedj.
My fief says nothing. Pedj’s hands ball.
“Awyer!” I hiss into his ear. “I know you are not the most personable of people, but if you wish to seem halfway normal, you must make conversation! You may not be willing to cast enchants, but the same is not true of this stranger!”
Awyer’s expression goes dry. Even so, he knows that I speak the truth.
“Was anyone injured in the blast?” he says.
Pedj, surprised that Awyer has at last chosen to converse, loosens his fists. He shrugs. “Dunno. I’m playin’ dead. Or at least detained.”
“Hm?”
“Like I said, those croops won’t get it through their heads I ain’t made for necromancy. Been waiting for an opportunity to bolt. Just so happens your – or whoever’s – little cloudburst got me the perfect opportunity. I’m outta here. So’s you know, Káol is just that way.” He points at the trees to the west. “It’s one of the outposts for Bloőd territory. That’s where I’m comin’ from, and I suggest you don’t go there. The place is swamped with Bloődites fresh from attackin’ on Amethyst, so they ain’t likely to give quarter to strangers.” He brings a finger to his bony cheek. “Specially strangers missin’ backgrounds.”
The words ‘attack on Amethyst’ put both my sphinx and me on edge. “Remain natural,” I coach.
“What came of the attack?” says Awyer.
“DO NOT ASK SOMETHING LIKE THAT!”
As it turns out, I am the one to be unnatural. And I am ignored by the person who cannot hear me, as well as the one who can.
Pedj shrugs. “Worked, I guess. At least all the Amethyst whores we’ve managed to catch no longer have magick. So the question what’s is, is where IS the magick? Them ageless writings talk about how it’ll be ‘bequeafed’ to the victors, but so far, nothing’s changed for Bloőd. And you, mister I’m-NOT-Azure, haven’t been ‘bequeafed’ either.”
“How can you tell?” says Awyer.
“Hoo. Thought Azurians were supposed to be ultra smart or somethin’. ‘Cause the writings say that those what are ‘bequeafed’ will have purple skin. Your skin ain’t purple. And neither is mine. What means, the power hasn’t went to either our nations yet. And all the reports we’ve gotten say the same thing.”
That is a relief, at least. In the thousand years of Eldrade’s cheated peace, the truth of Amethyst’s indicator has been distorted.
“And how do you know I am not one of the ‘whores’?” says Awyer.
“Again, DO NOT ASK SOMETHING LIKE THAT!”
“Har. Har.” Pedj grins. “Them Amethyst suckers are devoid of power. You, howbeit, my friend, are brimmin’ with power. I can tell only by lookin’ at you.” The stranger begins a slow circle of my ward. “And now that’s outta the way, there’s another thing I can tell only by lookin’ at you. YOU’RE a sphinx, ain’t you?”
Awyer remains intense. “What if I am?”
“IF you are, I’d say you’re a long, LONG way from home. There ain’t been any sphinxes livin’ in Bloőd territory for a long time, and I didn’t know there was any in Azure territory anymore either. Leaves me with two possibilities: One – you’re on your way to or from some hidden sphinx colony in the far reaches of Azure. OR two – you’re lost.”
The accused sphinx says not a word, so Pedj continues to fill the air with his own assertive rambling.
“You’re tryin’ to find the Golden Place, but ‘cause you’re only part sphinx, you don’t know the way. That being the case, it senses to say you’re on your way to Secret Mountain to meet with them witches.” Pedj appears pleased with himself for the deduction. Though we were not, in fact, planning on meeting with any witches, this necromancer is unexpectedly astute. He continues, “After all, Secret Mountain’s only a few days east of here. AND as it just so happens, I’m makin’ my way to Secret Mountain, too. What for? Well, I won’t be tellin’ you that just now. What’s is, is I’d be happy to accompany you there. Two sorcerers are better than one, eh?” He nudges my ward. “Well? What say you?”
Awyer waits for my input.
“I have . . . history with that place,” I tell him. While it is true that the witches of Ensecré might know a way to the Golden Lands, I had hoped beyond all hope that it would not come to that.
“What else can I do?” Awyer says, which, though meant for me, Pedj takes for himself.
“Zactly!” he says. “I’ll gather that’s a yeah? Come on, you. Daylight’s a-wasting. We can talk more when the sun falls.”
Pedj clumps ahead with a nod. But Awyer is hesitant. And so, too, am I.
“A moment,” I tell him, and reach for his hand.
Awyer stands atop a pillar, encompassed in a funnel of Amethyst smoke. Soundless, the air around him rises, pushing the cloud higher and higher until there is nothing less than a direct line to the heavens.
From below him, a golden light shines, through which stoic faces are visible. One rises above the rest. Part man, part lion, the being offers a token to the deliverer that is Awyer.
But Awyer does not take the token. Instead, he instructs a person in the shadows to step forth.
I give a start.
That is not how it is meant to be. It is all, ALL wrong! Alas, when I try to cry out to him, a garbled voice at my back interrupts,
“He’s doing it for you, faerie. Just ask the necromancer.”
As swiftly as I am forced in, I am pulled out.
The necromancer? A forememory sparked by the recent introduction of one such necromancer.
Yes, Awyer’s future has always had an uncanny way of revealing itself.
“Very well, Awyer. Until I conjure a better alternative, we shall accompany the boy to Ensecré.”
Not ten minutes later, I already regret the decision. The boy called Pedj is . . .
“Riddle me, Ower!”
“Awyer. EYE-er. And no, I will not riddle you.”
Pedj holds up his hands. “Oka, oka, Awyer. Sensitive subject, I guess.” He thinks on it. “Suppose it would be like you askin’ me to raise your dead grandmar or something, though.�
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Awyer says nothing, which is better than if he were to say something unfavorable. Because of my shadow, I have been forced to fly above and behind the pair of them – lest the rising sun betray my existence – leaving me unable to act as coach. I will take what I can.
Rolling hills escalating to mountains, green-coated soil dotted with florae: The outside wilds surround us. The path the mortals tread is riddled with sharp slabs of upset rock and jagged protrusions of crystal. In the brush, plump ground quails dart to and fro, the busybodies of the undergrowth. More than a few hop into takeoff when Awyer and Pedj walk past – a response entirely due to Pedj’s . . . tendencies.
The necromancer is first and foremost a conversationalist.
“If you’re wonderin’ how I can be only half necromancer, well it’s an interesting story, actually.”
I can say with one hundred percent certainty that Awyer was NOT, in fact, wondering; but the effort it takes to say so is too great. Hence, he seems the devoted listener.
“My mar was full necromancer. And my dar? Well, he kicked the bucket a wee too early. My mar wasn’t too happy about being left without a kipper, so she rose up my dar and conceived . . . you guessed it, ME!”
Awyer’s answer is a low sort of hum. He takes no interest. Although, it is at least a little interesting. The boy’s mother was necromancer and his father was necromanced. Not only does it make him half a necromancer, it also makes him half zombie.
“But if you’re thinkin’ that sounds crude,” the zombie goes on, “you’d be wrong. My mar got my dar when he was fresh. Just the day after his deathday. And she went on keepin’ him up for almost a year. My dar really wanted to meet me, you see, so my mar tried her best. As you can imagine, being pregnant and all, my mar was exhausted by the time I was born, so she let my dar sleep. It ain’t sad, though. ‘Cause every year on my birthday, my mar would raise up my dar again, and we’d spend the day together. Her spells even helped preserve him some.” Pedj taps his cheek. “Though as the years passed, he started lookin’ less and less like my dar and more and more like a corpse.”
“That is because he was a corpse,” mutters Awyer.
Rightly said. No matter, there are a number of unusual things in this world.
“Say what you want.” Pedj shrugs. “Anyhoop, you’d think being half dead would come in handy, being a necromancer, but I assure you it ain’t. Them dead can smell the difference. Gets them thinking I’m an imposter. Guess I am. Dead’s got no right raising other dead.”
I cannot decide whether it is refreshing the way he speaks of his half-living state so lightly, or disturbing. There is wordlessness for but a moment before Pedj starts up again:
“What about you?” He eyes up my ward. “Where’d you get your sphinx?”
“My mother’s father carried the blood,” says Awyer.
“Hoo. So you got any special sphinx powers?”
My fief clears his throat.
“Yeah, didn’t figure you’d answer that one. How about this – I always heard sphinxes had gold magick.”
“Mm.”
“But that magick you cast at the Tomb of Deát was colored dark, so . . .” The clever zombie thinks to catch my sphinx in a word trap. Awyer realizes and raises a brow.
“Oka, oka. Still pretendin’ it weren’t you, I get it. By the hoo, there a reason you’re keeping your power secret?”
Such a many questions are sure to annoy my ward, particularly when the newcomer is so clearly trawling for information. I await a cold front to come, as is to be expected of Awyer in such a situation, but the front remains warm. Comfortably warm. To Pedj’s attempts, he merely shakes his head and releases a subtle snort. He is amused?
“Hey, don’t blame me for tryin’ to figure out more about you!” Pedj defends. “Could be a depraved cutthroat for all I know. No offense, but you looks the type. Those shifty eyes of yours.”
Awyer’s brow returns to a peak. “If anyone was a killer . . .” he says.
“What, it’d be the half dead guy? Hey! Uncalled for!”
The corner of Awyer’s mouth twitches.
Truly? I strain my eyes to be certain I did not misread it. Alas, the twitch was real. There is a strange dynamic between the two boys. My ward’s lack of annoyance is unforeseen. Might they actually be enjoying the company of each other?
We carry on through the sun-cloaked mountains. Pedj continues to drill, and little by little, Awyer’s responses become fuller, as he inexplicably gains interest in the prattlesome talk.
“You use Bloőd as well as the necromancy you inherited,” says Awyer. “I believed only one race capable of wielding dual magicks.” He is, of course, speaking of his own twofold power.
But . . .
Alarm befalls me a few breathless seconds.
. . . He would not think to say so!
“MY WARD, DO NOT!”
My voice rings through the sunny highlands, soundless to most everyone. Most everyone. There is one who may hear me, and he, encountering the cry, glances upward at me as though I am mad. My mistake. I have overreacted. Awyer would not be foolish enough to divulge that amass of information.
“N-never mind,” I say, feeling doltish. But while I attempt to diffuse the puzzlement I have created, it lingers suspiciously.
Meanwhile, Pedj is making analysis of Awyer’s statement. “Only one race? Where’ve you been living?” he says. “Under a crankin’ stone? Lots of creatures are like that.” Pedj thinks on what he has just said. “Hoop! You saying that’s like you? So you’ve got your gold stuff AND Azure. Doy! What’s like me! In the end, not such a mystery.”
The newcomer is too perceptive for his own good.
It may just be his undoing. It is in his best interest that he does not figure out more than he ought, lest I need to remedy the situation. Remedy. Aye, a naefaerie can be deadly if she must.
As the mortals make way toward the slowly nearing mountain Ensecré, I float in proximity, ears pricked, listening for signs of danger.
In this way, we carry on for several hours.
When the sun hits center, and when my hair begins to show signs of tinting, the zombie halts. Anticipating a break, I scramble to hide my shadow in a nearby tree’s. It is a good thing, too. As the sun travels across the sky, it becomes harder and harder to disguise my silhouette. The slinking thing seeks to give me away the longer it creeps across the land.
“Phoo. I’m gettin’ starved,” Pedj says, stretching his arms behind his back. “You?”
“I am not starved. I ate yesterday,” says Awyer.
“Uh, yeah. But you’re hungry, ain’t you?”
Awyer puts a hand to his stomach. “I am.”
“Hoo! That’s what I’m sayin’!”
Awyer, who does not understand Pedj’s intention, glances upward at me for clarity. I shake my head. Neither do I know the answer. The boy has claimed starvation, has he not? Starved is starved.
“We could roast quail,” Pedj suggests. Seeking an easy solution, the Bloődite has just mentioned the first thing in view, for one such bird happens to be fleeing across our path at this very moment, seeking shelter in a deeper shrub.
“It would take too long,” says Awyer.
“Yeah, could be true . . .”
Pedj plops onto the ground dangerously near where I hide and proceeds to pick at a neighboring bush. “Well, we can’t eat these.” He flicks an orange berry into the landscape. “Them’ll make our gums burn, turn gray, and potentially bleed.”
“Quite unpleasant,” I agree. I have seen the effects of such berries on a great many uneducated travelers.
“Is that so?” mutters Awyer, and it is not clear whether he speaks to Pedj or to me. For solidarity’s sake, I shall assume me. He reaches into his satchel and pulls out another loaf of bread.
“You’ve got that, eh?” Pedj says, fumbling about within his own pack. “Well, I got this.” Triumphant, he holds up a block of red-colored something. “Wanna pair them?”
/> Awyer’s frown is apparent. “What is it?” he says.
“Preserves.”
“Preserves?”
“What, Azurians don’t use them?”
Speaking for Azurians apparently, Awyer shakes his head.
“Weird. Oka, what’s is, is condensed backleberry spread. Cut off a piece of loaf.”
Awyer does as he is told, tearing off a portion of the bread and holding it out for skeletal Pedj. Pedj, in turn, holds the block over the bread and squints at it. From his hand arises a small waft of red. Shrouded by Bloőd, the end of the red block slices off and falls onto the torn loaf, upon which it spreads out into jam.
Awyer, none too fond of enchants, scowls at the cuisine.
“Awyer!” I hiss. “Do not be that way! Conceal your detest! You must fit in! You are already too suspicious a character!”
Awyer stares into the puttied fruit on his bread. “Is it safe to eat?” he says, only halfway swallowing his dislike.
This he asks of me, unsure as to whether or not he may consume food from a stranger. It is wise of him to ask, and I am about to instruct that indeed he should not eat any of the food before witnessing Pedj doing so, but the Bloődite, again taking the question as meant for him, does not wait for prompting.
“Sure, it’s safe. See?” He seizes the bread from Awyer’s hand and takes a bite of the concoction. “Tastes great,” he adds, mouth full.
Awyer nods and tears off a second piece from the loaf, which he reluctantly allows Pedj to adorn with fruit paste. While the boys eat, I hover near my tree of refuge and shield my eyes from the sun. Soon the warmth will be at our backs, and then what shall I do? Fly even higher? Or perhaps it would be better to fly right at Awyer’s back so that my shadow will be blocked by him, and so that whatever pieces of profile should slip through will be merged together with his.