by Brindi Quinn
Then again, there is a possibility that the outcome will be a bulbous silhouette protruding from Awyer.
“Continue to eat, my fief.”
A pair of sphinx eyes glance sideways at the tree.
“When we begin again, I will attempt to place my shadow within yours. The area behind us is mountainous enough that once the sun is at our backs, it will be blocked much of the time. Though the boy is perceptive, it does not seem as though he is attentive to our surroundings. Walk with a steady gait, and I will follow.”
Awyer tips his head in obedience.
At the end of their dining, Pedj rubs his bony torso. “You good? ‘Cause I am GOOD.” He finishes the statement with a large belch. What would be good is if Awyer refrained from acquiring habits from his new friend.
The rude boy and my quiet one rise and take up their march toward the haunting peak growing nearer in the distance. I wait for Pedj’s head to turn before skimming to where Awyer walks, and floating behind his back. He gives a small jerk upon feeling my close presence, but regains a ruse of obliviousness with ease.
After several attempts I succeed in meshing our shadows into one. There is an amount of inconsistency to the process, though it is better than to have a lone phantom shadow floating along in our wake. Eventually even the zombie would notice a thing like that.
Day moves into evening as I trail behind Awyer, and as Pedj continues to tell of the woes of being an unfit raiser. When the wind kicks through the highlands, rattling the underbrush, it runs also over the walking boys, seeking to gather a small taste of them. Pedj’s hair, stiff and bowl-shaped, moves not; but Awyer’s, loose around his ears, is mussed backward by the beast. Into my face it goes.
I make a noise of protest only Awyer can hear. I am responded by a chortle.
“What’s funny?” Pedj questions whilst in the middle of a story about a raised up bullyfrog missing her hop.
“It is nothing.”
Yes, it is nothing. But it has given Awyer something of an idea. A streak of mischief has befallen him, and now that it has, he takes it upon himself to halt suddenly time and again so that I am forced to crash into the back of him. He does not give care that, to his companion, it appears sporadic behavior. The enjoyment found in causing me strife is too great. Each time, his mouth twitches with a glimmer of complacency.
“Awyer!” It is my place to scold him, but I cannot help the invisible giggle that comes along with it. His antics amuse. They divert from the daunting mount in the distance. Those knobbed fingers . . . that wrinkled, mud-stained flesh . . . I am not desirous to enter Ensecré.
Diversion is everything.
When night falls upon the jutted brushlands, and when the quails have all turned in, Awyer and Pedj stop for camp in a large clearing marked by a ring of crystals. The partway-unearthed jewels catch the moon’s light and shine with brilliance.
“These clearings, they were once used to plot positioning,” I tell Awyer as he sits watching Pedj struggle to light a fire with his feeble powers of Bloőd. “There were parchment maps that lined up with them, showing what lay in each direction based upon the number of crystals along any given spread of circle.”
“You used them?” Awyer says under his breath.
“Travelers did. I did not.”
Because I did not often travel.
Pedj continues to mumble over a pile of dried debris. Awyer watches him curiously, rubbing a hand along his own power-filled arm.
“Bloőd and Azure are feeble by comparison. For this reason, those nations covet the power within you.” I speak into his ear: “Were you to will it, the entire brush would light up. The ground would blaze and the growth would shriek. That is the greatness of your power.”
“He struggles,” observes Awyer.
“Aye, fire is undoubtedly most difficult for someone used to drawing power from water.”
“Mm.”
Heavy silence settles around us, disturbed only by Pedj’s cursing. I move into a sitting hover just above the ground beside Awyer and hug my knees into my chest. At my side, Awyer leans backward on his hands and looks to the inky sky adorned with a handful of stars. Few of them are stragglers. The rest are in a halo. It is common for stars to travel the night sky in packs, alike celestial wheels, circling their positions whilst slowly moving from far to near and again to far.
Awyer watches the phenomenon with tranquility. Still and statuesque, the regal blood beneath his skin shows in this moment. In days past, no one would think to approach a resting sphinx. Breaking the thoughts of a creature as hallowed as he would warrant the disturber nothing but despair. It is my good fortune, however, that Awyer is not full sphinx. Interrupting him would result in nothing so morose.
My grown ward – as he looks upward like that, his head is held by the neck of a man. Likewise, he possesses the jaw of a man. The broad shoulders of a man. The strong arms of a man. I cannot deny it any longer.
Seventeen comes tomorrow.
Awyer is no longer a boy.
My reluctance to accept such stems not from a desire that he stay my young ward always, though I doubt the compromising things I have felt for him would exist if it were so. My reluctance stems from a fear of Awyer becoming my equal, for if he is my equal, it means his death will be soon.
Ever compromising are the things I have felt for him. Never before have I distressed over a pactor’s death.
I seek to distract from the uneasy feeling in my stomach.
“Y-you think more than you speak, my ward.”
Awyer says naught in response.
“If you wish not to be suspicious, you must try to converse. Not everyone is as I am. Not everyone can tell what you are thinking just by looking at you.”
My sphinx turns his face toward mine, and his eyes light with the reflection of the fire Pedj has finally achieved. Together we lax in the quietness of night.
And then something unexpected comes to head.
“Tell me why you are afraid of that mountain, Grim,” says Awyer. And it is not a request; it is an order. A stern order directed from ward to warden. I am taken off guard. My fear or not, Awyer should not have been able to perceive my weakness.
My failure as a naefaerie continues to grow.
“I did not mean you had to converse with me,” I grumble. It is a strange feeling against a tongue that is not prone to grumbling.
When Awyer responds, he houses traces of a grin. “Whom else would I want to converse with?”
The ink of the sky is bewitching. The fresh of the air is freeing. Together, my ward and I are in this world.
“I enjoy that,” I speak out of turn. A blurt? A blurt, prompted by the enchanting eve. Though I should not have allowed those words to slip, it is too late. They have been heard, and their betrayal shall waste no time corrupting my role as keeper.
Awyer’s countenance transitions to something serious. “What do you enjoy?” he asks, beguiling eyes locked firmly on mine. With their corners pointed like that – with their underlids lined darkly like that – they claim craft. Many are the secrets held by the sphinxes. Many are the wiles.
Awyer appears as though he could trick me out of my life if he desired it.
“I enjoy that you have developed a smirk,” I say.
Awyer does not blink. “Have I?”
“Yes . . . and other things,” I say.
“Do not be vague.”
“You show anger, my fief. And humor.”
“You enjoy those?” he asks.
I nod because it feels as though I cannot lie with his stare so intensely and unforgivingly upon me.
Slanted, his eyes gleam the hidden gold of his ancestors. “My nature is to hide them,” he says.
“It has been passed down from your mother’s father,” I agree.
He moves his mouth nearer mine. “I will fight it.”
He will fight it? He should not wish to fight it. I should not wish him to change. I am to enforce his inherited nature.
What is happen
ing?
Things are changing.
Oddly so.
Wonderfully so.
Terrifyingly so.
Dread.
The atmosphere around us disquiets the longer he keeps his face close to mine. I would delight in leaning my forehead into his tattooed shoulder, if only to feel something outside of myself – the only thing I may feel in the absence of enchants. Awyer perceives my wants.
“Grim,” he says. “You can lean here.”
Something I would very much like to do. The firm shoulder of a boy-turning-man. Surrounded by an atmosphere of dangerous tranquility. Something tells me I should not lean into him. There has always been a small amount of compromising emotion when it comes to this particular ward, but those compromising emotions grow fiercer each time I indulge in them.
Why? A naefaerie truly caring about a pactor . . . it is unheard of. And never before have I taken issue with it.
Even so, I am conflicting on Awyer’s offer, when –
“What doing? Got on talkin’ to yourself?” A foreign voice breaks the tension that should not exist. Awyer refrains from explanation.
While the stars above continue to rotate, the pair of travelers settle near the fire. I will keep watch over my fief. I will make sure nothing gets him in the night. Thief or nightwere or half-zombie.
It is the latter that proves most wretched.
In the middle of the midnight hour, when my hair is darkest, Pedj indeed awakens from his slumber, stumbles to where my ward rests, and utters, “So’s I got you to bring to her; guess she’ll be crankin’ happy,” before placing a hand above Awyer’s head and willing a solitary hair away from his skull. This small piece of sphinx Pedj pinches between his fingers, then blows into the wind. His feeble breath becomes a stream that carries the strand away in the direction of Ensecré, where live a pair of witch sisters hoarding magicks alone within their shrine.
There is not need for me to question who ‘she’ is. There are two ‘shes’ residing in that place, and neither makes for pleasant acquaintance. Pedj has laid trap. He lures my powerful sphinx to a place of darkness. For this I should rightly smite him.
But the land has changed much since I was last free from Eldrade, and a guide is a useful resource to keep. Awyer is far more powerful than our betrayer anyway. For now, I will issue only a warning. It comes in the form of an enchanted bundle of dried thorns from a nearby shrub. From the ground I will them and into the space just beside Pedj’s thin ear I direct.
As expected, the zombie ducks away in time for my bundle to miss. It plummets to the ground behind him and slides to a stop against one of the moon-gleaming crystals. In the aftermath, Pedj squints at it with distrust. He nudges it with his toe, searching for signs of misconduct or unruly quail. Finding neither he retires again to the ground from which he should not have risen.
“Next time you come near to my ward, you will not fare so well,” I warn over his body. “Next time you will not fare at all.”
Chapter V: Thyst
In the morning following the zombie’s treachery, I am irritable.
While the boys breakfast on quail eggs, I share my observations with Awyer, during which time untrustworthy Pedj is near one of the crystals, rambling off the advantages of being free from his maestros – ‘croops’ as he calls them. Some business about sleeping past day’s break.
“What would you have me do?” Awyer speaks into his hand when I am finished recounting.
“We will use him. He knows the way. And when we arrive at that place, we will decide how to proceed.”
Awyer nods. He waits until Pedj is several words in on a new ramble before inquiring, “Are we sure?”
“That the ‘she’ he spoke of is one of the witches? There is no way to be certain of anything in this world, my ward. However, we would do well to assume that his intentions are not pure.”
“Mm.”
Awyer looks thoughtfully from me to the rambling boy, who looks only slightly more robust after consuming a full six eggs.
“Use this time to gather information. It would be beneficial to find out how the Bloődites managed to enter Eldrade. We would also be wise to discover if the Bloődites and Azurians are on sociable terms. He has received you well thus far, but for all we know, it could be little more than part of his plot.”
Awyer waits until midday, after I have shifted from the air to my place at his back, before attempting to gather information. He considerately wishes me to be within listening distance during the interrogation, and I will offer him my craft if it becomes necessary. It will be difficult for a sphinx without guile to steal information away from a guarded betrayer.
I will lend him my craft, and his skill will grow.
But as it turns out, Awyer does not require my aid. And it is not disappointing that it is so. Pedj delights in speaking. He delights in speaking much. My sphinx need not prod deeply.
“I have meant to tell you,” Awyer says with flatness that should not be read as sincerity. “It is impressive that your people were able to break into the whore bastion after so long. You should be proud.”
Flat or not, from Pedj comes information most detailed.
“Well, it senses to say we woulda never done it without you Azurians’ help,” he says. “Weren’t it your king what got the idea to use the water in the first place? Hoop! I bet if necromancers weren’t on the side of Bloőd, you Azure folks woulda gone right ahead with the attack yourselves, eh?”
“Hm,” is Awyer’s response.
“Made sense, anyhoop. Smart thinkin’ to use the Amethyst whores’ water source. Just ‘cause they couldn’t be found, don’t mean we couldn’t use the water passing through to make connection with them. We just got crankin’ lucky’s all, river Gheld being only the second river we infused.”
So that is how they succeeded. The necromancers have long possessed strong control over water. They have long honed a steady relationship with the wetter parts of the world. A mortal may not enter Eldrade after leaving, but that is not to say that an ever-living water could not carry with it the spells of its masters.
Eldrade’s downfall was a simple mistake indeed.
Day moves on, and this day, Awyer does not divert. He does not halt suddenly. He does not make cause for me to crash into him. He is quiet. As the slinking sun patterns the highlands with misshapen dots of shadow, my ward treads pensively.
The mountain before us grows as the sun behind us sets.
Once again, the sky becomes scattered with stars, some haloed, some not. The night heavens beyond Eldrade are ever changing. So, too, are the winds. This night, they blow away from Ensecré, carrying with them the foul taste of voided magicks.
Pedj sets about fussing over a new fire next to a slow-moving stream. Over a shallow bottom of rounded stones and prickly plants, the water in the stream runs clear and fresh. Awyer takes his fill and then some, and when he is finished, I instruct of him:
“Tell the necromancer you must relieve yourself.”
“Pedj, I will be back.”
“Oka, got on needin’ a piss? Be sure to follow the water so’s you don’t get lost. And if you see any food . . .”
“Mm.”
Awyer and I leave Pedj to his fire starting. Along the stream we go, over risen bank, until we are safely out of earshot of the untrustworthy zombie. When we reach a point where the stars are blocked by trees less stumpy than the rest, Awyer stops.
“Grim,” he says. “What is it?”
Toes skimming the ground, I circle him. “This day . . . surely you have not forgotten,” I say.
Awyer brings a hand to his shoulder, wherein hides the obsidian tattoo of bondage. “No,” he says. “But I thought you had.”
“I would not forget something so sacred.”
The corner of Awyer’s mouth twitches.
I stop my circling at his back, placing both hands on his shoulders, and whisper, “Happy birthday, my fief. Shall we renew our pact?”
Yes,
it is the same each year on the day of his birth. Our vows are said. Our pact is renewed. Our bond is strengthened.
Awyer turns to face me, taking both of my wrists in his hands. Eyes on mine, he nods one assured nod. My breath comes short. I grow excited. Though there is something amiss about the moment. In all the years of our renewal, never has the air around us been so thick. Strange, as it is our first time doing so out of the false air of Eldrade. The air out here is free and untainted but for the bursts of darkness flowing from Ensecré. Those bursts are quiet at the moment. Still, the space around us contains heaviness.
Each year, since the first year, it is the same. I am to place my hand on Awyer’s shoulder. I am to enchant his skin there to prick. And as he says the words he is meant to say, the shard on his flesh will darken.
Yes, that is how it has always gone.
But this time it is different.
With my wrists yet in his hands, Awyer takes a steps backward into the cool-running stream. He pulls my floating body with him so that I am also over the water that drifts so lazily. We are face to face over the tranquil liquid shined with whatever moonlight finds it through the trees. Awyer and I reside in this moment. I breathe and he breathes, and then, whilst facing me, he pulls my right wrist to his neck, into the collar of his knit, and to his warm shoulder. Only when my palm is flat against the tattoo of bondage does he release me.
“All right,” he says.
“W-why like this!?”
“I want to look at you while you do it,” he says with utmost gravity.
Compromising.
More compromising than ever before.
I nod at him and begin to focus my Amethyst on the follicles beneath my hand. I will them to react. I will them to prick. My gaze locks on the place where our skin, material and non, touches.
“Do not look away,” Awyer orders.
Alike yesterday’s, the command is not usual of him. It is, however, befitting. I find again his eyes, more like an animal’s than any person’s, and obediently look into them. I slide my fingers over the pacted mark, a light dusting of nonexistence. I will his skin to rise. It does. It rises, bumped, against my fingertips unaccustomed to feeling things.