by Brindi Quinn
I put a hand to it, and my fingers pass straight through. There are none I can touch in the absence of enchants. None but Awyer.
With my nonmaterial fingers upon him, Pedj shivers. “What’d you do? I got a chill,” he says.
“It was Grim.”
“Eh?!”
“Mm.” Awyer shows a trace of amusement over Pedj’s alarmed reaction.
Meanwhile, I concentrate on the liquid coming forth from the injured boy’s skin. I concentrate on reversing the flow and closing the flesh. Because Pedj’s body’s will to bleed is not strong, and because zombie flesh is far easier to manipulate than human flesh, righting the gash is much simpler than when I closed Awyer’s wounds. It is a good thing, too. Since I do not care for Pedj the way I care for Awyer, it would be difficult to muster enough will that he should survive.
The way I care for Awyer.
Mere days ago, the thought would not have voiced itself in that way.
Pedj’s wound heals. His eyes widen. His airflow ceases. And then –
“Hah? Huh? Hoo?!” he shouts. He pokes the former gash. “Your dark agent sewed me up?!”
“Grim healed you,” says Awyer, tone even.
“But how?! How’d she do that?!”
A peculiar question indeed. “Do not answer him, Awyer,” I instruct. “It may be so that the powers of Bloőd and Azure are not capable of healing.”
But my disobedient ward takes it upon himself to answer anyway. “She is an all-powerful being of darkness. Be kind to her. She could also rip your eyes from your head.”
Pedj scampers backward.
Awyer smirks.
He jests? Unnatural.
“Hey! Uncalled for!” says Pedj. He smacks my ward on the back of the shoulder.
Then again, an interaction like this may be wholly natural to my ward. To be truthful, I have limited experience regarding his communication with peers. Naefaeries are not allowed to enter the classroom, lest we give our pactors an unfair advantage. After academy, he did not bring others around. He did not form outings. It was always us. Warden and ward. And he did not speak of classmates. He did not speak much at all.
For all I know, he is this way . . . when in the presence of friends.
“Awyer?”
“Mm?”
“No. Nothing.” I cannot bring myself to ask.
Pedj continues to marvel over his sealed flesh. “Hoop! Tell your agent I’m right grateful, even if a skosh freaked.”
“Tell her yourself,” says Awyer, eyes agleam.
“Urrrm. Yeah. Oka.” Pedj guesses at my location. “So . . . thanks, uh . . .”
“Mistress,” says Awyer.
Mistress. The proper name to speak of another’s naefaerie. But to hear it from Awyer’s mouth . . . my skin, which is not fully real, turns flush. Though I cannot see it, I can feel it. The silvery palette has undoubtedly become tainted with pink. This Awyer notices, and he eyes my face with reflection.
The best thing is to ignore it.
Pedj has just completed his statement of gratitude. “Tell him it was nothing,” I say, not matching Awyer’s gaze.
“She says that next time she will do nothing. Naefaeries feed off of zombie leakage.”
Leakage? I shake my head. And because he is yet watching my tinted cheeks with suspicion – “Come on, Awyer! To the witches!”
I take off through the hole leading into the belly of the mount. The boys make haste to follow. I have many things to think on, yet I think on none of them. There is not good that may be done from picking my mind just now. Instead, I focus. On remembering the paths kept in this mountain. On remembering the inlets and obstructions and tricks. The darkness swallows us. No sooner it does, than I enchant a hanged torch to light. And then a subsequent torch to light. My shadow disfigures into several, as along a narrow stone passageway flooded by dim amber glow, we travel. The boys’ brisk footsteps make echo against the formerly dead walls. Outwards from us, along the passage, their foot patter does sound.
I remember this. Coming up on the left will be an opening in the wall, but because of the way the rocks have formed, it will not be visible until we have passed. No matter. That leads to a necropolis of deceased beings worthy enough to be kept by the witches. Worthy . . . as well as unfortunate, for the witches have also honed the powers of necromancy, and they hoard not only magicks alone within their shrine. One never knows when a deceased sorcerer may be needed.
In a few more strides, the path will branch. Taking the right will loop us, and we will be caught in a spelled hallway without end. Thus, the left is our route.
But when the fork comes, I find I am wrong. At some point over the centuries, the looping spell has been broken – perhaps by one of the unlucky skeletons now held within the necropolis. Neither path reeks of dark magicks. We still take the left.
For good measure.
The left path begins straightaway to slope and wind ferally. It dips and bows and slithers and bends around the innards of the mount. It circles around itself in a gut-choking way. Ensecré wishes to strangle itself. It is the will of the rock, once pure, now corrupted by the darkest magicks from beyond the Vessel. Its will is to die.
We pass a door wedged sideways in the tunnel wall. Without trying the knob, I know we may not enter. The force surrounding the door emits a warning too ominous to ignore.
A helping of minutes later, another such door, this one with cracked red paint, comes into view. We pass that one too and keep on, and Pedj begins to grumble.
Not yet.
We are not yet where we must go.
And the deeper we travel, the thicker the air becomes. Not only from the stagnancy of the suppressed space, but also from powerful incantations now being called by the witches. Somewhere ahead, the twin witches gather, chanting an enchant they think strong enough to destroy my ward. We must hurry so that it does not reach that potency.
Awyer’s fate is not to be destroyed in this place.
Rocked impasse after rocked impasse, boulders block the branches I used to know. Spelled doors aside, there is only one way we may go. The way we must go. The way that leads to their centrum. My shadow fills the majority of the hall with unrecognizable moving spots of shadow. Pedj, clearly disturbed, glances at them from time to time from over his hobbling shoulder.
The fault is Awyer’s. He has done little to curb Pedj’s terrifying view of me.
At the end of our pass, I enchant the final hanging lantern and stop. Pedj continues a few steps, because he cannot see me, until Awyer instructs, “Wait,” and the zombie skids to a halt.
The end of the hallway is adorned with no less than seven doors lit by the basking glow of the final lantern. Four are to the left, two the right, and one straight ahead. The six lesser doors are painted with dull colors of moss and tan and sienna, but the door straight ahead . . .
A deepest, darkest onyx coats that door. A door without knob or crook. A door which from beneath blackened mist rolls outward at us.
“Step back, Awyer!”
Awyer nudges Pedj’s side, and together the boys backpedal away from the incantation’s product.
“What’s it?!” Pedj cries.
I smell at it. I am not certain, but the mist stenches of hair from a mutt. If it is so, I know the witches’ plan of attack.
I turn to one of the left-hand doors, one of sickly pale color, and place a finger to it. The magic of this door is weaker than the rest, though it is not intentional. The powers here are reinforced in cycle.
“Come, my fief.”
Awyer obediently stands before the door.
“You must will this barrier to open,” I say.
Awyer looks tepidly to the tunnel’s shallow ceiling.
“Do not fear your power in this instance. There is powerful magick sealing the door; use as much as you need to counter it. The mountain will not crumble.” I steal a squint at Pedj who waits for Awyer to act. “Instruct the boy to look away, lest you reveal your Amethyst.”
“Look away, Pedj.”
“Hoo?”
Awyer’s eyes slit. “Look away.”
With a grumble Pedj turns his back to my ward.
“Grim will not be happy if you look,” Awyer says dully. Or maybe it is not so dull. Upon his lips comes another smirk.
Ah! He is making me out to be a villain! Regardless, there is work to be done.
“Put your hand before the door and picture it erupting.”
Awyer stiffens.
“It will not actually erupt. As I told you, it is protected by powerful magicks. Forcing eruption will not so much as ding it. You must will something much more terrible than that if you hope to pass.”
Still he does nothing but stare and brood.
“You resolved to use enchants to save the girl, did you not?” I say. “If I had strength enough, I would do it myself.”
Awyer is caught. Eyes on the door, he finally gives a nod. “I will do it.” Tipping forward his head so that his hair falls over his eyes, he takes preparatory stance. He makes tight his jaw, and so begins his casting. Beneath his sleeves, the Amethyst of his veins bubbles and writhes. His concentration is unbroken. His power is riled.
“Focus, my ward.”
But upon activation, the power in him runs hot. He starts at once to huff tortured huffs through his nostrils. His torso begins to jerk. His arms begin to twitch.
He will collapse before ever releasing the spell if he does not gain control!
A cooling catalyst is needed.
From behind, I place my hands upon his shoulders and lean my mouth to his ear. “Breathe and gain control of the burn, my fief. Delight in the burn.”
Awyer continues to huff, but it is not in vain. From the bottom of his sleeves comes a release of purple smoke. A cloud forms around each of his hands. I look to make sure Pedj has not broken order. He continues to kick at the ground and grumble with his back safely turned toward us.
“That is it, Awyer,” I whisper. “Continue on like that, and when you feel your enchant grow stronger than the one already in existence, will the door to break.”
He shakes and jerks and from his sleeves more smoke rises. It travels to the floor and mingles with dark mist yet seeping in. Purple and black enchants paw at our feet.
Make haste! Make haste, my ward!
He presses the enchant stronger . . .
Hotter . . .
Fiercer . . .
“YAHHHHHHH!”
And then he folds. Awyer folds, and the Amethyst in the room dissipates. And it is good that it is so, for Pedj has just spun to find the source of Awyer’s cry.
“My ward!” I flit to catch him. But he is also being caught by the zombie.
“I am all right,” says Awyer, rising without our help. It is no lie. However much power he has just exerted, an abundance more exists within his person. He looks little worse for the wear.
He eyes the door. “Did it work?”
“Aye. Can you feel it? The power is dead. Try the knob.”
Awyer does. At his touch, the pallid blockade swings open.
We enter one of the many storehouses of the mount. Within, I will find what I need to combat the hair of the beast presently being conjured. The room is small and lit by a sole everglowing crystal situated in the center of a worn wooden table containing innumerable cut marks leftover from butchery. Needing no charge or prompt, the light the crystal gives is a natural glow. Its power will never deplete, and so it is a useful thing indeed. Even more than useful, are they rare, found only in the deepest waters of the world, where the most treacherous creatures inhabit.
The treasure is just one of the many hoarded by the witches.
It is another I will need to combat them.
The circular room is lined with curved shelves of inconsistent width and length, holding jars of vibrant liquid and books of ageless wear. From the ceiling hang bouts of dried weed and flesh, feather and burr, each adding to the stenchy odor of the room. A carcass, a tail, a thorned branch. But none of those are the thing I need to contest the incantation.
The back part of the room is lined, floor to ceiling, with miniature drawers embedded into the wall. Dark-faced, each is marked by an ancient text Awyer and Pedj cannot read. My soul, however, is as ancient as the text itself. I can make it out.
This
That
Odds
Ends
Drips
Drops
Parts
Tidbits
Tripe
Each drawer is marked with an emblazoned label, and not all of them are so obscure.
Feathers
Strings
Teeth
Pins
Mites
Words
Secrets
Secrets. A witch will always trade a spell for a secret kept in shame. And their traded secrets are many, for the greed of the world is great. Not one room in this mountain is without keep for secrets. It is what I was counting on, and it is what I have gratefully found.
I enchant open the drawer marked ‘secrets’ and rummage around within.
“Ho!” Pedj sees the action and gives a shout. To him, the drawer has just opened on its own.
Ignoring his cry, I mill about in the drawer – which upon being opened, shines with green light – searching for a secret containing only dim energy within. Secrets fade over time as they are forgotten. If I can find one nearly dead, I may use it as leverage.
I sift past the bright confession of a killer, around an admission of a cheat, and there, in the back corner of the drawer, is a confession from a favored son secretly glad to see his father die.
I enchant the secret to rest in my hand before I pull it out.
To Pedj, a small glowing ball flies from the drawer and hovers before him. To Awyer, I have just pulled said ball from the drawer.
“What is it?” says the sphinx.
“A secret kept in shame,” I answer. “A dying one.”
The green shining thing rests upon my silvery palm, reflecting against my skin. A brighter secret would have been impossible for me to handle, capricious things they are, but one this aged . . .
I bring my hand to my face and allow the ball to drop into my mouth. Down my throat it slides.
“It disappeared!” Pedj says, spooked.
Yes, I have just ingested the secret – a secret that does not belong to me – and there will be repercussions.
“KYYYAAAAAAAAHHHH!” From within the deepest part of the mountain comes an agonized shriek.
Good. They have felt it. And they are temporarily distracted from their chanting.
“Stay here,” I instruct of my ward and his companion while I make way for the door, secret in gut.
Awyer runs to block my exit. “Wait,” he orders with a frown.
“I will return once I have dealt with them. Do not be hesitant to use enchants if you must.”
But when I attempt to carry on around him, Awyer takes my wrist. “Grim.” He is stern. “Stop.”
I cannot allow him to come. The hair of the beast will cut through his material body with ease.
“Very well,” I lie. “Tell Pedj to turn away.”
I do not wish for what is about to happen, but it must be so. I cannot allow Awyer to meet the witches’ conjuring.
“Pedj. Turn.”
The necromancer does so with reluctance.
My ward holds far more power than I. He holds far more power than any Azurian or Bloődite. I am weak from what the zombie put me through, and I have exerted much of my remaining power on the lanterns and his healing. Compared to Awyer, I am a flea. But I know that he will not anticipate an attack from me no matter what, and so it is with confidence that I raise my hand and blast him with as much Amethyst as I can spare. Under the attack of a blast of purple smoke, Awyer is sent backward into Pedj and the two of them topple.
“You must stay here, my sphinx. Beyond is too much danger.”
I flee from the room, into th
e corridor, and to the knobless door before they can recover.
“Eyrrmoto.”
Open.
I speak in the tongue of the witches, the same tongue labeling the many miniature drawers of hoarded goods, a tongue I know from my countless days spent in this place. Unlike the storehouse doors, the onyx door is not spelled. The witches want me to enter. It accepts the sacred word and obeys by clicking open.
I float into the belly of the mountain – a vast space filled with heaps of trunk-sized vines crawling the ground and walls, strong enough that they have burst straight through the foundation of the mount and overrun the hole that is the witches’ den. Interwoven in the ensnarling plants are the witches’ effects, suspended at various heights. Chairs and tables and wardrobes and mirrors. This is the living chamber of a pair of beings as ancient as the mount itself. This is the living space of my former ward and her corrupt counterpart.
“Hamira.” Because our pact was never fully broken, she may still hear my voice. She may still see a vague image of me.
They are in this room, and they are waiting for me, holding onto whatever percentage of the spell they have managed to conjure.
A whisper fills the air, the croaky voice of my former ward:
“Haarnon, ochana ii gelg?”
Pest, you came here for what?
In their tongue, I return this to them:
“I have come for a trade. I have stolen a secret, but I will give you a better one. A stronger one. A forbidden one. And in exchange, you will give aid, as well as the release of a prisoner in your hold.”
“Shim haarnon! Perana totan? Acka, haarnon weeana!”
Foolish pest! You think to trade? You belong to me!
“I do not belong to you. A naefaerie is bound to their pactor for only as long as their pactor should live. You cheated your death. Simply because your body continues to live, it does not mean your soul does. I am not yours.”
“Acka, weeana rii!”
Belong to me again!
I skim carefully around the weaving vines, settling near a dark corner of the massive room, near a wooden ladder that has been pinned to the wall by one of the plants. It is my intention to discern the witches’ hiding space from here. To which crook in the darkness do they cling? “I cannot make pact with you,” I say, scanning a limb connecting fauteuil and bedframe. “I have a new ward. Until his fated time, I am untouchable.” A dangling shelf wrapped by an arm of vine holds several hooks from which bells and scarves are hung. It gives a jingle to signal that the witches have just shifted somewhere. I go on, “But you may keep a piece of me. My greatest secret shall be yours if you wish for it.”