by Brindi Quinn
At the spiral’s end, there is one last nook in the wall. The curtain of the last nook is heavier than the rest. Of a dark, thick material. Pushing it aside is tough for Mael. Awyer holds it open as she and Pedj duck inside. I do not need him to hold it for me. I could very well fly straight through. Even so, I follow the way of the others, hoping it does not give Awyer any sort of delight to be a gentleman.
Within the chamber there is a single everglowing crystal, which has been mounted into the wall so that only a portion of its side is showing. That portion streams outward, making a spotlight onto the far wall, which has been polished and painted white.
Skeptically I wait for something to happen. It is as I thought. Even after entering the room, I am not visible – as is made apparent by Pedj’s cautions scan of the room, during which his eyes move through me as always. There is no change. No spark of clarity.
Awyer, too, eyes the room. He looks from the crystal to the wall and then to the shadows found in the space’s corners.
“Mael. Pedj. Stand over there.” He gestures to one of said corners. “And you–” Without bothering to ask my permission, Awyer takes my shoulders and begins directing me to the center of the room. Because my mood is foul, I put up a fight – a fight that is swiftly squashed by his utterance:
“I am sorry. But you should also be sorry. It is your choice not to confide.”
He speaks truth. I know that he does. Just as I am irritated, he is also irritated. But when I move to apologize, I am interrupted by a pleased shout:
“Mistress Grim!”
Awyer has released my shoulders, leaving me alone in the center of the room with the whole of the crystal’s glow in my face. I raise a hand to shield my eyes before turning from the bright thing completely. Once my back is to the crystal, I see what has caused Mael to squeal.
There, upon the white painted wall, is a perfect silhouette of me. Not a deformed shadow stretched long by the sun, or a blurred, disproportioned image in the grass. It is a completely detailed, proper-sized shadow version of my body upon the wall. From the tips of my hair, to the bottom of my smock, to the bend in my ankle.
I put my hands outward from my body, first one, then the other, and then I wiggle my fingers. Each wiggle is reflected upon the wall in detail. It is a wonder. The nearest thing to a mirror that I have ever experienced comes not from the advanced magickal society of Eldrade, but from the nomad camp of Fetra’s Nerve – though when I think on it, it makes sense. The room was made by a people who felt for their naefaeries deeply enough to flee with them to sanctuary. To leave behind the corrupted world of their fathers and cross the Gated Rise and make settlement, all for the sake of their wardens. Those are the people who crafted this space.
Mael hops from the shadows and stands beside me, arms also stretched outward from her body. She mimics my stance.
“Mistress is about my size and shape,” she says absently.
Wrong. I do not have her sultry hips.
Mael turns to the side so that her profile is cast upon the white wall. I copy her.
Pedj has forgotten himself. He leans, mouth agape, to get a good look of my form. Seeing me is interesting to him, after all. Or mayhap it is more than interesting. “Hot heck! She’s got knockies!” he shouts.
Awyer, who is leaned against the wall with the mien of a self-satisfied onlooker, repeats, “Knockies?”
“BOOBS!” says Pedj, forcing me to quickly hug my chest and cry,
“AH?!”
“Oh,” says Awyer, grinning. “Yes, she does.”
Lecherous boys!
I turn shoulder on them, slighted, but make the mistake of looking back to see if they show remorse for their perversion.
“Hoo, she even acts like a person. She got rattled at that, did she? And now she’s checkin’ to see if we’re sorry?”
“I would say she is more so embarrassed. I have never before made mention of her ‘knockies’ to her.”
And yet casually he continues to speak of them!
“Shup, guys. You’re rude,” says Mael. “Ignore it, Mistress. Pedjram can’t normally get a close-up of a girl ‘cause he’s creepy.”
“Hey!”
Awyer snorts.
I cannot refrain myself. “You have my thanks,” I say whilst sniggering, though Mael cannot hear it.
“Strange,” says Pedj, chin in his hand. “Thought she’d have wings, bein’ she can fly and all.”
Clearly the Bloődites have completely lost touch with naefaeries.
“Grim,” says Awyer. “Show them.”
My arms remain folded across my chest. First he is lecherous and next he thinks to boss me?
“She’s pissed,” says Pedj. “You’re in trouble, Awyer.”
“Maybe YOU are the one in trouble, Pedj.”
I am surprised. Not-so-craftless Awyer seeks to use it as a test. He glances sidelong to gage his friend’s reaction, continuing, “Or are you no longer fearful of Grim’s bloodthirsty ways?”
“Oh no, she’s still right scary, lookin’ like that. Same way my old gal used to look at me when she was pissed . . .” Pedj shakes away what is surely an unfavorable memory.
Satisfied that the zombie appears to be taking my evilness more lightly, Awyer comes to appease me. He makes his shadow to swallow my shadow, in doing so, lining his body behind mine. “Will you not fly?” he asks into my hair.
A sinister plan dawns upon me, devised by the revenge of my ‘knockies’. “I will fly if you will fly,” I say.
And although he is more reluctant that even his usual level of reluctance, I will not budge. If only to force exertion of his Amethyst, I will make him rise with me. If he does not, the burn of his veins, which has surely grown hotter and hotter since he last used enchants, will become unbearable.
Holding all of the magicks of people does not come without a price.
“All right,” he says with a sigh. “But not far.”
By ‘not far’, what he means is a mere foot from the floor – though if he made it a foot, it is my suspicion that he was trying for even less. I, in contrast, rise high into the air, to the top of the room, so that Pedj and Mael may witness my speed.
Mael, who has seen my light flit about the air previously, is not as impressed as her cousin. Pedj does not hold back his amazement. He watches and ogles and whirrs murmurs of awe that are not only for me, but also for Awyer. The sphinx’s ability of flight is an impressive thing for a weak sorcerer such as Pedj.
Awyer remains in hover for but a moment before dropping to the ground.
“Are you happy?” he asks without enthusiasm.
“Very,” I call from the ceiling.
His enthusiasm makes a small emergence. “Good.”
Our diversion carries on for some time longer, as slowly the stereotypes Pedj has for my kind – lingered there in part because of Awyer’s teasing – begin to chip away from the Bloődite’s outlook. Awyer undergoes a reverse effect. There is a small amount of reluctance that builds in him the longer I am exposed to the others, until he decides that he is finished ‘showing me off’ altogether. If I allow myself to believe that it is because he does not wish to share me with Pedj and Mael for any great length of time, I feed into my forbidden emotions that do not need feeding. Fed, they are, yet hungry they growl.
I insist that the mortals make rest. Techton will not be pleased that they have squandered a portion of their donated time, and it will be my guilt if they are unable to keep pace to the Gloerlands.
“Awww.” Mael does not take delight in diversion’s end. All the same, Pedj takes her wrist and tugs her away to a deserted dwelling a few turns down the spiral. It is my intention to scope out the remaining openings to find Awyer the largest, cleanest one possible. My sphinx, however, has other plans, and he stops at the first opening we come to – though it is not nearly as large or as clean as I had hoped – and situates upon the floor.
“Lie with me, Grim?” Awyer pats the ground beside him. “Converse?�
�
Though the room is not ideal, I oblige. Because I am selfish, I oblige. On the floor of the dwelling, we face each other.
“I am proud of you, my–” He winces, so I correct: “Awyer. You have spoken much lately, and so I am proud.”
“I have not spoken nearly as much as Pedj,” says Awyer, arid. “You should be most proud of him.”
Cheeky.
An invisible giggle falls over us. When the last of its echoes fade, there is silence. A moment. A second moment. Awyer and I lie face to face. “Sleep,” I tell him. “If only for a little while.”
Animalistic eyes locked on mine, he responds, “But Grim, it is time.”
“For?”
“To find if I hide a second tattoo on my body.”
“Awyer!”
With a smile, he closes his eyes, cutting me off from their gold. He jests. He makes reference to my earlier paranoia. Two naefaeries. I had forgotten, but I will have to find a way to ask Techton the specifics of that which he implied.
I remain next to my sphinx until the Azurian’s voice calls from the ledge. And for just a moment – merely a single, measly moment – it almost feels as though there is someone else lying with us.
Someone invisible.
Chapter XVI: Debt
“Send up your faeries if you don’t believe me! Of course, it would be a lot easier if you’d just take my WORD for it, but . . .”
Techton’s warning falls upon unwilling ears. Many unwilling ears. Each pass around the Nerve’s spiral results in more of the same:
Techton speaks the impossible. Techton is seeing things. Techton is unkind to jest at such an hour. Techton is hopped up on glumworms.
The people of this place have their own secret ways of entering the Reck, none of which include enough room for an army. The atmosphere is one of shared reluctance, with which a certain sphinx should fit in well.
“Who are your friends, Techt? They put you up to this?” A man of bushy brow knows Techton more personally than the rest, and even he does not believe an army is coming.
Aye, had I not seen it, I would not have believed either.
“Do me a favor, Krem. When the first light of day hits, find someone with a faerie and send them to scout. If I’m lying, I’ll buy you an ale the next time I see you,” says Techton.
So-called Krem sizes up the kind-eyed Azurian, searching for signs of jest. Upon finding none –
“You really believe what you’re telling people, don’t you?” he says.
“I’m afraid so. Look, if you won’t take my word, promise you’ll at least send up a faerie when the light comes.”
Krem gives a nod that is not reassuring enough to be believed. Techton sighs before making his final lap around the Nerve. He is rewarded with only a handful of semi-believers. “Well, that could have gone better,” he says when he is finished.
Pedj is bitter over the lack of sleep. “Least you warned those dingoes,” he mutters.
“When you’re right, you’re right. We did what we came for. It’s up to them what to do with it next.” Under the influence of another sigh, Techton surrenders his personal battle of ‘gaining brothers’. Turning away, he gestures to the mouth of the Nerve. “That leaves only one thing.” He hoists his rucksack onto his shoulder. “Today will also probably not be counted among your best days. You ready?”
Ready or not, from here we come.
Our dawn travel is filled with yawns. Sleeping only a short while was maybe more detrimental than not sleeping at all. Through fruit and flower, vine and tree, we travel. The jungle contains no sounds of man. Only kiwi birds and kewple flies and loud thrashing beasts that refuse to draw near. They can smell the Azure, Bloőd, and Amethyst surrounding our party, and it fends them away. The taste of magicks is unnatural to the animals.
When it is time to eat, Techton knocks down red melons, which hang otherwise just out of reach, with the end of his toad-webbed scythe. The melons possess natural plugs upon their round bodies in the form of leafy sprouts.
“Pull this part,” Techton instructs the others, pointing to one of the many hooked sprouts protruding from the fruit. “Find whichever one is largest and pull it out. Then, tip the whole thing back and guzzle the slush inside. That’s the good stuff.”
“It will not make our gums burn, turn gray, and potentially bleed, will it?” says Awyer. He is sly, for his question is not actually meant for Techton.
Reminded of the early days of their journey, Pedj lets out a guffaw. He is the only one that does. Because the question was neither meant for her, Mael shrugs to Techton, then places her hands over his and begins drinking from the melon in his grasp without regard to etiquette. She does not realize the way her pheromones entice. Hands beneath her dainty ones, Techton chews his lip.
“My faerie.” An uncommon whisper runs over my spine.
I turn to find its master. “My pactor?”
“You watch them,” says Awyer. “Why?”
“Why should I not?”
“It is not just them. You observe everything,” he says.
“What more may I do? As I cannot interact, I can only observe.”
“Mm.”
Pedj struggles to pull the plug from one of the melons. He is not as fortunate as his cousin to have a handsome jungleman’s assistance.
“What did you think of Fetra’s Nerve?” The jungleman himself inquires of his princess.
“Loved it.” Mael wipes her fruit-stained mouth on her shoulder. “We even saw Mistress!”
“Did you, now?” says Techton, surprised. “Too bad I missed that. I would have liked to see her.” He catches Pedj’s eye. “And what did you think, my man?”
Pedj smiles widely. “I’s worried to say in front of Awyer.”
“See! Didn’t I tell you?” Techton nods with knowing.
I flit away before they can begin again discussing my ‘knockies’.
Onward we travel through Western Cross. Even though Mael’s shade bird urges us to veer south slightly, it continually pulls us west – the way Techton leads us west. Thus, we remain only minimally off track. Not enough for concern . . . yet.
“The Gloerlands stretch pretty far south anyway,” assures Techton. “I’m just taking you the way I usually go, the least dense part of the tangle.”
I am adamant to pop above the trees every hour or so to gage the blue smoke in the distance. I do not understand how such a cloud stays lingered above the army’s march. It is almost as though they seek to announce their arrival.
To whom?
Day treads into night. The travelers are again allotted four hours of rest; and when the earliest showings of morning’s light permeate the canopy, Techton stirs the party once more.
“Apologies, Lady.” He gives regard to Mael’s cat-like yawn. “We just need to go on like this until we get through the Gloers. After that, we’ll have a long nap.”
Mael scratches at her stripes. A tigress, is she? My interest piques.
“Awyer,” I say in the afternoon. “Ask the zombie the reason behind Mael’s stripes.”
He does so in discretion.
“Oh those?” says Pedj. “I dunno. Mael’s . . . different, you know? What’s is, is she’s been paintin’ them on since she was a kipper.”
“They do not come off in the water,” says Awyer. “I watched.”
And he scolds me for my observation? How is he any less observant than I!?
“Yeah, not sure what she uses . . .” Pedj scratches his head. “Seen her paintin’ them on before, though, so’s you know they ain’t stains.”
“Hm.”
Another day passes.
And another.
As we tramp, Techton talks of his siblings, his brother and his sister, living at the Blue Capital. He tells of his years at University. He tells of his highs and his lows and the evil things he would do with Azure when it yet ruled his impulses. Correspondingly, Mael and Pedj tell stories of their grandparents, ‘grandmar’ and ‘granddar’ as
they call them, and their summers spent in the Bloődite Rusticlands. Pedj tells of his unwilling enrollment with the necromancy maestros – a training Mael aced in record time. Awyer says nothing of Eldrade. Nor of his family. That is because, the last in his line, he has no family to speak of. They were lost to him years ago.
He and I. It has long been he and I. Warden and ward.
“Would you someday like to see the Blue Capital, my fief?”
“Grim.”
“I know. I am sorry. I was feeling sentimental. Would you like to go there, Awyer?”
But the question burns my throat, for I know that he will not go there, even if he would like to.
“Would you?” he says.
“It is left to be seen if there will be an Azure Capital at all after you deliver the stolen color,” I say. “In ages past, after a color war, the three magicks would shift. The Amethyst losers would graciously take the Bloőd or Azure offered them and would rebuild their demolished cities. The new Amethyst wielders would fortify their cities and begin supreme reign. The third group – either shifted from Bloőd to Azure or from Azure to Bloőd – would widely remain the same as they were, experimenting with their new color, though to them it was no great change in power.”
Awyer listens, face unsympathetic.
“When the sphinxes hold Amethyst, who knows what will come of the other nations?” I say.
“Why do they want the Amethyst?” says Awyer.
“I do not know. It is only my duty to make certain it gets there.”
“Why?”
“Because I promised your ancestor.”
“Why?” Awyer presses.
“Because he saved me. He saved me . . . from her. When I tore myself from Hamira’s pact, he received me. I would not have made it far without pacting anew. His cooperation allowed me to be reborn.”