by David Wise
Frantically I began to look around the room. Ah! I found it! Hidden away in the drawer of the table beside the bed was a stick of writing charcoal and several sheets of paper. I snatched out the stylus and one of the sheets, quickly writing down what I had said before, that it was Julio who had killed him. With satisfaction, I spun about and thrust the paper into his face.
He was dead.
Infuriated, I crushed the paper into a ball and hurled it across the room. Red rage swept through my soul, and I howled at the indignity. This could not be! I had finally rid myself, no, the world, of this offensive creature, and the fool had died ignorant of the hand that had killed him.
It took several seconds for my rage to pass. Suddenly, however, I saw clearly what had happened. I turned to look at the pendant, which seemed almost to mock me as it sparked and flashed. If removing it from my neck did not lift the magical aura from me, what would? The idea of being permanently invisible certainly did not appeal to me. But, no, it was worse than that. I was not only unseen, I was unheard.
I grabbed up the offensive lens and raced out of the building. My heart pounded in my ears, and the blood in my veins seemed to burn. When I reached my home, I burst in, slammed the door behind me, and bolted it in place.
October 4th From the Journal of Julio, Master Thief of Hazlan
This is madness.
I do not know how much longer I will be able to write in this journal. My hands are shaking so badly now that I can hardly read my own words. How can I describe what is happening to me? With every passing second, my grip on sanity seems harder to maintain. Still, the world must know what has happened.
After my encounter with Cordova, I returned home and locked myself in. I quickly transcribed my experiences into this book and then fell upon my bed. Nothing seemed to make sense anymore. Fear such as I have never known tore at my soul. Finally, I slipped into an exhausted slumber and slept for several hours.
When I awoke, the sun was setting in the west and a dark purple sky spread itself outside my window. Things seemed calmer now, and I was able to organize my thinking. As I knew little of the dark powers of sorcery, I decided that I must seek help. This done, however, I had no idea where to go. I knew no wizards or enchanters. After lengthy consideration, I resolved to seek out my fellows in the Thieves'Guild. Certainly there must be someone among that body who understood the weaving of spells and might be counted on to provide wise counsel. Slipping the shimmering lens into my pocket, I stepped out into the street.
While I expected the hall to be well occupied on this brisk evening, I had no idea that it would be as populated as it was. As I slipped inside through one of a dozen concealed entrances, I saw nearly every rogue in the city, from the lowest of the street thugs to the most dignified of confidence men. The great hall was packed.
I moved into the press of people, little caring if I bumped against those who could not see me. At the moment, stealth was not the object of my endeavor. If someone noticed me, so much the better. Indeed, I still had not considered what I would do to attract the attention of my peers or to explain my plight to them.
As I walked, my eyes swept back and forth across the room. The woman I wanted to see, Kassandra, stood near the front of the chamber. If anyone in the guild could help me, it would be she. I increased my pace.
Just before I reached her, she stepped onto an elevated platform and took her place behind an ornate lectern. Her delicate fingers lifted a small silver bell, and a shake of her wrist filled the hall with elegant ringing. At the piercing sound of this chime, everyone in the room fell silent. Even I, for all my pressing business, slowed to a halt in order to hear what she had to say. I suppose that I should have guessed, but my thoughts were not flowing smoothly on that autumn day.
"Listen to me, all," she said in a smooth, even voice. "I stand before you today with a sad announcement. Cordova, one of our most prominent and beloved members, has been murdered."
I almost laughed at her sincerity. Could it be that I was the only one who had seen that bloated fool for the charlatan that he was? Impossible. Others in the room must even then have been struggling to keep from laughing at the thought that Cordova had been beloved by the other members of the guild. I attributed the widely spread gasps of surprise and alarm as nothing more than politeness on the part of Cordova's contemporaries.
Of course, to kill a member of the guild, even one as unworthy as he, was to invite the ultimate penalty from the assembly. Were it not for the cloak of invisibility that I had employed, I should not have dared to attempt the feat myself. After all, even the most clever of rogues could not hope to escape the vengeance of five score others, no matter how great the difference in their individual talents.
"Who has done this?" came a cry from the crowd. I must admit that the speaker sounded sincere. Perhaps the bloated pig had managed to find one friend among the guild. I supposed that the law of averages would make even that unlikely event a certainty.
To my horror, Kassandra did not dismiss the answer as unknown. Instead, she reached into her pocket and drew out a folded bit of paper. Wrinkles and creases in the creamy square showed that it had once been crumpled. As she opened it, I recognized it as the frantic letter I had written to Cordova in that failed attempt to make myself known to him. In my panicked state I had not thought to pick up the incriminating note. I could say nothing as Kassandra began to read the vindictive words that I had intended for only Cordova's eyes.
At last, the shock faded. I sprang forward and flung my hand out. I would reclaim the letter and explain what had happened to me. Certainly they would believe me if I claimed that it was some spell of the wizard that had motivated me to do the deed I had done. I reached the front of the chamber just as the lithe Kassandra finished her reading. My fingers curled around the note, and I pulled it out of her hand.
At least, such was my intent. Imagine my surprise when the paper was not affected in the least by my clawing grasp. I tried again, slapping wildly at it in an attempt to knock it from her slender Fingers. Again, there was no reaction.
I stood perfectly still for a moment. I struggled to control myself, aware that panic and madness were hovering on the fringes of my soul. Kassandra dropped the paper as murmurs of alarm rippled through the crowd. People began to shout, demanding that I be found and killed, but I paid no attention to them. My whole being seemed to be wrapped up in that tumbling scrap of paper. If I could do nothing to affect it, then I was already lost.
With every bit of mental effort that I could muster, I reached out for the incriminating note. It settled onto my hand. . and stopped! For nearly a second it rested in my palm, the sensation of it racing like a mixture of pain and pleasure through my nerves. Then the sound of Kassandra ordering the members of the guild to find me and kill me broke my concentration. The paper trembled, passed through my fingers, and did not stop again until it rested upon the floor.
As the others moved out into the night, I moved with them. I could not stand the thoughts in my head. What would become of me? I could not imagine.
Then, a single idea became fixed in my mind. This diary would be my voice. I would record what had happened to me on the pages of this book and leave it where others would find it. Perhaps someone will discover a way to undo the terrible curse that has fallen upon me.
I returned to my room, arriving before any of the guildsmen had reached it. It took me no fewer that three attempts to lift the quill that I now write with. At last, however, I mustered the required concentration and set about recording my experiences.
I do not know how much longer I will be able to write. The effort of will required to keep the pen from slipping through my hand becomes greater with each passing second. In the end, I will simply. .
Epilogue
A tumbling snow drifted down from the empty black of a midnight sky. Throughout the dark domain of Hazlan, it smoothed over the landscape with a delicate layer of white. The peaceful tranquility of this, the first snow of the l
ooming winter, could not have been in greater contrast to the hectic rush of the townsfolk in Toyalis earlier that day as they made ready for the harsh hand of weather that would soon assail them.
The last bell of midnight tolled out across the countryside, and all was calm and still and quiet. Only one light broke the perfection of this darkness, and none of the domain's residents saw that, for it was perched high atop a stone tower, well away from the road that ran from Toyalis to Slyvar. This amber glow radiated from the laboratory of the foul wizard Hazlik, and his labors were not such that any of Hazlan's folk cared to know of them.
Cloistered away within his magically warded keep, the wizard moved to and fro about his workshop. As he drifted past trays of chemicals, shelves of arcane scrolls, and racks of unusual objects, his withered hands darted out to gather up various items. In the end, he came to stand next to a slender table over which a silken blanket had been draped.
Hazlik pointed at a small lamp that rested upon the table. With a sudden spark, it came to life and spilled an even yellow light upon the counter and the small crystal disc that lay upon it. The wizard leaned low over the crystal, allowing the golden light to wash across his gnarled face, almost bisected by a terrible scar.
Hazlik picked up the lens and cast a careful eye upon it. Clearly, he could discern more than the average man with his penetrating gaze. After several minutes of examination, he spoke. At the sound of his words, a quill pen sprang into action, recording what he said in a great book.
"Final notes on experiment twenty-seven dash thirteen. As in my twelve previous attempts to pierce the 'border ethereal and escape from this demiplane, the subject has broken up and become trapped in an incorporeal form. There is no reason to believe that this procedure is without hope of success, however. Perhaps I am taking the wrong approach. In my next experiment, I will alter the balance of astral and ethereal vapors. If I am correct, this will enable the subject to regain a corporeal form with only a minimal effort. After all, there is cause for hope. This subject resisted fading from existence for fully forty-eight hours longer than all previous subjects."
Dark Tryst
Marielle circled the campfire in slow, liquid steps, idly fanning her skirts as she moved. At the far side of the fire she let the strength dissolve from her legs and sank to the ground, alone. The low flames formed a curtain that separated her from the others of her Vistana tribe, those few who still lingered, not yet ready to surrender to sleep. No one paid her any heed. The dancing had ended, and the last strains of the fiddle had faded, drifting into the night sky like missive spirits sent from the fiddler's hand to a distant realm. The youngest gypsies had already succumbed to the music's spell; toddlers now snoozed in their mothers'vardos, while the older children lay haphazardly in the shallow sleeping pit lined with moss and blankets, sheltered by the circle of gypsy wagons. Marielle could hear one of the old dogs snoring beside them.
It was a queer autumn night. The leaves of the bonewhite birches ringing the camp had already paled and begun their death rattle, yet the air was warm and moist. It reminded Marielle of a story her elder sister had once told. The land was like a creature, Magda had said, a slumbering fiend, breathing long and languid breaths. In summer, the beast exhaled, spreading forth the heat of its abyssal fires. In winter, it drew back its breath, draining warmth from the world. Marielle wondered what event had stoked the furnace for this brief autumnal surge.
Restless, she picked up a stick and stabbed at the campfire. A fountain of sparks erupted, dancing ever higher into the night sky until at last they blinked and went out amongst the blanket of stars.
She turned her gaze to the others of her tribe. It was as if she were observing them from a great distance — as if they were real, but she, like the sparks from the fire, were somehow temporal and fleeting. Sergio, the tribe's eldest male, had spread his broad haunches across the rear step of his wagon. His billowing white shirt was open to the waist, exposing a sweaty mat of peppered gray hair. Three other men sat beside him on log stumps, whittling sticks and puffing on pipes. They murmured in deep bass tones so as not to disturb those who slumbered, occasionally chuckling at some private joke.
Annelise and her mother huddled beside a wagon nearby while Annelise nursed her newborn. Their faces were round and golden, forming the perfect trinity of mother and child, child and mother, mother and child. The tiny creature suckling hungrily was the only baby born to the tribe that year, but it was Annelise's third. Marielle wondered if she herself might ever know this joy. But there was no suitor in the tribe she fancied. Nor did anyone fancy her.
No twist or hump rendered her form imperfect; no angry marks marred her luminous skin. She was sinewy and smooth, with bewitching black eyes and long raven hair. But any desire she kindled among her cousins was tempered by fear or superstition. Dark, lovely Marielle. Better to look but not touch.
She had already killed once, some said, though none called it murder. Sergio had bespoken her to a cousin, a self-important simpleton whom Marielle despised. Before a fortnight had passed, the boy had died in his sleep. Sergio proclaimed that Marielle had inadvertently cast the evil eye upon him. No one dared to want her thereafter. Only Magda's threat of a curse had protected Marielle from harm.
But now Magda was dead. Marielle's last direct blood tie with the tribe had been severed. Magda's lover, a half-blooded Vistana named Scan, had been cast out of the tribe upon her death. Marielle wondered how long it would be before she suffered the same fate, before fear of her own wrath subsided and was overshadowed by Sergio's growing contempt.
Her tribe was small and insular compared to others in the land. By choice, they lived austerely. They formed few alliances and crept like shadows through the forests, struggling to escape the notice of malevolent forces. Magic such as Magda's drew unwanted attention, claimed Sergio. She had been more than a gifted seer. She knew how to draw upon the powers of the moon and could use it to weave spells upon those who wronged her. Marielle bore the same blood; the same power lurked in her veins. It was only a matter of time, said Sergio, before her presence would bring misfortune to them all.
Marielle moved closer to the fire. Her flesh grew hot, yet she did not move away. The flames offered the only comfort against the cold she felt within. She drew her skirts above her knee, first the gauzy red apron, then the green silk below, revealing a sleek and graceful limb. Her skin gleamed. She closed her eyes against the flickering light and imagined that her entire body began to melt into the fire.
Without warning, the vision took a path of its own. Her lashes fluttered apart. The scene around her had faded to black; her tribe and the wagons were gone. The fire still blazed as she sat before it. A single flame lapped gently toward her. It became a man's arm, white and cold. The arm lashed out, and the hand grasped her ankle, freezing her in place. Upon one smoke-white finger was a silver ring with a large ebony stone, flashing white, then black as the hand softened its grip and began to caress her skin, rising toward her thigh.
Marielle shut her eyes hard. When she opened them, slowly, her tribe and its wagons had reappeared. She gasped and sprang away from the fire, staring at the flames in disbelief.
A woman's voice called out to her softly. "Did you burn yourself, Marielle?"
It was Annelise, ever patient and kind. She alone gracefully tolerated Marielle's presence.
Marielle shook her head dumbly. She looked up and met Sergio's disapproving gaze. His companions stared too, eyes aglow in the night. They blinked in unison, unflinching.
"Just startled by a spark," Marielle lied. "I fell asleep. It's time to retire."
The others nodded, then turned their attentions to themselves. Marielle walked to her vardo and slipped through the back door, closing it gently behind her.
The tiny chamber was pitch black. She lit the lamp hanging in the corner, flooding the vardo with its amber glow. The wagon's opulence belied Marielle's low stature, for it had been Magda's before she died. A small portal was cut in
to each sidewall, one a mosaic of indigo and scarlet, the other leaded and clear. The arched ceiling had been painted to look like the night sky, with a smattering of bright yellow stars spread between three gilded and carved beams that spanned the roof like ribs.
A small mirror hung on every wall, not for vanity's sake, but for reassurance — to confirm to Marielle that she truly existed. She sat upon the narrow padded bench that doubled as her bed, examining her leg. It ached, but bore no mark.
Marielle spread a thin blanket across the bed and peeled off her clothes, then put out the light and lay down. Shadows played across the tiny windows overhead, echoing the dance of clouds across the moon. For more than an hour she lay there, listening to the sound of her own breathing. Her heart raced. Sleep was impossible.
Finally, she gathered the courage to recreate the vision, to imagine it once more so that she might come to understand its meaning. Magda's powers of inner sight had been uncanny; at times she could detect the remotest sign and discern its portent. In contrast, Marielle's skill was raw and undeveloped. Even when she unraveled an image and found its truth, she might not know whether it was a guidepost to the future or a glimmer of something past.
Marielle pulled the blanket away from her body. The moonlight shone through the leaded window, flickering upon her skin like an ivory fire. Slowly, she closed her eyes.
The white hand slid up from the vardo's floor to the edge of the bed — an albino python, forearm snaking behind. The skin was smooth and hairless, gleaming like translucent marble. The nails were hard and pale gray, like steel.
For a moment, the fingers touched her ankle tentatively, probing, exploring. Then they drew tight like a noose. Upon the ring finger was the ebony stone. In her mind's eye Marielle stared into the gem. It was a black pool, calling, drawing her beneath its surface to the mysteries below. Marielle felt herself slipping into its cool depths. She drank in the liquid. A silver heat flared in her lungs, then spread to the surface, rolling across her breasts and belly in a wave that came suddenly, then disappeared.