Talystasia: A Faerytale

by Haadiyah Cardinalis

  From out of her pocket, she withdrew the knife she’d been carrying for protection since yesterday morning and unsheathed it. The silver light of the moon and stars glittered on the blade, focused to a menacing point.

  ... Today had had its triumphs. Things were a bit better, surely ...

  But I'm alone. Utterly, completely alone.

  ~~~

  Andreas finished the last of his ale in one long draught, wiped his mouth, and climbed unhurriedly to his feet, the warmth of the alcohol buzzing through his body. Dropping several coins on the table, he stood to leave.

  A short, bald man was blocking him from exiting the booth, his tanned, aging skin stretched over well-toned muscles. He reached out and grasped Andreas’ forearm with a rough, toughened hand, apparently oblivious to the recklessness of his gesture. Shocked, he considered throwing him to ground, but thought better of it.

  "Umm, yes?" He glared pointedly at the man's hand.

  "You re-thatched my roof!" the stranger boomed with a wide, toothy grin. A thick grey moustache curled over his mouth, parallel to his smile.

  Andreas rubbed his sore bicep, politely nudging the man's hand away. "Are you—"

  "Morrison. Ed Morrison. I own the leather shop a couple blocks down—Morrison & Company. And you re-thatched my roof! You did. You didn't just send someone, you actually—I couldn’t believe it."

  Repairing the damage to the shop had felt oddly like rubbing salve into his own wounds. It’d given him something to do other than think.

  "I do things like that sometimes."

  "I thought I was ruined … after those bastards torched it ...”

  “Of course not. No. An economy’s like an organism. You’re part of the whole. This is my city, and I take care of what’s mine. Besides, some of my belts are from your shop. And some of my saddles as well, if I’m not mistaken. You do fine work.”

  “That one actually.” The man pointed.

  Andreas ran his fingers along the leather at his waist and smiled.

  “Marla said you were a perfect gentleman to her and my boy."

  He blinked, nonplussed. "... What else would I be?”

  “You do have a reputation, sir, excusing me.”

  Of raping my own citizens? He went to say as much, but instead stated simply, “You have to admit yourself they're hardly worth it."

  Morrison either ignored this jab or didn’t hear it. "You’re a trustworthy man. I no longer believe the things they say about you. I’m going to tell everyone."

  Disconcerted, Andreas held out his hand, and the leatherworker shook it in his crushing grip, then gave him a hearty slap on the back. Andreas shook his hand once in return, let go, and stepped past him into the street.

  The night breeze was cool but the air was deliciously balmy; patches of luminous cloud drifted languidly overhead through a velvety sky alight with stars. He took a moment to breathe deeply, savouring the open, inviting stroke of the air against his cheeks. His tunic rustled softly against his body, as gentle as a woman’s touch.

  The marketplace still bore the marks of violence, but the rubbish and rubble had been swept to the sides, clearing the cobbles for the crowds. The wreckage still cluttered the gutters in gruesome, misshapen heaps, black and ominous against the stucco siding. Many of the bruised and charred shops and restaurants across the way were shuttered and closed, their wounds hastily stitched over with inadequate sutures of planks and nails.

  Running his fingertips across his shoulder blade, he felt the ridges of his own stitches. Sometimes his connection to this city felt disgustingly tangible.

  Despite the horrors of recent days, the square was crowded, the mood one of revelry and carefree abandon. It was the warmth of the air, he thought, and the clear starlit sky—both were intoxicating.

  A man and woman danced past him hand in hand, singing to the strumming of a guitar. They gave him a wide berth, but never once glanced in his direction. It was as if he were a predator, and their avoidance of him was something deep-rooted and ancient.

  Pausing in front of the musician, Andreas watched his fingers skip delicately across the strings. Morrison’s comment was still ringing in his mind. He thought of the old woman he’d tried to help the other day in the marketplace, and the way she’d screamed and absconded at the sight of him.

  I know what I am, and yet …

  … Sometimes he was shocked to find himself here on the outside, looking in, stunned by what he had become.

  His muscles tightening with pain and loss, he touched the circlet numbly and passed on to where he'd left Seleda tied up. He freed her from the post, then mounted and glanced again through the market, searching for an outlet from the crowd.

  He caught sight of the sharp, silver edge that cut across the sky like a razorblade, high above the buildings, outlining the mammoth construct that swallowed up the stars in its blackness.

  … The Wall. On any other night, cloudy and dark, it would’ve been invisible save for the torches, just more dark in the darkness.

  But not tonight.

  He headed west down the wide avenue, turning north onto a smaller, less crowded lane. Gradually, the sounds of humanity diminished, replaced by the soft voice of the wind and the clang of Seleda's hooves as he turned left.

  He picked up the pace, springing into a canter, and then, finally, he broke out of the last, ragged row of houses and apartments in the center of the city.

  He sat for a moment, staring at the featureless black, then swung down from the saddle, his boots squelching in the soft, damp earth.

  It was still, almost deathly quiet here. A wide, barren patch of grass extended to either side, a no man’s land of suppressed, muddy fear, broken only by the chirruping of crickets. The turf was still flattened in arcing patterns from last night’s downpour.

  The torches of sentries blazed at intervals along the Wall like stationary fireflies suspended high above. It was the most hated, undesirable job in the city, standing watch beside those torches. He sometimes thought it was a wonder that the men who held those posts didn’t go mad with the terror of those immense, mysterious stones beneath their boots.

  He looked back at the lights of the apartments behind him, and chuckled at the silence.

  Living in the umbra of the still, soundless structure, perhaps everyone in this city was mad. But the madness, like the menace of the Wall, was silent, creeping, stealthy, seeping like a slow corrosive acid through the cracks in the brain. Day to day, he hardly thought of it. It was only when he stood here face to face with the thing that he absorbed fully the truth that he clenched deep inside every day.

  The Wall was not a wall.

  He didn’t know what it was. But he knew what it wasn’t.

  Why am I here …

  The answer came almost immediately.

  Roselia Loren.

  The old man had held the reins across the Wall his entire life … until now. He couldn’t help but feel as if the change was so momentous that it had literally thundered through the ground and across the sky, ripping holes in the perpetual pall of clouds, and that those constellations burning above his head were the signs of her soul inscribed across the heavens.

  Roselia Loren’s essence, glittering crystalline over his tiny, futile world.

  Taking Seleda's reins, he started across the open space, drawn forward by ridiculous hope and desperate longing.

  It was here he’d awoken that fateful morning, senseless and bewildered, blind with a terror he could not name. The wounds across his shoulder blade and thigh seemed an echo of that distant time. It seemed a lifetime ago.

  Seleda lifted her head, snorted, and tensed as they approached the trees. With a growl, he pressed her on. She hesitated, the reins going taut in his trailing hand, and then she followed him into the thickets.

  It was here that it’d rolled up to him, just inside this pit of black, nightmarish trees and thorns—his mother’s circlet.

  He’d known instantly that she was gone … and that
his life was over.

  Roselia Loren’s life was now over.

  It was in a way his fault. He had in effect chosen her for the throne by sparing her life. Had he killed her, he could have spared her this fate. But he’d let her live, and the circlet had chosen her. What had he expected? She was Malek Loren’s next of kin. Standing here shivering, he couldn’t help but wonder what she was thinking. Was she feeling trapped, enraged at her inescapable doom? Or did she rejoice, thanking her god or gods that she among all her kin had been chosen to bear the ancient, fabled artifact and sit upon the throne of half a broken country?

  … Likely the latter. He’d read her damn speech. She’d condemned them both. She was following in the footsteps of her father.

  He pushed between bushes and saplings, further into the dark. The air here under the trees was heavy and sticky, clinging to his skin, the canopy locking out the moonlight.

  Seleda snorted again, backing up. This time, he didn't urge her deeper. It was folly to be here at all.

  A twig snapped behind them.

  "Who's there?" he called. He trained his crossbow on the screen of birch behind them, a bolt notched and ready.

  "Don't shoot!" cried an adolescent voice, and the moon-rimmed silhouette of a small figure on horseback emerged to the accompaniment of crunching leaves.

  He dropped his bow, a chill racing through his body.

  No … no. She can’t be here …

  Throwing his foot in the stirrup, he catapulted onto Seleda's back and charged manically toward the screen of birch.

  "Julia," he hollered, reaching out to grab her wrist.

  Julia's horse reared up in the darkness as he caught hold of her, scarcely remembering to pull to a halt. Her shriek echoed between the trees.

  "WHAT ARE YOU DOING HERE?!" he demanded, staggered by the power of his own terror. "What did I tell you about coming to the Wall—?"

  She spluttered, and then screamed incoherently again.

  "Why were you following me?"

  "I—"

  "Why are you following me?"

  “I—I wasn't!" she screamed, her voice echoing in the woods. "I didn't know I was ... by the Wall—" she gasped, her face contorting. "It’s dark—I saw you across the market, I just wanted to—"

  "To what—?"

  "I wasn't spyin’ on you or nothin' … jus— ... wanted to say hi. Master, let go of me."

  He dug his nails in, heedless of her protests, trying to drag her away by force.

  Her horse didn’t budge. "Master, let go of my arm NOW!" she shrieked.

  It was a command—which shocked him. Shaken, he did as she ordered. Immediately, Freedom reared and sprang away.

  The bottom dropped out of his stomach—the stallion might bolt back into the woods instead of out of them—but no, they were breaking for the open.

  "What's wrong with you?" he cried, rounding on them. Seleda, ever the twin to his spirit, prowled back and forth, blocking Freedom from another run at the woods. Julia was hanging on with one arm hooked around her horse’s neck.

  "My arm's broke!"

  "How do you know that—? Your arm’s never been broke."

  "I just do. I wanna see Kalorn."

  Leaping down from his saddle, he held his palms up. "Hold still," he whispered to her, and then approached her trembling mount. The horse jerked his head away, nostrils flaring, eyes darting. Andreas stopped immediately.

  "I'm not going to hurt you, Freedom," he said softly, fighting to control his own racing pulse. His nerves were shot to hell, and he was sure the horse could smell it. Behind them, the woods were dark, silent, ominous. Every moment they waited here in the shadow of the Wall felt like an eternity.

  Slowly, he tried again, taking just one step across the muddy ground—and let out a sigh of relief when the stallion trotted across to meet him. Pressing his head against Freedom’s nose, he inhaled and exhaled slowly as the black did, breathing in the comforting smell as much to calm himself as to reassure the steed.

  Finally, he raised his head. Julia’s aghast, astonished eyes met his, slick with tears, her mouth agape.

  "Let's go home," he said quietly.

  ~~~

  "… Yes. It's broken. At least, it feels like a break, acts like a break. Hard to tell—it could just be a bad sprain. But more likely a hairline fracture."

  Andreas stopped his pacing. Julia looked up at him with a slight shrug. Some of the shock and fear he’d seen earlier still lingered there.

  “I told you,” she said.

  “How did you know?”

  “It’s not the first time.”

  “… Why didn’t you tell me?”

  She shrugged again. “What difference would it have made?”

  “None,” he admitted.

  "… I want to talk to you," Kalorn interrupted. “Alone if you don't mind."

  "I do actually—" His insides were shaking. "Jul—slave—stay over there outside the door. Don’t leave my sight." He beckoned Kalorn to the study window.

  The doctor joined him with a sigh and muttered, "… A break is serious, you know. It'll probably be fine, but had it been any worse … you know how hard it is to set them right. And they do tend to infect. We’ve amputated soldiers for conditions that began as trivially as this—complications do happen. So go easy on her … if you hit her again, you might re-injure it and make it worse. As it is, you’re lucky it isn’t already.”

  “I won’t hit her in the arm.”

  “It doesn’t matter. If she falls on it, same thing.”

  “Well, when can I hit her again—?” he retorted.

  “… Never?”

  Andreas said nothing.

  "… Need I ask what you did ...?"

  "Yes, actually. It was an accident. See?"

  "Were you angry?"

  "That and ... other things." He couldn’t bring himself to say afraid.

  "… But you weren't in control of yourself. That’s really all that’s relevant. Just like every other time you’ve done a thing like this.”

  It wasn't a question. Andreas didn't answer it.

  “Do you care for this girl at all?”

  “I hardly see why that’s rel—“

  “Just answer the question.”

  “… Of course.”

  "You have a problem, and we both know it. But I don't think you want to see it. Our businesses may be opposite in effect—I am a healer and you are a killer—but both our professions require us to have a certain knowledge ... what can injure a man, what can maim a man permanently—and what can kill him.

  "I met Julia a month after you first did—she came to ask me if the bruises and abrasions you'd inflicted on her were serious. I told her they weren’t. You knew they weren’t. While I have never approved of your proclivities, I am not one to judge. You had your thing and it worked for a while … and then you started to lose it. I’ll never forget when she ran to me bawling two years ago that you’d actually assaulted her. Try telling a heartbroken, terrified fourteen-year-old girl that she’d better run back upstairs and clean her blood off the floor so the man she trusted won’t break her legs. Blows to the neck, the spine, the head—" he stopped. “Is anything I’m saying reaching you?”

  Andreas felt himself going cold and losing focus, his vision fading to grey around the edges. In the hall, Julia was holding her wrist in one trembling hand and watching her knees. He nodded jerkily, wondering if she could hear.

  It doesn’t matter. She’s not stupid.

  "... You know as well as I do that blows to the neck, spine or head can induce permanent nerve trauma, brain damage, possible paralysis ... This broken bone is hardly the worst thing you’ve done … it simply draws attention to the rest. Don’t play at ignorance. You’re as fine a killer as any I’ve heard of. You know what you’re doing.”

  Andreas nodded again. Hoarsely, he asked, “You've tried to help her run away, haven't you …?"

  Kalorn's shoulders rose and fell in a long, slow, silent sigh,
as if weighing the danger of his answer.

  "… Many times … She refused every time."

  "… You're a brave man to admit that."

  "In my professional opinion ... the reason for her refusal is simple trauma. I believe she has lost touch with reality. But—" he paused. "If you think it's something else, I think you should act to protect that something before you lose it. It’s not invulnerable—and neither is she. This is a human woman … that’s all."

  “You’re … truly sure it’s just … trauma? That she saved my life because she’s … damaged?”

  Kalorn took a deep breath again. “Well, there’s hardly room for anything else, is there—? You, sir, are both the most over and underwhelming person I’ve ever heard of.”

  Glowering, he hunted for a comeback, but he recognized himself all too clearly in the doctor’s words.

  "… I can't send her away,” he said at last.

  "Why not?"

  Because without her, I will not survive. And I am absolutely certain neither will she.

  There was no way to explain this. It sounded like a bullshit justification, but he knew it was true. The trust between them might be broken, and what was holding them together might be only hate and trauma, but he couldn’t sever the relationship. If he took a sledgehammer to that hate, he’d end up shattering their hearts as well. If holding onto hate meant holding onto her, that was the only service he could render.

  "I can't."

  "Then do something. Before it's too late. Control yourself. Your relationship is a place for you to heal—not inflict your anger. There was a time when you knew that, at least according to her."

  He gave a shaky sigh. His extremities were tingling as though all the blood had rushed out of his body and back. "… Thank you for your honesty,” he whispered. “I've never liked you. But ... I appreciate you. Very much. In my experience, most men are cowards. You are not."

  Kalorn jerked his head up. "I need to get her a splint to protect her arm ..."

  "Go ahead. But send her back up here when you're done. And Kalorn—"

  He raised an eyebrow quizzically.

  “Don’t tell her,” he whispered. “Don’t tell her I’m not …” he broke off. “… Don’t tell her I’m not … in control.”