by Jocelyn Fox
Come and rest, the darkness whispered invitingly, the black threads of poison fawning over my skin. Sweet sleep awaits you, mortal child.
I looked down past the edge of the cliff. I tested the edge with one toe, tracing my boot along the lip of the abyss as though I was running one finger, softly, over the mouth of the man I loved. I blinked slowly, feeling the pull of the darkness. The Sword slowly became just a weight upon my back, its power barely stirring through my veins. I flexed the fingers of one hand, one by one, feeling the numbness spreading throughout my body at the touch of the poison.
Sweet sleep is all mortals’ end, it murmured, and then it had the voice of my father, as though he was standing right behind me, speaking into my ear.
“Come on, Tessie, there’s nothing to be afraid of,” my father said, cajoling, as he had told me when I was five and learning to sleep without a nightlight. “Everything is the same in the dark as it is during the daytime.”
I turned, quicker than I had moved since the blackness invited me into its depths.
“Dad?” I asked desperately, but I spoke to empty air. A keen bolt of sorrow pierced my heart. It was the first time I had heard his voice since I had worn out the answering-machine tape with his last message on it. I had played it, in the days after the funeral, until the tapes melted and my mother had thrown it away, prying it from my grasping fingers wordlessly and ignoring my fervent child-pitched entreaties. I had wanted to keep it, even though it didn’t play anymore, because I knew he had touched it. I knew it had contained his voice and in my child’s mind, somehow I thought maybe someday, I would be able to fix it, pull out the thin thread of sound, seasoned with static as it always was when he called from his office phone. I clung desperately to the tape, the smell of burning plastic hot in my nose, until Liam came into the kitchen. He watched the struggle for a moment, the air thick with my tears and my mother’s hard silence, and then he walked over to me and folded me into his arms, holding me quietly as my grip on the tape loosened and I cried into his shoulder.
I held onto the sharp pain of grief, the rawness of the reopened wound. The darkness twining about my legs renewed its efforts, sensing my resistance.
“Come on, Tessie,” said my father’s voice again. But now I heard the wrongness, the slight difference in the tone—it was heartless, uncolored with the affection always apparent in my father’s voice whenever he spoke to me, even on that tape sprinkled with static, even in my memories. I gripped my grief tighter, and felt it ignite into something like anger, that the darkness in this alien world would dare to try and lure me into the abyss with such a false imitation of something I loved so dearly. I felt the Sword stir on my back, like a wolf rousing from slumber.
“Tess,” said another voice, quiet but strong. It was a voice that carried power. The Sword thrummed softly in response, and something down within the darkness snarled. I looked back over my shoulder.
Finnead stood behind me, the sapphire flames in his eyes slowly burning down to embers, the blazing glow around his figure fading. “You must go back.”
He held out his hand again to me, something indecipherable written across his face. A breath hitched in my chest. It hurt, as though breathing was painfully unfamiliar. I still ached from the sound of my father’s voice as I reached out and placed my hand in his. The poison writhed on my skin, trying to push me back toward the edge of the cliff. Finnead grasped my hand tightly. “It will hurt,” he warned me.
I nodded. “Get me away from this place.”
Something screamed, long and terrible, down in the abyss. The poison clung to me, scrabbling against my skin like the claws of a cat. Finnead drew the Brighbranr, and the blue fire roared around me. The raging flames tore my hand from his, swallowing my scream as they consumed me. I felt myself slam back down into my body—it was like returning from Walking, but returning to a body sculpted from molten metal. My lungs were on fire and my limbs trembled in agony. Then the sapphire flames burrowed down into my chest, and burned away the blackness, its brightness chasing away the shadows from my body. It surged through me, and when it touched my taebramh, there was a feeling like ribs breaking, like torn skin and ripped flesh; and then my inner fire was like a great white tide rushing through my veins again. The blue fire retreated, satisfied. I gasped and coughed, opening my eyes. Finnead stared down at me for an instant, blue flames surging through his eyes; and then he straightened, taking a step back from the bed and watching me with an inscrutable expression on his handsome face. I sat up, head swimming. Water beaded my skin, making me shiver. I brushed at it feebly, wondering how I had gotten wet.
“I’m fine,” I rasped at Eamon. I stared down at the dried blood on my finger, the droplet from the pinprick.
“It still might be best if you lay still for a moment,” Eamon told me, his gray healer’s eyes brooking no argument despite his gentle tone.
I sighed and leaned down. “At least let me take off my boots,” I muttered at him when he gave me a warning look, interpreting my movement as disobedience.
Ramel sat in the chair by the bed and raked his fingers through his coppery curls, leaving his hair sticking up wildly in all directions. I didn’t have the energy to smile.
“Why didn’t this happen to you, if that was the blade that cut you?” I asked Ramel. “Did I touch the wrong one?”
“It didn’t happen to me because it’s not the same poison,” Ramel told me.
I sat back in the bed as the implication struck me, holding one of my boots in my hand as I thought. If it hadn’t been the same poison, then that meant that there was a traitor in the camp. A traitor with access to the healing room, and with knowledge of Ramel’s wound. “We don’t have time for a witch-hunt right now,” I said, shaking my head as I put my boot down by the bed.
Suddenly my stomach clenched and roiled sickeningly. Eamon was by my side quicker than thought, holding a basin. I pressed one hand to my stomach and grimaced as I leaned over the basin, a black tar-like liquid spilling over my lips. It tasted like the smell of the smoke above the battlefield, like burning flesh and blood. I felt someone gather my hair back. I’d have to thank them later—from the looks of it, the poison would be nasty stuff to clean from my braid. It hurt at first, burning up my throat and across my tongue, stinging my lips; but after a long moment it was over and I was left gasping, spitting black into the basin. Eamon handed the basin to Ramel, and helped me sit back. I gratefully accepted a waterskin, rinsing my mouth out several times before swallowing. Then Eamon switched the water for wine, and I was even more grateful. I took a mouthful and let the sweetness linger on my tongue, closing my eyes for just a moment as the scorched, acrid taste of burnt earth faded. As I opened my eyes, I saw Ramel pouring the black poison carefully into a thick glass vial. I pulled another drought from the wineskin and then handed it back to Eamon.
Ramel swore softly and suddenly, stoppering the vial with that cat-like Sidhe quickness, his movement so fast that I wasn’t sure whether I really saw him move. A crackling sound emanated from the vial, and the poison convulsed like a living thing, sending questing tentacles up the side of the glass, prodding at the stopper. I sat up straighter and called a small spark of taebramh to my fingertips, ignoring the sore protest of my muscles as I moved. The spark whirled down the vine-like path of my war-markings, which I supposed was now the channel for my power, in a sense. It did feel easier—I just nudged the spark from the well behind my breastbone to my shoulder, and as soon as it touched one of the graceful curves of the Sword’s marking, it slid down my arm like a marble in a chute.
“Here.” I held out two softly glowing fingertips. I touched the smooth rim of the vial, circling it with a thin line of opal fire. My power slid into the slight space between the stopper and the vial, seeping down like melted wax. The little black tar-creature inside squalled and hissed when one of its questing tentacles touched the seal.
Ramel held the vial of poison up to the light. “There’s a traitor in our midst, someone
closer to you than we would like. They know you well enough to understand your weaknesses.”
“My weaknesses? How did they know I would prick my finger?”
“They didn’t know for a certainty, but they knew enough of you to assume your concern for me. You would work out that there was a poison on the blade that wounded me—which there was, but I doubt it’s deadly,” Ramel continued, “and after the battle, they put this poison onto the barb.”
My head was beginning to hurt. I blew out a breath. “Who?” I asked, sitting lightly on the edge of the bed. Finnead stood by the door, his back half-turned, one hand resting lightly on the hilt of the Brighbranr.
“I don’t know,” Ramel said grimly, “but I will find out.”
Raised voices suddenly burst from the other side of the healing room door. Ramel placed the poison-jar carefully on the table. I picked up the Sword and slid its strap over my head, watching tensely as Ramel moved toward the door, joining Finnead.
Ramel opened the door only a crack, just enough to see into the room beyond.
“Let me in,” I heard an angry voice demand, just as two bright orbs shot into the room. Beryk, the size of a small horse, shouldered aside the door. Vell slipped past the two Sidhe men without so much as a second glance, dagger glimmering in her hand.
“You were poisoned,” she said to me, golden eyes bright and hard as coins flashing in the sun.
I stood. Eamon glanced at me but said nothing, his own hand on his dagger-hilt. “How did you know that?”
“Because we caught the poisoner,” Vell replied grimly, motioning with her dagger.
Kavoryk dragged a slim Sidhe into the room, her wrists bound before her like a prisoner. She fell to her knees, her intricately braided dark hair falling over one slender shoulder. I carefully wiped all expression from my face. Stone, I thought, your heart must be stone.
“Allene,” said Ramel in a harsh voice that I had never before heard him use.
Allene raised her beautiful face to the light. She slowly stood, though Kavoryk kept one giant hand wrapped around her wrists. A low growl rumbled in Beryk’s chest, and Vell drew back her lips from her teeth in a silent snarl. The two Glasidhe quivered, bright orbs illuminating the room with sharp light from above our heads.
“You are supposed to be dead,” Allene said to me in a quiet, calm voice. Her luminous silver eyes traveled over me and then flicked to Finnead. Though to me he looked no different than before he had brought me back from the edge of the gray cliff, Allene somehow knew. Her eyes narrowed to snake-like slits. “Ah. Our noble Vaelanbrigh.” She tilted her head slightly and a cool, detached smile slid across her lips.
“Let’s move this conversation to the common room,” I said, proud of the steadiness of my voice.
Kavoryk said, black eyes glinting, “But my steel-wife thirsts for this one’s blood, here in this room.” He touched the huge battle-axe slung across his back with his free hand.
“This is the healing room,” I replied. “We shall not profane it with blood spilled in anger.”
Eamon caught my eyes and gave a small nod of approval.
Ramel took hold of one of Allene’s arms, and Vell the other, with Beryk prowling behind them, his growl rippling like water about me.
I stood in front of the huge empty fireplace, the dying embers warming my back as I faced Allene, the Sword thrumming gently against my spine. Forin and Farin positioned themselves above me, one hovering over each of my shoulders, their bright angry glow sharpening my shadow to a knife-edge. Finnead, hand tightening on the hilt of the Brighbranr, placed himself between Allene and me, standing on my left side, every line of his body taut with readiness. Vell tossed her dagger restlessly end-over-end at my right side, throwing the blade in a silver blur and catching the hilt deftly each time. She stared at Allene, her mouth pressed into a hard line. Beryk fell silent, black lips covering his long white teeth, his golden eyes fixed on Allene. Eamon stood against the wall, still and silent, his eyes glimmering. Merrick guarded the door, light sliding in a silver wash down the blade of his unsheathed sword.
“Allene,” I said, my voice smooth and flat and cold as ice. “When I first came into Faeortalam, it was you who healed me.”
Allene raised her head, her luminous grey eyes meeting my own with nothing but indifference, a small cold smile upon her lips. “Yes.”
I let her answer drop into the silence like a coin into a still pool of water. The Sword thrummed against my bones. Beryk’s growl rolled over the floor like thunder.
“My companions tell me that you were the one who tried to poison me,” I continued after a long moment, ignoring the cold clenching of my stomach and the goose-bumps raising the hairs on my arms. The Sword thrummed warningly.
A low, sinuous chuckle slithered from Allene. Kavoryk and Ramel tightened their grips on her arms. “Yes,” she hissed, drawing out the word into a long and sibilant arc.
“Why?” I asked, tensing my shoulders involuntarily as the Sword’s power uncoiled suddenly like a whip: something was wrong, a coldness was seeping in at the seams of the room, infiltrating my consciousness like a half-remembered dream.
“Because,” Allene said, her voice barely louder than a whisper, “you are a mortal. You are a mortal and you do not deserve the power bestowed upon you.” Allene smiled that small cold smile again and slowly turned her head, fixing her eerie gaze on Ramel.
“Ramel,” I said warningly, taking half a step forward.
A strangled gasp escaped Ramel and the color drained from his face as invisible hands wrapped around his throat. I could see the imprints of the fingers on his skin, and my hands moved to the hilt of the Sword of their own volition.
“What dark sorcery is this?” Eamon shouted at Allene, racing to Ramel’s side as Ramel fell to his knees.
“Let him go, bitch,” snarled Vell, her dagger pressed against the creamy skin of Allene’s throat, fast as thought. Beryk crouched beside her, teeth bared and golden eyes blazing.
Allene smiled, and made a shooing motion with her free hand. An unseen force slammed into Beryk, lifting him off his paws. Vell gasped and in the next moment, Allene flicked her fingers and there was blood pouring from Vell’s nose.
“Enough!” I shouted, my voice somehow cutting through all the layers of darkness and blood and shadow gathering in the room. Allene was taller, and thinner, and whiter, her face long and spectral, her grey eyes sliding into dark fire. I drew the Sword in an emerald blaze, its silver hiss long and vengeful. I saw the Brighbranr flashing, unsheathed, to my left. It was hard to breathe, shadows pressing in from the corners of the room. The thing that had once been Allene hissed again, no words in the sound, only a promise of pain and suffering and death. The creature’s smile widened until the flesh peeled off its face, revealing a skeletal grin, perfect white teeth and a small cat-like pink tongue licking at the air, tasting it like a snake.
“Stupid mortal,” it hissed, grinning that deathly grin. “Now you will die, and I will bring the Sword to the King in the Darkness.”
I hit it with a wall of green fire. The creature crashed into the table and the fire licked over it hungrily, but after a moment of stillness it stirred and stood, its skin blackened by the emerald flames. The stench of burning flesh filled the room. I struggled not to gag. Wisps of raven hair still clung to the creature’s skull, and the last vestiges of tattered garments draped its charred form.
The Sword sang in my hands. I met the advance of the creature, dodging its grasping, clawed hands. Forin and Farin dove at the living-dead thing, their auras blazing like miniature comets, bright with battle-fury. It paid them no attention, even when Forin stabbed his dagger into its skull and Farin swept at its eye with her small flashing blade. I gripped the Sword with both hands, making the shining gray blade sing as it sliced through the air. The creature blocked the blade with its forearm. My eyes widened in shock: the Sword bit into the creature’s flesh, but a great vibration shuddered up the blade, as though I had hit
solid rock. The creature hissed and a clacking, death-rattle laugh emanated from its ruined lipless mouth.
“Used to easier prey?” it said, cocking its grotesque skull to one side, eerie intelligence burning in its blackened eye-sockets.
I still felt the lingering effects of the poison, slowing my limbs slightly and dampening my senses. The creature swept at me with one clawed hand. I leapt to the side, wrenching the Sword free. Tell me what to do, I entreated the Sword silently, dodging another slice of the inhuman clawed hands. It sent me a burning heart, searing the image into my minds’ eye with such intensity that I gasped and almost stumbled.
“Didn’t know it still had a heart,” I told the Sword from between gritted teeth as the thing lunged at me, skeletal grin opening as though it wanted to tear its teeth into me. Finnead leapt in front of it, Brighbranr blazing. He gave me enough time to shake the stars from my eyes and adjust my grip on the Sword.
“Aim for its heart,” I called out above the snarl of the creature and the sound of steel screeching on rock. Finnead feinted, dodged and slid his sword into the creature’s chest. It laughed its clacking laugh and snatched at Finnead with a clawed hand, catching his shoulder and jerking him toward its gleaming white teeth, driving the Brighbranr into its chest up to the hilt. Finnead held onto the Brighbranr with an iron grip. As the creature flicked its pink tongue and bent toward his neck like a lover seeking a kiss, he calmly said a single word, and sapphire fire blasted down the Brighbranr. The creature shrieked in anger and hit him, jerking the Brighbranr free and sending Finnead crashing into the wall, mercifully missing the fireplace.
Emerald fire streamed down the Sword as I raised it in challenge and quickly parried the first swipe of inhuman claws. The thing was impossibly fast and preternaturally strong. I swallowed hard and watched for an opening, sweat sliding down my back, the line of stitches on my left cheek becoming a blaze of stinging pain. Then, suddenly, the point of a dagger erupted from the creature’s throat. It paused, as if in annoyance or puzzlement, and turned to face Vell, who had another dagger held high in her hand, dark blood smeared down her face, one eye already blackening.