And the duke? He laughed again and preened over the wonderful joke he’d made from his victim’s name and fate. He laughed and commanded his shuddering guards to make sure nothing valuable caught fire from Ash’s blazing body and started for the scaffold steps with his chest puffed out pridefully, pleased with himself.
Something froze him before he could take the first step down. I saw him pause and turn at the edge of the platform. His ugly face was creased with a puzzled frown. He stared into the flames wrapping Ash from top to toe. The sickening stench of scorching hair and skin was gone. There were no screams of pain, no need for the guards to use their weapons to keep the boy from jumping off the scaffold in a useless bid to outrun fiery death. Friends, it was the calmest human bonfire you could ever hope to see.
He stood still, our Ash, a cool shadow inside a husk of fire, and didn’t make a sound. Not one.
The duke’s face contorted with rage. “How dare you defy—!” he began. He never finished, which is pretty sad, actually, because yelling at someone for the treachery of not dying would’ve made that the single stupidest thing Duke Sal ever said.
But what can you do? The dazzling, white-hot flame that shot from Ash’s radiant shell and pierced Duke Sal’s chest robbed history of a great quote and a rotten man. He died surprised.
He wasn’t the only one; to be surprised, I mean. The guards stood flummoxed. Should they brave the fire and seize the lad who’d just roasted their piggish patron? Should they rally a bucket brigade? Should they just shout thanks and scamper off until someone else took charge and told them what to do?
The crowd was too stunned to react, likely weighing up their choices. Was it safe to cheer? Was it wise to flee? Before they could decide, their choice was made for them. Hoofbeats rumbled loud and louder as every exit from the plaza was blocked by a shining company of mounted warriors. The late duke’s guards did a quick us-versus-them headcount and took early retirement on the spot. The newcomers rode magnificent mounts, yet these were also steeds that looked too fine-boned to carry a man. Good thing none of their riders were men.
I won’t ask you lot if you’ve ever seen elves in full war gear. Who hasn’t, by now? Golden lances, silky hair streaming behind their glittering helmets, rich and regal garb under silver-chased armor, perfect faces and bodies, weird ears, all the stuff of which epics, sagas, ballads, and more’n a few dirty jokes are made. What you don’t know is how their leader came riding straight to the scaffold and in one graceful sweep leaped from his saddle to the platform.
“My lord,” he said, dropping to one knee before the firestorm enveloping our Ash. “Praise all, we have found you at last. Come forth, that we might pay you the tribute of our fealty!”
No, I don’t know what fealty means. Whatever it is—maybe some kind of sausage?—that elf went on about it for a while until the flames on the platform died, probably blown out by the gust of all that speechifying.
Ash stepped away from the last tumbling sparks, except he wasn’t our Ash any more. He’d grown taller and twinkly in the fire, with flossy, glossy hair down to his mother-may-I and a face that sent every female in the crowd—and a few men—into sighing, swooning, squealing bidders for his favor. It wasn’t just his looks did that, either. Elves have the gift for making folks fawn over ‘em for no reason. It’s whatcha call it, carissima? The stuff that made us want to save him when he still looked like a grubby little human kid, and kept the guards from hustling him onto the scaffold, and gave the executioner cold feet. He had that, plus sharp hearing, with or without pointy ears on display. And a way of leaving notes in stone walls that he melted with a touch. And a healing hand that purged drunkards from the fumes of ale and wine. I guess all that should’ve tipped us off that he wasn’t what he appeared to be. See, this is what happens when you don’t pay attention.
As for who he was, though—
There’d been a big dust-up among the elvish royal houses, a round of Assassination Tag that led some of them to take refuge with us mortals, slumming to survive. A few refused to run away from the fight, but not before slapping a human disguise spell on their kids and putting them somewhere safe. And just in case the ugliness went on for centuries and yesterday’s haven turned into a hell-hole over time, they gave the brats a way to send a Help! message home.
I see you nodding. Yeah, you get it: that ring of his mother’s braided hair? It was set to summon their family’s household troops if it got damaged or destroyed. Ash was so young when he came here that they sent a guardian along with him. Too bad Salamanzor City’s so … lively. Something real lively must’ve happened to Ash’s guardian before he could tell the kid what his keepsake was really for.
Thanks be for Duke Sal, eh? And that’s the last time anyone’ll ever say that. Though frankly, back on that fateful day, our Ash did seem to realize he owed that swine a debt. He stood there, hearing his kinsman tell him it was not only safe to go home again, but that their clan had won the throne and he was all sorts of royalty, and a funny look came over that pretty face.
With a massive sob, he flung himself on the duke’s corpse, hugged that heap of scorched meat to his bosom, and began yowling about how sorry he was, how he’d never meant to kill anyone, how he had no idea he had the power to turn a churl into charcoal. His kinsman begged him to stop, but he groaned, “How can I, when I’ve robbed these good folk of their leader?” He dropped the body and clapped his hands to his bosom. “He left no heir. Alas, now wicked men will battle to take his place. Their vile ambition will destroy this city and its people! What can I do to save the innocent? What, oh what?” He paused for breath and softly added: “Unless …”
And then he told everyone his idea. His loyal legion of heavily armed fighters agreed that it wasn’t half bad, as such things go, and might be worth a fair try. The late duke’s guards agreed readily. The crowd followed suit. It was better than taking an arrow to the throat, that being the elvish way of gently reproving nay-sayers. The final verdict was sealed when we all saw the flash of gold from the jeweled pendant suddenly hanging around Ash’s neck, like magic was at work. Someone shouted, “The old duke’s medallion! It’s a sign! The gods have spoken!”
Not that such a declaration made any sense at all, if you thought about it, but it made the elves happy, and they had the swords and the lances and at least one of them had the gift of setting cheeky folks afire, so we started cheering and that night the whole city got drunk.
Which brings us to the purpose of tonight’s banquet.
Miserable, poxy, lowlife ragamuffins, cutpurses, and yada-yada-yada, it is my honor to give you our glorious, benevolent, and all-powerful ruler, Prince Ashkelion Elvenborn, monarch of the Seven Lordships of Radiance, Commander of the Realm, Vessel of the Fires of Shavann’ahyrkut, Wielder of the Sword of Especially Messy Death, Guardian of the Elixir of Relatively Eternal Life—
—and our Guild’s newest accreditated ‘Prentice. If filching the life out of a tyrant, having the brass ones to rob his corpse, and then pocketing his whole dukedom doesn’t count enough to qualify him for that, damned if I know what does. Steal big, my friends; always steal big.
Mimosa would be proud.
Rainbow Dark
Jenna Rhodes
His uncle dragged him howling down the alleyway, calling for his sister Maude until a fist came across his mouth in lightning fury and white pain. Crimson spurted from split lips. Cristane put the back of his hand to his mouth and realized that he could not hear Maude crying after him. And why should she? The house had been golden with warmth, its lights spilling across the sleeted and muddied street. A woman with nails painted the blue of a spring sky had drawn Maude towards her with a coo, and his little sister had gone eagerly. His uncle then pocketed a gold coin and grabbed Cristane up.
He tried to mark the street, but this was no part of town he’d ever seen before. Twisting about, Cristane caught sight of the House’s corner lantern, a crescent moon illuminated by a fat yellow candle. He hoped he had
marked the house, noting the chestnut hue to the muddy streets, different from the toasted nut color of the dirt in their quarter.
They crisscrossed town, passing quarters both low and high, but his uncle’s hard grip did not lessen. He suspected that their tangled path was meant to lose the way. It would not. He would find Maude no matter what.
Then, on the outskirt, not far from the smelly environs of the tanners’ sheds and drying racks, his uncle let go of his wrists and dug his fingers into Cristane’s shoulder.
“Stand up, lad, and look alive.”
He did not recognize the guildhall until they entered, then he stood as if struck dumb.
“You wanted shoes,” his uncle husked. “You will find them here.”
Shoes were nothing compared to losing Maude. Cristane shrugged his shoulder as if he might dart away and his uncle’s hand tightened.
A handful of men stood at the far end of the building, arguing among themselves, voices raised and arms gesturing, taking little notice of their entrance. Massive rafters held up a ceiling that existed not only to hold back inclement weather, but to cradle the collected rainbows.
He tilted his head back to catch sight of all the banners and swags of cloth hanging from every eave and rafter, each its own brilliant color. All the hues that dye could render to dazzle the senses waved faintly in display, stirred by a nearly undetectable breeze. The solemnity of the place struck him like a temple, allowing only a quiet sigh of awe. Maude would have spun on her heels, hands out-flung in joy.
Then his own thoughts and wants rushed back to Cristane. The day had started with two promises: an apple for Maude and footwear for him, tempting offers for the wary two of them.
He had to ask, because she would have, and he wanted to know so he could tell her when he saw her again.
“Is this where they keep the rainbows safe against the storms?”
“Shut your mouth, lad. I will not have you thought a simpleton!”
Cristane’s jaw tightened. Winter had already fallen on them all, the streets churning with mud, rocks, and sleet.
A man approached them, scrubbing his huge hands together briskly, his cheeks ruddy from a fire’s warmth, his clothes tailored for his prosperous build, his coal-dark half boots shining to be admired, and so Cristane did.
“What have we here?”
“I want to apprentice the lad.”
The guildsman frowned and bent slightly to take a look at Cristane. The starched white collar of his shirt rustled as its wearer shook his head. “We do our pickings in the spring. He stinks, as do you, of desperation. We have no vacancies. Move along with you.”
“You will get him cheaply and be better for the bargain.”
Cristane twisted about, to stare at his uncle’s face. The man had not talked that way about Maude earlier that day. She’d been praised as a gem, and a virgin besides, young and cheerful with a singing voice that would be an asset to the house of ladies. A gold piece passed between them as they haggled and then Maude was gone.
But he had little value? He’d protected his little sister with all the strength of his wiry arms and the fleetness of his bare feet and the pounding of his knuckled fists. He had worth. His chin jutted forward. “Test me.”
That drew both their attentions, crossing over their mutterings, which had begun to sound like two alley cats yowling lowly at one another just before springing. His uncle smiled, a thin drawing of his lips. “Aye. Try him.”
The guildsman tucked his thumbs into his waistband, a cross-silk piece of darkest mulberry, which set off the redder tones hidden in his purple night-black trousers. “Is that what you want, lad?”
“I want a pair of shoes. And a dry spot by the hearth.”
The guildsman brushed a hand over his face as if hiding a smile. “A trial it shall be, then.” And he looked down and asked his question, a glint deep in his sorrel brown eyes. “Do you believe in miracles?”
His uncle thought himself the object of the question. “I do, by the Sunlit Lady and the Cold Man who pursues her. Or any other god you care to name, I kneel to them all. What other way can I hope to improve my lot? Test the lad and let’s be done with this.”
The guildsman waved aside his uncle’s words. “I address the boy. I know by what way you intend to benefit yourself.” Cristane felt his icy regard sweep over him.
What did he know of miracles? Cristane stood still. He’d thought the guildsman would ask him of the colors he saw, the verdants, the damsons, the crimson and ceruleans taught him by a near forgotten mother, along with the dozen different whites, the pinks, the grays, and the browns that echoed in his own eyes, but this took him aback.
“I … I do.”
“And what would qualify, lad?”
He could feel the tension in his uncle’s hand and knew that he ought to say something smart, something important, if only he could think of it. What temple should he mention? What special rites that some of the fringe followed outside the sanctified churches? Or perhaps, as many of the lower folk muttered about Tradesmen, his only god came minted in gold coins? His thoughts chased one another futilely. The guildsman’s gaze bore down on him.
“I see a miracle every day from my hut’s window,” he finally offered.
“You have a window?”
“My father took it from a fine mansion that burned down, when the rioters went to loot it. He brought back a pane of glass that you can look through and put it in our hut. My mother looked out it until she died.”
“Did he now.”
Cristane did not hear approval. Not yet. He swallowed and nodded. “My home is buried.” And the listener inclined his head in understanding. Many hovels were half-buried along the back streets of the city, to retain what heat they could in the winter, and coolness in the summer. They climbed up to leave and down to enter. The huts could, and often did, flood in heavy rains and that’s when they lived on the rooftop. Cristane held a finger up. “A plant grows against our window on the outside. I can see its roots reach out of its seed, down in the dirt, and its stem climb upward every day, reaching toward the sky.”
“What do you see here?” Thick fingers beckoned about the hall’s rafters and eaves.
“Flowers. Roots. Colors from boiled shell and bone and mines. The sky and earth harvested and melted into cloth.”
The guildsman pursed his lips a moment, before waving over his shoulder. “There is a courtyard. Go wander while I talk with your guardian.”
Cristane took a deep breath and shook loose from his uncle. The wooden floor met his feet without splinters, but a chill crept up through its boards, except where colorful woven rugs crossed it. He pushed on the swinging door and found himself in a small square between buildings. He could smell the heat of many vats, perhaps in one of the outbuildings, some of the aromas noxious and others perfumed. Like his neighborhood, he thought, the bitter with the sweet.
He nearly tripped over the silver-haired and wizened woman sitting just inside the edge of the threshold. She caught at his shirt, as much to steady herself as him, and made a cluck of disapproval.
“What are you doing here?”
“Staring. And smelling. And tripping.” He did not mind that she kept a grip on his clothing, although she might yank him down so she could slap his ear or pinch his cheek harshly. He deserved it; he’d nearly run her over.
“Who sent you into my courtyard?”
Cristane hadn’t caught a name, so he described the man by his bulk and the colors he wore. Her eyes, narrowed at first as she listened shrewdly, opened a bit wider as he finished.
“That would be Skagan. Master Skagan.”
“He gave me a trial.”
She blinked. Her hair, he noted, was not simply silver, but a bouquet of faded gold among the tarnish, with a note here and there of pure, absolute, snow white. Someone had scissored it haphazardly, or perhaps it had grown out raggedly from its last cutting. She did not look elegant, but the cloth draping her form did. It flowed in liquid c
olors of the sea, the water in rain, the tide in full sunlight, the deep waves where they lay, and the shallow pools over pebbled sand—all the blues he could imagine from the brief time he’d gone to see the ocean. It roared nearby but he had no business there.
His father and his uncle had woven cord that made the fishing nets, but they sold their skeins of it, tainted from the blood of their fingertips and calluses, and rarely, if ever, saw the end product. His job had been to gather the wool leavings from the shearing sheds, to be carded and combed. To steal what fleece he could, ill-tended, to increase their output beyond what they could buy fairly. He could weasel in and out of sheds and corrals like the varmint the herders called him and run like the wind if he had to.
“Did you hear me, lad?”
“I was thinking.”
“Should I ask about what?”
“The colors of your gown.”
She looked down and brushed her hand over it. The blues rippled in answer and he realized her eyes echoed the shades of her dress. “How many colors do you see?”
“At least four, lady, but I haven’t names for all of them.”
“Well, you wouldn’t, would you? You’re not a part of the Dyers Guild. But do you intend to be?”
“Will I be given shoes?”
“Shoes? No need for long trousers or a full-sleeved shirt or even, by the gods, a jacket?”
“Shoes,” he said firmly. She must be daft if she thought he could ask for more. She waited, so he added, “Maybe someday I could earn the others.” Not likely, not for the likes of Cristane, but he might be able to beg for more if he wore an apprentice’s sash.
She used her hold on him to claw her way to standing and pushed her foot out from under her hem. She wore slippers of fine, soft leather that came to her ankles, their laces colored to match.
Guilds & Glaives Page 7