The Isle of Eternal Happiness

by Kay Berrisford

  "I'm perfectly capable of standing up for myself," he said. "Besides, Ben would never hurt a fly." Was that even true anymore? He was too confused to tell.

  She rubbed her hands down his arms, doubtless noting the goose-bumps. With a gentle roll of her eyes, she magicked him a full set of dry clothes, including a scarf. If he'd not been so distraught, he'd have done that himself. He swept back his damp hair and managed to suppress a scowl in favour of a grateful smile.

  "That jerk's not good enough for you," she said. His smile froze then faded. "My offer is still open. It'll always be open. We can take off together, any time, and head for some far horizon. We'll have fun."

  He hesitated, but only for the merest moment. "It's a gracious offer, Cully, but Ben's behaviour isn't Ben. It's the magic from the sword influencing him. I still love him, and I'll fight for him to the end. You don't know what it's like to love somebody so much and lose them."

  Even as the words escaped, shame crept through him. Pain filled her eyes, and he knew he'd put it there. This time, he'd correct his mistake immediately.

  "I'm sorry," he said. "That was thoughtless."

  She shrugged it off quick enough, and they crouched, facing each other but no longer touching. "It's okay. Whatever you need to do, I'll have your back, although I'm afraid I didn't turn up much more information about the sword at Clewell's palace."

  "You went back there?" Lyle somehow wasn't surprised that she'd bothered to seek his answers, even when they'd not been on speaking terms.

  "Yup." She paused, swallowing hard and then flicking a moth from her ear. "I didn't find anything much, and that was the weird thing. I found nothing. I went back to the tunnel where I incinerated everyone, and there were no bodies, not even ashes, only blackened stone."

  "So either your fire was so hot it vaporized them, or somebody has been back to clear up." Seeing as Cully seemed okay discussing it, Lyle concentrated on the enigma. The cave system was a huge labyrinth. Just because she hadn't found anybody didn't prove somebody wasn't lurking there. "Do you believe anyone could've survived your firestorm?"

  "Somebody could've done easily," said Cully, "if they'd not been with the others. If they'd come close to the cave mouth, though, they'd have had to draw on magic to escape. Did you get the impression any among the gang was a great mage?"

  "Not really," said Lyle. "The exact reason they got together was to avenge their treatment at the hands of more powerful merfolk." Nevertheless, it was possible a survivor lingered. "Whoever has cleared up would be the prime suspect for finding the sword and delivering it to Ben. I wonder if Bella has any ideas who it could've been. If it's all tied up in the prophecy of the Dragon Rider, she might've stumbled across something."

  "She's told us everything she knows," said Cully. "However, she has come up with some useful info about Kern-Heliog—which, of course, could aid Ben's mission to save our family."

  Lyle swished his scarf, unable to contain a huff. "That's the last thing I bloody need—to fuel his sense of Gods-given destiny."

  "Er, I know this isn't what you want to hear, but we might have to work with him on that, if nothing else." She crinkled her nose apologetically. "Honestly, Bella's latest mishap has caused me one too many sleepless nights, and Ben's plan to find the fairy sanctuary is a good one. I'll back you up every time he steps out of line, and I'll kick his arse if I need to. But uh… maybe we should let him fulfil the Dragon Rider prophecy before we ask too many questions about the sword or tamper with his magic."

  Lyle drew breath to protest then thought better of it. Cully's speech was heartfelt, and she was right. Bella's troubles were, in many ways, more pressing than his. Besides, the notion that Cully was prepared to kick Ben's arse for him suddenly troubled him as much as anything. Did she, like Ben, really consider him so feeble and dependent?

  In the distance, an owl hooted, and inside Lyle, something stirred—an elemental part of him that'd lain dormant of late. He might be damaged, he might be ill, but he still could teach both Ben and Cully a thousand lessons in endurance. He shot a stubborn glare at the Goddess Moon, and then returned a kindlier attention to Cully, who anxiously sought his response.

  "Very well," he said. "If you think that's best, it's alright with me."

  "You'll come back to the lodge, then? We can confront Ben about his behaviour, even if parting him from his sword has to wait."

  He nodded impassively, slowly pushing himself to his feet. She retraced her footsteps, and he trailed behind, ignoring her encouraging chatter and offers of assistance. The sky cleared further, and the moonshine brightened, soon joined by a few dim stars. Lyle's resolve toughened in synch. I know you mean well, dear sister, but I must fight this battle alone.

  Chapter Seven

  Left alone, Ben quelled his irritation by exploring the rest of his holiday home. The main living area was particularly pleasing—a hall, small in scale but still fit for a lord, with a vaulted roof and an oak dining trestle. An ancient suit of armour stood proud in the corner. He admired it for some time before his annoyance with Lyle began dogging him once more.

  "I book somewhere as spectacular as this, and my ungrateful husband still throws a hissy fit." As the exclamation escaped, unbidden, Ben fixed on the rough, untreated floorboards. He said this stuff so easily, but the stab of conscience in the aftermath hurt like the blazes. Two versions of Ben warred within, though he'd little doubt which one was winning. He'd had to become hardnosed to look after Lyle and to get the job of the Dragon Rider done. It wasn't Ben's fault… and now he was angry, and he wanted his sword.

  He fetched it and returned to the hall to unsheathe and swish it emphatically. A tongue of orange flame shot from the tip of the blade, cracking like a whip. Ben's free hand flew to his chest. Once the racing staccato of his heartbeat calmed, he swished it again, this time willing the whip-like appendage to appear. The coloured tongue crackled against the floor.

  Interesting. The last time fire had streaked from this sword, Lyle had put it there. At last, Ben's powers reached fruition. A whip could come in handy with a wayward husband to control…

  It hit Ben's conscience like a juggernaut. Had he really, seriously, just considered using violence against Lyle? Then again, it was high time Ben taught Lyle his place. The unseemly notion of equality between them must end right now, tonight.

  He was still standing there, dumfounded by the insistent strain of thought that told him whippings and forced subservience were okay, when the latch on the front door clicked. He whirled around, sword raised defensively. When Cully poked her head into the room, his extreme reaction felt daft.

  "You made me jump," he muttered. He sheathed the sword though kept it close as Cully entered, followed by Lyle. It was difficult to decide which of the siblings possessed the stonier countenance. Ben opted for Lyle, and snorted callously. He supposed Cully had conjured the ridiculous knitted scarf Lyle wore.

  "Ben," said Lyle coldly, stepping ahead of Cully and folding his arms. "Why didn't you tell me you'd invited Cully on our so-called honeymoon?"

  "I've had a lot on my plate lately," said Ben. "You know that."

  "Not good enough." Cully braced her knuckles on her perpetually Lycra-clad hips. "Why has Lyle been kept in the dark about everything? What are you playing at?"

  Ben considered his answer carefully. While he was ready to teach Lyle a stern lesson, Cully was by far the more powerful of the siblings, and could be a useful ally. To win over Cully, he must be kind to her brother, at least superficially. Maybe apologies were back on the agenda, at least tactical ones.

  He affected an agitated rake of his hair and slid his attention back to Lyle. Lyle thinned his lips into a petulant line. "It honestly slipped my mind," said Ben. "I'm sorry. I really am."

  "I'm sick and tired of your apologies," said Lyle.

  Indeed, so was Ben. They were an insult to his pride. Swallowing back bile, along with a bucket-load of dignity, he advanced to Lyle and dragged him into an embrace. He tentati
vely rested his head on Lyle's bony shoulder. "So desperately sorry," he said as he extracted himself then turned to Cully, trying to appear earnest. "Cully, do you want to tell me what you've found out?"

  "Okay?" said Cully, glancing at Lyle.

  Lyle heaved a lopsided shrug, more than a tad surly. "Fine."

  They gathered around the trestle table, Ben on one side, and Lyle and Cully on the other. Cully laid a scrap of notepaper on the table in front of Ben. "An old merman from a dying tribe once gifted Bella a book of riddles. One of them concerns the island. She's never got around to cracking it, so I've brought it here so we can have a go."

  Ben's excitement sparked. This was it. Lyle harrumphed rudely as Ben picked up the notepaper and started to read:

  "Once each seventy-seven years,

  The island appears,

  Yet no ship can breach her shore.

  But each and every spring,

  When nature's bells ring,

  The blue tomb shall open its door."

  "Any ideas?" asked Cully. "I've not had much time to get my head around it, and frankly, I suck at riddles."

  Ben stroked his chin. "The bit about the tomb with the door is easiest to solve. The entrances to fairy passages and portals are often located in ancient burial mounds—tombs—so that could be what we're looking for. However, I don't see how a green grassy barrow can be blue."

  "Isn't it blatantly obvious?" said Lyle. "Though I suppose you didn't spend over a century stuck in a forest watching the seasons roll by. Nature's bells are bluebells, so what we're looking for is a burial mound covered in bluebells. Bluebells only flower during a relatively narrow window—"

  "—which is right now, in spring," said Ben, not wishing Lyle to seize the glory. "Most ancient barrows are found on hill tops and out in the open, though bluebells thrive under the shelter of trees. Burial mounds are marked on maps these days, so all I have to do is locate the ones hidden in wooded areas, and our search can begin."

  Ben pulled up some local charts on his tablet. After a short while scanning—ignoring Lyle, who muttered rudely and picked at his nails—Ben pumped his fist in triumph. Of all the burial mounds in the county, only three were located in woodlands. All of these turned out to be within a mile of the lodge house.

  "My research has paid off," said Ben. "We're in exactly the right spot. If all goes well, we'll get your family to safety within days."

  "If the bluebell's last that long," said Lyle. "They're already pretty blowsy and this rain might finish them off within a day."

  "We must act fast then," said Ben.

  Cully winced. "Maybe, but there's more you need to know. Bella told me one other thing about Kern-Heliog—that it’s very hard to ever return from. The only escape is to open a portal from the island itself. To do that, one must spill a dragon's blood."

  Good job I have a couple of dragons hanging around then.

  As a plan burgeoned, Ben maintained an air of placid composure. Until then, he'd not wished to actually go to the island himself. Nevertheless, it wasn't a bad option. A fairy sanctuary would be the perfect place to fine-tune his skills, though he wouldn't wish to remain there forever. What was the point in being a great mage if the whole world couldn't see and admire him?

  "Bella's not sure she wants to travel through," Cully said. "The kids love the idea, and the elders are less fussed about the one-way ticket. They're putting it to a vote, and I expect they will go for it."

  "Seeing as time is of the essence, they'd better," said Ben. "Cully, make sure they're set to move tomorrow. I'll search for the portal at first light."

  "So there's nothing for me to do," mumbled Lyle.

  "You can come with me, if you like." Cully shot Lyle a look so brimming with sisterly concern that Ben barely contained a derisive laugh. Lyle didn't even notice her. He nailed Ben with a rancorous glare, all furiously pursed lips and flaring nostrils.

  "No thanks, Cully," said Lyle tightly. "I'll be fine here. You go help them get ready."

  It took a little more persuasion for Cully to leave, but Lyle insisted he and Ben needed to talk, just the pair of them. Ben, too, was glad when she left. He mightn't be able to dominate her yet as he'd like, but he could handle Lyle, easy.

  "We're good, though, aren't we?" asked Ben, the moment Cully had departed out of earshot.

  Lyle was still attempting to stare Ben down across the table. "No, we're not. I want my husband back. You know, the sweet, calm, caring guy I fell in love with. Tell me, where has my Benjamin gone?"

  Ben regarded him with feigned surprise. "I haven't the faintest clue what you're talking about, mate."

  "Yes, you have." Lyle stood up so abruptly his chair clattered over.

  "Steady on," said Ben. "I want to get my deposit back on this place."

  "Don't change the subject. It's the sword. You know it is." Something dark and dangerous stirred in the depths of Lyle's eyes. Ben jumped up, grabbing his weapon from where he'd left it at the head of the table. "Listen up, and listen well," said Lyle. "Clewell wasn't a kind prince, and the magic in that sword is dark and foul."

  "Absolute rot."

  "It's the truth," insisted Lyle, as Ben hovered uncertainly, the table still between them. "The magic has changed you, Ben. It's hijacked your mind, and will continue to do so unless you do something about it. Take control."

  "You can talk," snarled Ben. "You never had any control over your power or that dragon of yours. When I encountered it in your head, it was a savage—you tried to kill me."

  "I tried to keep you there because I love you. In dragon form, my possessiveness, among other traits, is greater." Like when they'd argued on the night of Ben's interview, Lyle sounded the calmer and more rational one, which set Ben's anger skyrocketing. "I'm not denying magic has an influence on me too, for better and worse, but that… that thing… that sword. It's taking you over. Whether you find this portal or not, you have to give it up."

  "Never," cried Ben. He felt like a boiler about to burst, spraying the scalding liquid of his fury all over the chamber. And then, just as suddenly, his rage subsided. "If I give it up," he spat through sniggers, "what will you do for your magic? Go begging to your sister?" Ben exaggerated his mirth nastily, clutching his side with his free hand. "Oh yes, she'll keep you on life support till she tires of you, then when you draw your own magic, it'll make you ill. You'll always be a pathetic, sickly dependent. That's all you'll ever be."

  Lyle turned very still, his face an imperturbable mask, his stare unyielding as sapphires. Ben wanted to mock him further. He shrank back instead. Even clad in a woolly scarf, Lyle looked so cool, so collected, so… bloody scary.

  "You once told me that I underestimate myself," said Lyle. "I think, Benjamin Miles, you now underestimate me."

  "Shut up! Shut up!" Angered above all by his sudden fright, Ben strode around the table, sword in hand. Clewell had been a great ruler in the strong fashion a weakling like Lyle couldn't comprehend, and his sword must never be destroyed. It was high time he showed Lyle what real power was.

  Ben charged, raised the sword, two-handed, and swung it at Lyle. Orange fire spouted from the tip. He aimed the sword's blade flat for a crushing blow across Lyle's left arm so the flame would sear through Lyle's jacket to the flesh of his back. Instead, Lyle blocked Ben's strike with a batten of solid neon light, magicked from nothingness and wielded with the strength of a goliath.

  Sparks flew, and the impact sent Ben flying backward through the air. He landed heavily on his arse. His head cracked back against the suit of armour, which collapsed around him with an eardrum-busting clatter.

  Bright colours blossomed across his vision. When his wits regrouped, his skull ached and his stomach churned. Lyle loomed over him, shoulders squared, hair flowing like an auburn mane, the red scarf vibrant as a bloodstained flag won in battle. He looked so devastatingly beautiful and terrible that Ben almost forgot how lowly he was.

  "Whoever you are," said Lyle, "you're not my husband anymore.
"

  "Of course I am, you fool." Ben reached behind his head, hissing when he brought back fingers spattered with blood. Lyle paced from the room. His slam of the front door shook the rafters.

  Nevertheless, after a short while recovering, Ben discovered he didn't care. He rested the throbbing weight of his forehead in his hands and realized Lyle had got it wrong. Ben hadn't simply been changed by the magic of the sword. The sword had stowed away a passenger more potent than mere influence—a passenger whose character and power had gradually seeped into Ben, and who only now, this very moment, gained ascendancy.

  When I reach Kern-Heliog, I can be restored to my former glory, and then I will return to rule, as I ruled long ago.

  As his age-old memories and knowledge cascaded back, Prince Clewell allowed himself a sly smile. The feeble human body, which he now pushed shakily to its feet, wasn't the kind he'd once been accustomed to nor had anticipated luring with his sword. He'd created the Dragon Rider prophecy in his final days, anticipating it would draw a great merman mage or warrior—preferably a dragon-shifter—into the web of enchantment he'd woven about his weapon. If he'd known he'd have to wait so long, and then get Ben as the host for his parasitic spirit, Clewell would have formulated the spells differently.

  Ben, nevertheless, would have to suffice. Clewell was chiefly surprised at how long it'd taken to subdue Ben's abominably kind ways. What a strange creature Ben was. His first instinct, on gaining all that sumptuous power, had been to give it away to his lover. And how Ben had chafed against Clewell's innate urgings to treat Lyle as the wretched underling he was.

  Tonight, though, Clewell had finally seized control. His character was fully reformed, and the first thing he required was a more martial image. On spying the helmet from the collapsed suit of armour, which had rolled off across the floor toward the hearth, an idea struck. He plucked up his sword, and then conjured a gleaming metal suit, plus a decent belt for his scabbard, which he slung about his waist. He sheathed his weapon and strode from the room and out into the dark night.