by Jane M. R.
“Nay. But I suppose I must.” He closes his green eyes and inhales deeply. “I shall nary ever be ready, but I must begin. I am thus a wizard. Howevermore, I wert nary the only one. I shouldst joy in saying I am nary the only one, but I nary canst. Twenty of us there wert in England. That number wast maintained by procreation – two wizards for each family. One wast the parent, the other their own younghede. So thereupon wert ten families who bespoke the magic. These families wert chosen by the Fae for their honesty and humbleness because the magic couldst be used too easy for selfish or monstrous deeds.” He pauses, rocking on his now booted feet. “I guess upon I shalt say that the Fae rather enabled us to use magic by giving us the amulets. All of humanity already hath magic bosomed inside us. Ye hath magic in ye.”
I shake my head and decide not to make eye contact with him anymore.
“Nay, truly… hath ye ever upon soared to the skies in thin yonder dreams?”
“Yes.”
“Is this thing nary magic?”
“It’s just a dream. Dreams are just the imagination of our sleeping minds.”
“But whereupon dost dreams cometh from?”
I shrug.
He taps a finger on his bushy head. “Everyone hath the pineal gland. It grows about center of ye head, sometimes christened the third-eye because it hath its own cornea. This gland spins dreams and dreams yield magic. Our amulets lay open the way for us to reach these dreams consciously and harvest them directly into a tangible form of magic. Art ye still following?”
No. Well, that is I understand every word, but I can’t say the same for my conviction. I nod.
“Every one thing in life hath something that eats upon it. There art creatures that eat magic, so they eat the third-eye out of the heads of people. These creatures art named Faewraith. Faewraith hath been living since the Fae wert born. The Faewraith live in the Realm of the Fae so for this reason ye hath nary seen one. In the days of yore when the first human wast born, to stop the Faewraith from feasting upon the humans, the Fae roamed the earth to keepeth the Faewraith away until humans waxed strong enough to accept that task upon thineselves. So families wert chosen to be wizards and hither we art… or at least meself. Yea… just meself…” He takes a deep breath and looks out the dark window. “I canst nary withstand the darkness anymore. And as such that I finally hath company, I dost nary desire… canst nary desire to be’en alone.”
“You still have not said why you were in the vault.”
“Tis still a longer story. Mighten ye asketh that question on the morrow?”
“I can’t chance to be late getting home. It took me a full day and a morning to get here. I’d like to leave tomorrow to make sure I make it back in time.”
He pauses, as if translating in his head what I just said. “Why so long? Tis only a few miles.”
“The road in the canyon leading me to the tunnel I came through is filled with trees and mud. It took me a day and a half to crawl over it all.”
“Dost ye live in Valemorren?”
“Yes.”
“How long tis the journey to thine cosh from the north base of the mountain?”
“My what?”
He casts his eyes about for help. “Thin place of which ye rest thin head.”
“Oh. My house.”
“House.”
“It’s about three miles from the north base of the mountain.”
“I art able to get ye to the north base on the other side of the mountain in minutes of five. Then ye must only journ the three miles.”
I wouldn’t have believed him, except the tunnel I took to get here still boggles my understanding of things, and I’ve already figured out he is only stalling answering my questions because, just like he said, he doesn’t want to be alone. And I feel badly for him.
“As long as you promise, five minutes.” It’s stupid to agree, because he’s not a wizard and there is no way to get me to the north side of the mountain when I entered this valley from the canyon on the west side. But I haven’t had this much freedom since Durian died and I want to keep it as long as possible. I’ll make up a story for my parents to explain why I’m a day late. Getting kidnapped by gypsies just might come back into play.
His smile beneath his beard is unmistakable. “We canst sleep hither so as much as we feedeth the fire. Tis a comfort to meself and I dost nary want to wake in the dark and bethink this tis all a monstrous dream and bethinks I tis still in the vault. I hath had too many of those. I also dost nary trust I art nary still in the vault.”
I see the pain in his eyes. I’m still not convinced he’s real, myself. “Of course.”
“I shall gather us blankets.”
His arms are full of grimy fabric when he comes back, but I need a bath before I sleep. And a toilet.
“Zadicayn, where can I find your water closet?”
“What asketh thou?” He drops the blankets on the floor and looks at me.
“The… toilet.”
He’s blinking slowly at me and I can see that he is trying very hard to understand. “Forgive me. I faileth to understand ye question.”
“It’s alright. I’m going to the river. I’ll be back.”
He nods and begins laying out the blankets.
Torches cling to the walls everywhere I walk. They must have been the primary source of light at night when people lived here. Black pitch stains the walls above each one. Still retaining Durain’s rucksack, I strike a match to a torch and head in the direction I think I remember being the way to the river stairs. It takes me turning back three times until I finally make it.
The outside air brushes cool against me and I hesitate about bathing in it. But taking one sniff at the miasma emitting off my body, it is decided for me. I have to get in the river anyway to take care of necessary bodily functions. Like I did at the gypsy camp. I shiver at the reminder.
I jam the torch between the rocks lining the river. I look behind me at the stairs snaking back to the side door into the castle. I just hope Zadicayn doesn’t come down. I place Durain’s knife on the rock beside me and peel off my clothes. I step in, gasping at the shock of ice zapping through my body, debating about waiting until it is warmer out. But I have to bath. I want to wash my clothes too but I have nothing to change into. And I can’t chance Zadicayn spying on me with the sun out.
I dive in all at once, the cold clinching the air out of my lungs. I surface, rubbing my hands over myself to scrub at dirt likely frozen to me now. I dunk my head and thrash my hair around. The whole process lasts five seconds.
I’m shivering violently when I scramble back onto shore, throwing on my clothes but carrying my boots in my hand. I huddle closer to the torch than is probably safe and race up the stairs and back into the kitchen. I think my face is blue from the cold because one look from Zadicayn and he does the judicial service of draping a blanket over my shoulders. I warm instantly.
He has already folded the blankets on the floor for two beds. I realize I’m going to be the hostess to a Ball for dust mites during the night. It’s not hard to tell when the last time those blankets were washed.
Zadicayn sits on the floor beside his bed and takes off his boots. He gazes into the fire. “I thank ye again, Brine Frondaren. I durst say I still mighten yet have a life. I shalt doeth me best to seek a gift worthy of thee of which to display my fulsome gratitude.”
“No need,” I reassure, not wanting to take advantage of his mentally fevered mind that has fabricated all of this. “Kindness is a gift that rewards both ways.”
“Well… I shalt still make the quest, howevermore any one thing I acquire shalt still fail in being a good equal of me gratitude, beit even the king’s own treasury. And… I thank ye for thine unselfish agreement to staying with meself tonight. Tis something only addled younghedes would desire –”
“Three hundred years is too long to be alone in the dark.” I can’t tell if I’m actually getting better at understanding him or if I’m just guessing and he goes
along with it. “But it is not childish at all to want light and company.” It’s easy to smile at him now that I’ve ascertained his mental illness.
He pauses, then nods grimly. “Tis impossible for meself to overjoy my freedom upon the moment. I fear it shan’t be real when I wake upon the morrow. I art scared to believe –”
“You’ll wake up and I’ll be right here,” I say. “This is real.” I indicate my body. Bad move because his eyes go right to where my hands are. “I promise.”
His smile is a pressed thin line. “I thank ye… with all the roses in the House of York, I thank ye. And I… I shall lay me eyes upon ye in the morning?”
I nod.
He nods too, though with apparent hesitation. I lay down. So does he, falling promptly asleep. I lay awake, wondering if I’m going to be the one to wake and find it has all been a dream for me.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
ZADICAYN
Light flickers against my closed eyes. I don’t know why. I don’t have light down here.
I open my eyes. A wall of fire fills my vault. I’m going to burn alive.
“Juvament!” I scream, despite I’ve screamed that word a million times in the hollow of my tomb and someone has yet to answer.
I run for the ladder and trip over my beard. Hand over hand I scale the ladder until I smack my head on the bars shooting across my only exit. I grab them and shake. “Juvament!”
The fire beneath me swells like a pregnant belly; nine months rushed into an instant. It turns into snakes and they spiral up the ladder, snapping at my heels.
I’m crying so hard it’s a wonder I can’t put the fire out with my tears. “I just want to live!”
“Zadicayn!”
I jerk awake so hard I almost break my leg against the stone lip of the hearth. It takes me a second to realize I’m still kicking at the fire snakes in my dream before I stop and focus on remembering how to breathe.
Brine is rubbing her hand up and down my arm and this alone causes me to finally relax. Touch. I’m breathing again, though my throat is pinched and I don’t know why my eyes are wet.
“It’s okay,” she’s saying. “It’s okay. It was just a dream.”
I’m not sure if my current reality and looking like a fool in front of her is any better than my dream. I durst not look at her. She’s going to see my eyes are gold again and I don’t want to freak her out to the point that she leaves. I’m surprised she hasn’t already.
Without thought, I wipe my wet nose on my sleeve. Good move, you whifling. That looks attractive.
“I shame meself.” Now my own speech is irritating me. I sound like an idiot. “I be sorry,” I try instead like I’ve heard her say. It doesn’t sound any better.
“No no no, you’re okay. You’ve been through something that no one else can relate to.”
Despite her sympathetic softness, I still catch that she doesn’t believe anything I’ve said today. That she is only entertaining me. She likely thinks I’m fevered in the head by some incurable illness. I can’t blame her.
“I dreameth me vault was set afire. I supposeth the fire in the hearth be nary help, after all.”
She pats my arm in a lame attempt at understanding and retreats back toward the hearth.
“Nay –” I reach out as she retreats. When she looks at me, I realize my mistake. “Forgive me.” I pull my arm back.
“What?”
I shake my head. I’m glad for my hair this once that hides my warming cheeks. I disgust myself so much that I want to throw up, even though my throat still burns from my episodes earlier.
“Really, you can tell me,” she prods. “You’re not going to scare me off. Unless, of course…” She smiles. “You suddenly sprout a third arm or chase me around the castle with a knife. Then I might be scared. Just a little.”
Her voice is like balm in my ears where for too long I only ever heard my own stupid voice. But if she could see inside my heart and spy upon the horrific need to have her touch me then she would be scared off.
I tell her. Because there is finally someone to hear me and answer back. I still swallow hard. “It tis a comfort… to… hath thin hand…” I stop because she’s tilting her head at me. I swallow hard and look away. I’ll just go sleep in the vault tonight. “Tis just…” My heart is pounding. “Tis just that… I nary hath any touch…” Just plow through it. She already sees me as an invalid. Her opinion of me can’t get any lower. “I hath nary a touch with any one thing but cold stone… for so long… and I nary realize how bad upon I wanteth it…” I can’t look at her. My gaze shifts toward the door out of the kitchen that is not closed off by bars to keep me inside my torment.
“Zadicayn.”
Her voice is soft and beckons me to look at her. She is motioning with her hand for me to join her by the fire. I’m moving before I realize it. I sit beside her and I melt when she slides her arm across my shoulders. Touch. Like my clothes. My clothes chaff but at least it’s a touch that is not stone.
“I promise ye,” I say, “tis nary whom I be. Tis nary whom I be.” I say it twice so she can really understand.
“It’s okay. I understand.”
She can’t possibly. But her arm is still across my shoulders anyway. I’m glad twas a girl who rescued me. I would for certain drown in my starvation for the physical contact of another human being because I would not, under any circumstances, ask a male to comfort me with touch. I take back my thought from earlier. If a male had rescued me, I would have crawled back in my vault and waited for a girl.
I relax into her, molding my body into the curve of her own. And I start to cry.
I break the contact and stand. “Why cants I nary just be damned normal once again?”
I wish she would look at me like an idiot instead of acting like I’m not. I don’t know what else to do. I flee the kitchen.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
BRINELLA
I’m searching for something comforting to say upon his hasty retreat, and fail. How does one comfort the madness of the mind? I don’t know how I feel about his request to touch him, addled with a mental illness that convinces him he is a wizard, but sympathy warms my gut anyway. Just like it did for Jesaro. I actually hate the monkey more.
I was surprised the first time he acted erratically. Now I just prod the fire with the poker.
The horizon begins its cold blue glow outside. I’m tired but my body protests louder that it doesn’t want to sleep on the floor so soon again.
I collect apples at the river. The sun has broken the horizon by the time Zadicayn comes back into the kitchen where I’m rotating the partially wizened fruit warming in the oven. He doesn’t even attempt to smile.
“I halted many such things during me incarceration.” He sits on the chair beside the table. “I maketh it impossible to lose me mind to madness, because I still didst hold some foolish hope that I wouldst be freed. When I fled the vault, all of the spells I hath in place broke, so that barrier I hath made to keepeth meself from going mad left as certainly. I doeth all that without the wit how it might affect meself from whence – if – I ever left the vault. My emotions art so bungled this instant. I hath nary an idea how to keepeth their heads down. I art afraid I still mighten go mad now upon me escape.” He takes a deep breath. He obviously spent the last hour rehearsing. “Thine company tis beyond the price of treasures, despite I appeareth a fopdoodle upon thy first glance of me, and the unfortunate truth that me appearances rivals that of a monkey dost nary help.”
I snort back a laugh. I look up apologetically but it looks like he meant the comment to lighten the mood, to shed some light on the fact he is human. His smile is thin. “So… I thank ye… again. For tolerating meself.”
I wish I knew what to say to make him understand it doesn’t bother me. Despite my unfortunate result with Jesaro, there still are those people out there who don’t have the luxury for basic human needs and comforts. Like Joseara. I consider convincing Zadicayn to follow me to the hosp
ital when I leave. But I end up not suggesting it because hospitals aren’t much useful except to prepare you for your grave.
“Of course,” I manage, despite my misgivings. “Would you like a baked apple?”
“Methinks I shall be famished for the next three hundred years. Yea, thank ye. Overmany wagon loads of thank ye’s.”
I stab an apple with Durain’s knife and pull it out of the oven. He accepts the hot fruit with hands covered in his long blue sleeves. “Ye art much too good for someone ye dost nary wit.”
“Wit?”
“To… understand?”
“Well, where I’m from, people don’t reach out to help anyone they consider below their status, and when they do, they think they should be worshiped. I hate it.”
But he’s nodding. “Peasants wert the bottom of the hierarchy. No soul wouldst reach out to helpeth them. I understand. Dost ye have peasants still?”
“No. I suppose we call them gypsies now.”
“Gypsies!” His eyes light up on me. “I wit gypsies. I art pleased there tis something I recognize still.”
“How old are you?”
He takes a bit out of his apple. “Tis years of three hundred too old for ye?”
I pretend I don’t see his wink, because I don’t know if it’s in jest or not. “No, no. Before you…” Before you thought you were in a vault for three hundred years. “Before you went into the vault.”
He looks at the floor. “I fail to remember.”
“Guess.”
“I nary canst. I forgeteth my birth year.”
I try to see the answer in his green eyes. There doesn’t appear to be any wrinkles from what I can see under all that hair. “Seventeen or eighteen?”
“Perhaps.” He bits into his apple.
“So one day,” I prompt, casually chewing my own breakfast, “you woke up inside a vault and…”