Lava Red Feather Blue

by Molly Ringle

  Merrick got back to his feet, cheeks burning. “Fine. Good. Let’s fight this out, like they said. Debate’s getting us nowhere.” He glanced at Arlanuk, whose dark eyes glittered.

  Larkin smirked. “You don’t want that, Highvalley. You’ve no idea how to fight; I can see it by a single look at you, as can all these fine soldiers.”

  “Try me. Go ahead, knock me down again.”

  Larkin narrowed his eyes slightly at Merrick.

  Merrick felt the magic smack against him, but it dissipated like wind. He had used his own protective magic this time to shield against it. He lifted a hand and sent into it a spell that tingled and stung all the way down his arm as it extended his fingernails into sharp grayish-white keratin spikes six inches long.

  “Oh-ho.” Larkin chuckled. “Verily, what shall I do against your mighty fingernails?” He strolled to a wall of weapons and plucked down an obsidian blade, much longer than the ones they had brought, and longer too than any of Merrick’s current nails. It had the curve and jagged points of a beetle’s mandible, but scaled up to monster size. Lightly touching his thumb to the blade to test its edge, Larkin sauntered back to Merrick. The blade’s tip was painted with something brown and shiny: surely a deadly poison.

  Larkin lifted the blade. “I did mention I’m trained in fighting with knives. This is extremely foolish of you. Feel free to concede instead.”

  “Then what?” Merrick kept his nail-spikes raised. “We go ahead with the quest as planned?”

  “No, if I understand correctly, then as the victor I decide what happens next.” Larkin turned the knife in the air. Its sharp edge glittered. “I would be sure to pick something you hated, just to irk you.”

  With a growl, Merrick swiped his nails at the knife. It sent a jarring strike up his arm, but the obsidian knife did not break.

  Larkin’s smirk evaporated. “Very well. En garde, Highvalley.” He struck at Merrick’s nails, faster than Merrick expected.

  The hit sent another jolt up his arm. Merrick stepped back, waggling his fingers to flash all five spikes, then swiped his thumbnail at Larkin’s left arm, the one not holding the blade.

  Larkin parried easily, a mere flick, and advanced, pushing Merrick back with slash after slash. Merrick barely kept the blade from touching him each time, knocking it aside with his spikes. His back foot bumped against a hunter’s, and he leaped sideways to get back into the arena.

  “Pitiful.” Larkin’s lip curled. “You’re already winded. It’s clear you have no fighting skills, only magic, and you can’t expect to maintain that for long, not darting about the way you are. I’ll simply outlast you, then I’ll win.” He thrust at Merrick’s belly.

  Merrick jumped backward, then growled and flung himself at Larkin, slashing. He scored only a light scratch on Larkin’s wrist before Larkin swiveled and jabbed the blade at him again.

  Merrick barely hit it aside in time. “Yeah, that’s right, make fun of magic,” he said, circling in a half-crouch. “Didn’t seem to bother you when I saved your ass with it. Twice.”

  “I suppose if you’re sufficiently apologetic, then once this contest is over and I’ve scratched you with this almost certainly lethal poison, I shall return the favor and use mine to heal you. Still, I expect the poison will hurt a good deal. Does it not?” Larkin tossed the question toward the hunters, managing to swing the blade at Merrick’s face at the same time.

  “Oh, it hurts,” one called out. “And kills in about ten heartbeats, so you’ll have to work your magic fast.” Several others chuckled.

  Merrick’s hand was shaking in the effort to maintain the magic. He couldn’t keep it up much longer, not on top of today’s exhausting trek and the exertion of the fight. It was true: Larkin was going to win.

  It made Merrick mindless with anger. The success of the quest, the threat of Ula Kana, the fate of the island—Merrick hardly cared anymore. The only things that mattered were the humiliation of losing, and the insults and sneers Larkin was throwing at him.

  Merrick would not let him win with the knife, at least. He’d get it away from Larkin if it was his last move. No way was Merrick going to suffer excruciating poison and then the added humiliation of Larkin healing him.

  “What do you say, Highvalley?” Larkin wasn’t even winded. He rotated his wrist, made a fake thrust that Merrick jumped at, then laughed and clacked the blade against Merrick’s nail spikes. “Why not concede before it comes down to a painful brush with death?”

  “Fuck you.” Merrick threw the last of his strength into a speed spell and rushed Larkin, grabbing the knife from him by the hilt before Larkin could react.

  In triumph, he turned the blade to jab it at Larkin.

  Who had instinctively reached to grab it back.

  The poisoned tip pierced Larkin’s hand. Merrick froze.

  Larkin’s eyes widened. He looked dazed. His knees folded and he crumpled to the ground.

  All of Merrick’s anger broke into tiny shards and fell around his feet, a shell that had kept him from seeing clearly. Now he saw, and too late.

  He dropped the knife and plummeted to his knees, seizing Larkin’s hand, staring at the small wound. Fierce red streaks bloomed from it. They raced up Larkin’s arm and spread like the tiny branches of a scarlet tree over his neck and chest.

  Ten heartbeats.

  “No.” Merrick pressed both palms over Larkin’s heart, protecting the vulnerable skin, as if he could stop it. “No! I can’t heal—no—no—”

  Larkin’s body jackknifed up, his features contorting. His face turned purple. He made choking sounds, and blood trickled from his nose and mouth. His fingers shook, paralyzed in half-fists.

  “Breathe!” Merrick palmed both sides of Larkin’s jaw, slippery blood smearing into the stubble. His fingers found the weak pulse in Larkin’s neck. “Come on. Breathe!”

  Larkin’s eyes rolled up. One final gush of blood ran from the corner of his mouth and across Merrick’s hand. He fell limp.

  Merrick pressed his fingertips harder to Larkin’s neck, waiting. But Larkin’s pulse had stopped.

  Larkin stood apart, calm, a few paces from his body. All that anger, he saw, had been but a superficial web that had emanated from the hunters and wrapped itself around them. He could see it, a violet shimmer of threads. Arlanuk had released it, and it had blown off Merrick completely.

  Cradling Larkin’s body, Merrick looked up with wild eyes at the hunters. He did not see Larkin, although some of the hunters glanced Larkin’s way in quiet respect.

  Larkin knew things he hadn’t before. He knew that in some parts of the fae realm, ghosts such as himself were visible, but that Arlanuk, like many fae, wove the veil thicker so that ghosts couldn’t be seen by mortals. He knew that past the walls of this fortress, human souls roamed with tranquility, choosing to stay and explore rather than move beyond. He also knew they felt more unhappiness in other places, such as in Vowri’s territory. And he knew, from the welcoming path of moss that grew at his feet and led away behind him, that he could go elsewhere, out of this realm. He might see his family; he might not; but there would be a new existence, which tugged strongly at his curiosity. And yet …

  Oh, Merrick. Larkin felt such fondness for him. He could not turn away and follow that path, not when he could see, as clearly as the strands of the web, the distraught grief consuming Merrick, the radiant glow of love within him. Not merely grief and love for Larkin, but for so many people, so many things in the world.

  The argument had been but a mood, inflamed beyond its natural state. Of course Larkin had always wanted the quest to succeed; it was only the spell that had boosted Larkin’s pride too high and obscured his resolve.

  “No,” Merrick said, then rose and dashed to where their packs lay, shoving aside a hunter or two on his way. “This isn’t happening, this cannot happen.”

  Larkin followed him, divining his intention. “Merrick, go on without me. I shall be here, whether or not you see me. I shall sway the fae an
d the elements to help you. I can do that from here.”

  But of course Merrick did not hear him. After flinging the contents of his pack hither and yon, he found the slender little vial and rushed back to Larkin’s body.

  “Merrick. Merrick, it should be for you. I belong on this side. I should have come here two centuries ago.”

  Merrick tugged off the vial’s cap, revealing a needle. He steadied Larkin’s neck with his fingertips and plunged the swift-heal into Larkin’s dead veins.

  A hurricane swept in. Roaring and swirling, it caught up Larkin and threw him down.

  Pain slammed back into his body. Breath—he needed breath, and his lungs would not react. In struggling to pry them open, he found his mouth clogged with bile and blood, and choked.

  Merrick’s hands turned him onto his side as he gagged and spat it out.

  Merrick’s voice, scared and relieved, assured him as Larkin dragged in a first shaking breath. “There. Yes, breathe. Keep breathing.” His sticky fingers slid down the side of Larkin’s neck. “Your heart’s beating. Thank the Lady. Are you all right? Can you … can you talk, can you hear me?”

  All Larkin’s muscles ached as the blood began to move through his veins again. But with each heartbeat the potion continued to do its miraculous work, and the pain began to ebb, bit by bit.

  “Larkin? Hey.” Merrick stroked his temple and turned Larkin onto his back. “Can you see? Can you open your eyes? Larkin?”

  Larkin opened his eyes. They had been drying out, and they stung. Tears filled and cleansed them. He blinked them away. Merrick was down on his elbows and knees, his face a mess of sweat and dust. His eyes held Larkin’s, large with fear.

  Larkin licked his lips carefully. “I concede victory to you,” he whispered.

  Merrick looked bewildered. Then he began laughing in a fragile sort of way, and fell upon Larkin’s chest and lay there, hugging Larkin and trembling.

  CHAPTER 37

  THE HUNTERS TREATED THEM WITH NEW deference after their battle. They paid Larkin and Merrick compliments upon their “cruelty” and “determination,” and declared that the pair had earned a peaceful night’s rest.

  Larkin sat with his legs stretched out on a bunk carved from within the wall of the redwood tree, his back against a cushion of bark fibers. An adjacent bunk was ready for Merrick, who was still washing in the rainwater well outside their quarters. The hunters had shown them to it: a place where the tree-fortress had a space in the ceiling open to the sky, and a knee-deep pond lay in the ground, with ferns growing round it. Glowing sprites flitted above the water, mingling with gnats and fireflies.

  Larkin had washed, shaved, and changed into clean clothing. The ceiling of their room had a few root-lights, not bright enough to read by, but enough to see by, and in addition, small knotholes opened to the sky in places, allowing glimpses of the stars. Combing his fingers through his damp hair, he wondered if, when it rained, guests simply got wet. Likely the hunters rarely had human guests and did not think of such things.

  Human souls did walk here, though. Larkin knew it now. It did not unnerve him, having been among them himself, but it made him melancholy.

  Merrick entered, shivering and barefoot, wiping his clean-shaven face with the shirt he had been wearing. “That water is freezing.”

  “Quite.” Larkin had put on his warmest attire from the pack: wool socks, long trousers, and a thick knitted green shirt Merrick had inexplicably called a “jumper.”

  Merrick donned a clean shirt and came to Larkin. Frowning, he laid the backs of his fingers on Larkin’s forehead. “Do you feel okay? You need your sleeping bag. You’ll be too cold.”

  “It’s Eidolonia, not the polar Arctic.”

  “We’re at higher altitude. It gets chilly. I’m worried about you.”

  “You needn’t be. The swift-heal is an amazing concoction. I feel perfectly well.”

  Merrick pulled out Larkin’s bedroll nonetheless and spread it over his legs. “I’ll take the first shift. You rest.”

  “Honestly, I’m able to take the first watch. You should sleep.”

  “I’m too stressed. You sleep first. Just know that I’ll be checking your pulse every five minutes.”

  “Well, that sounds restful.” With a brief smile, Larkin smoothed the sleeping bag over his feet, but did not lie down.

  Merrick dropped to sit on his own bunk, head bowed and elbows on his knees. Silence settled in the chamber, broken only by the sound of water dripping at intervals into the adjoining pond.

  “Things were said,” Merrick began.

  “I meant none of them,” Larkin answered. “Truly. Please disregard it all and accept my apologies.”

  “I know. I didn’t mean what I said either, and I apologize. And I … I need you to know, no matter how mad I was, I didn’t want to kill you. Not even for a second.”

  “Of course not. Nor did I aim to kill you.”

  “I should have conceded and let you decide our plan. I do concede. I keep choosing wrong.”

  “You’re right more often than I wish to admit.” Larkin pulled up his knees and laced his fingers around them. “Your criticisms were true enough. I do despise my magic, often.”

  “Why? You can heal people. It’s the best kind.”

  “It’s the worst kind. I can influence people, hurt them. And if I’m swayed by emotion, I’ve done exactly that.”

  “What, knocking me over? I literally invited you to.”

  “No, not that.” Larkin stared into the gloom, through the reddish root-light. “When I was fifteen, and had begun seeing my first sweetheart, our stable master Gonçalo caught us together in the stables. He’d always been an irascible man, but he began teasing me worse than ever after that, making vulgar remarks when no one else could hear, insinuating he would tell my mother and father what he saw if I ever threw him a rude word. Mind you, they wouldn’t have done much except tell me to behave with more decorum, but I did not want to discuss it at all with my parents.”

  “Of course.”

  “I hated Gonçalo. I was seething. Then one day … he was grooming Wyvern, our fiercest warhorse, one who was taken on missions to fend off dangerous fae. Gonçalo was untangling a knot in his tail with a brush, with the utmost caution—one irritated Wyvern at one’s peril. I was passing the stall, and I … ” Larkin closed his eyes a moment. “I sent a spell at him, making his arm jerk. The brush pulled Wyvern’s tail.”

  He heard Merrick take in a breath.

  Larkin opened his eyes again. “Wyvern kicked him in the chest. Broke seven ribs. Our healers helped him, of course, but the mending bones kept incurring infection, and Gonçalo was abed for over two weeks. The shame consumed me. I could not rid myself of it, though Gonçalo never knew it was my fault, to my knowledge.” The memory twisted Larkin’s stomach. “I only wished to scare him. But using a spell on a man unaware, with his back turned—it was unjust. Can you see why I find magic too dangerous a tool for people to wield? How emotions lead us wickedly astray, with such powers at our hands?”

  “Says the guy who thinks it’s fine to wield swords, knives, pistols, and whatever else you trained with.” Merrick smiled a little, then dropped his glance. “But I get what you’re saying. Endo-magic has its dangers too. There was … this time in school. I was nine. I’d always been little compared to other kids my age, and people were mostly fine about it, but there’s always that one jerk who has to tease other kids.

  “One day on the playground he was going after me, trying to pick one of my feathers, making bird noises. Other kids were laughing. And I just lost it. I gave myself a burst of super-speed, charged him, and knocked him into a brick wall, face first.”

  Larkin winced.

  “It broke his nose and knocked out two of his teeth,” Merrick said. “Of course he got healed within the hour. But I was in massive trouble. I became the dangerous dark horse of the school.”

  “He should have been in trouble as well, for taunting you.”

&nb
sp; “He was. But he never sent me to the hospital. My reaction was, as they said, disproportionate.”

  “Had you been carrying a pistol, I suppose the outcome could have been equally violent,” Larkin admitted.

  “True. But still. The way I felt tonight, when I stabbed you, it brought all of that back. Like I was the worst person in the world.”

  “Nonsense. I was the imbecile who chose to fight with a poisoned knife, and who tried to seize it back when I ought to have known better.”

  “Well, now you’ve died painfully on a quest to save the country, so I think you get to forgive yourself.”

  “As do you.”

  Merrick lapsed silent a while. “What was it like? Do you remember anything? That minute or so when … ”

  Larkin gathered his hair and slowly twisted it, forming a rope down his shoulder. The stars twinkled through the knotholes. “I wasn’t the only one. There were others, wandering, calm. There was a path I could follow, away to somewhere else, somewhere lovely. But I wanted to stay with you. In any case, I felt…at peace. Death is nothing to fear. That knowledge alone helps a good deal.”

  Merrick didn’t answer for a time. “Good to know. Since we’ll likely end up there soon.”

  “Of our fate in the future, I had no glimpse. But I’m comforted to know that the worst that could happen isn’t so very awful.”

  Except that it was not the worst that could happen. Far worse, from Larkin’s point of view, would be to lose Merrick and have to continue on in this realm, or anywhere in the modern world, without him. While he pondered whether to speak such a thing aloud, Merrick surprised him by saying softly:

  “I like you so much. And there’s no reason someone as brave and important as you would ever care about someone like me. It’s been so frustrating spending all this time with you and knowing I’ll never measure up, never be the type of person you deserve.” He kept his head bowed.

  Larkin gazed at him in astonishment. “But I do like you. I desire you. Surely that’s been evident. Besides that, I simply need you. I’ve felt like a fumbling fool in your century, knowing so little, having no one who cares for me. Surely I’m the undesirable one.”