Scion of the Fox

by S. M. Beiko

  Eli’s words about value wove through my fire. What value did I have if I severed the chain binding us and made off with the targe, leaving him here to die alone? I’d be the villain then. And I’d be no better than him. Or Zabor.

  Her heart is sure, the voices murmured. There is no falsehood in it. She means to save the young Paramount and fulfill her destiny.

  My fire grew tight and peeled apart, the wind howling higher with an intensity that not only threw me out of the plane in the stone, but back into the Bloodlands awaiting our death.

  My head throbbed and the world spun, even though I was still on top of Eli and trapped. Had I gotten through to his ancestors? I touched Eli’s face, but it was cold and still.

  The crashing suddenly stopped, and I sat up. Time to meet my unmaker.

  Eli’s eyes opened — glassy and gold and inhuman. His features started giving way to hundreds of feathers and a black beak.

  Good.

  I looked up at the dangling targe, only to see Urka’s massive hand of knives closing around it before it stuffed the green glass into its mouth and swallowed it whole. With Eli slowly coming back into action, I’d have to take us the rest of the way as soon as possible.

  I turned my spirit eye inward. I followed it down to the source of my fire. I needed it to climb high, needed it to become me. What I found down there was not anger anymore, even though it had made me strongest. It was the one thing that Urka fed on, and the one thing I could never let die in the bowels of the underworld.

  It was hope. And the beautiful fire of it consumed me.

  Tendrils of flame peeled off me and incinerated the trees that trapped us. Now unencumbered, and looming large and black, Eli’s wings lifted and carried us free. We had grown in size, pulsing with the will to survive, and we were now face to face with our oppressor.

  “You will give us the targe,” I spat, crackling the flames that were my lips. “Or I will burn what is left of your precious garden.”

  The Gardener weighed us with its many eyes. “Your mother said the same. And the Bloodlands have not changed.”

  “But they will,” I promised. “All worlds change. Some do not last long enough to see it happen.” I felt my fire grow with each new hope tree it took in — not consuming, but setting them free, sparks of the imprisoned souls of this dark forest shooting like skylarks towards their heavens.

  Sensing this, Urka backed away a step, hesitating.

  “You cannot have it. You cannot win.”

  I thrust my blazing arm into the open furnace of Urka’s belly, and its terrified bellows with each wrench and twist of my hand only made me stronger. From the blackened sludge of its innards, I pulled the targe free and laid it in Eli’s outstretched talon.

  Urka howled, hands now the unforgiving axes once more, and with a swing it brought one down on top of me. I caught the axe and managed to throw the demon off, but as Urka fell, the blade came down on our precious lifeline, and severed it.

  There was a rush of wings, and Eli shot outwards so fast that my great flames went back inside of me as we chased after the receding line. In between howls of pain came Urka’s delighted laughter, but we abandoned the demon and its burning estate, chasing our only means of survival.

  The line reeled faster and faster away from us like a broken rubber band. “Look!” I screamed, pointing ahead. Eli’s powerful wings were peeling back the smoke the higher we climbed, and the way out was above us in a massive thunderhead.

  The line was within reach, and Eli grasped it first. The shock of stopping it rippled through his powerful talons, forcing him to let go of me and hold on with both hands, leaving me hanging by the thin chain that bound our arms together.

  We hung like that for a breath, the chain sliding apart.

  His eyes met mine. But they were the eyes of the terrible Owl, not those of my temporary friend.

  The arm-chain slid free of Eli’s hand, and I fell.

  *

  Barton grunts, arms and shoulders faltering. His face has changed — he is losing control.

  “What is it?” Phae rushes as close to his side as possible, but there is nothing she can do; she cannot breach the rings while the ritual is in effect. She can only watch Barton suffer through the ordeal, and perhaps die from it.

  “The chain’s been cut!” Arnas shouts, frantic for a backup plan. The Owls in the gallery seem as distraught as he does. “That means . . .”

  The lightning skittering through the floating broken tile shivers in a circle. The strobing golden rings are coming apart. The gate is closing.

  “No!” Solomon screams, looking prepared to throw himself into the swirling chasm before Natti stops him.

  “Wait!” she yells, as a different shape of black splits from the darkness. The gateway crackles with electric rage, and the great shadow smashes through it just as the hole closes. With that, the worlds are separate again.

  The shadow has shot up through the Pool and to the second level of the antechamber. Phae pushes through the broken plinths of stone just in time to catch Barton and clutch him close. He is breathing, but barely, spirit arms smoking.

  “Did I do the thing?” he mumbles, eyes shut tight against the pain and exhaustion.

  Phae looks upward, fearing what has come out to meet them. “We’ll see.”

  Natti and Solomon rush up the stairs flanked by the bronze bison.

  “Eli!” Solomon cries out, relieved, but Natti brings him up short and holds him back. His relief shatters, and he is grateful that she has stopped him.

  The creature is bigger than Eli could ever become. Its feathers are not just black, but blackened, burnt, his face hidden. The wings hang enormous, enclosing the figure like a cloak. Its talons cling to the balustrade over the Pool, compacting the stone like sand.

  Natti’s heart sinks, but she stands firm, holding Solomon up, even though the hope in her eyes is gone. There’s only anger. “Where’s Roan?” she screams. “What did you do to her?”

  A light, faint enough to be missed, flickers between the black. The creature’s head pulls up on a long, ponderous neck, revealing exhausted, blunted eyes buried in the feathers framing the face. The wings drop, and the feathers blow away with a great sigh, revealing the man and extinguishing the fire he has been clutching to his chest.

  Roan’s fire.

  The two of them come apart and collapse onto the marble tile with a thud.

  “No . . .” Solomon utters as Natti breaks away from him.

  “Phae!” she yells. “Get up here now!”

  The thundering of Phae’s footsteps rushes in Natti’s ear as she throws herself beside Roan; Solomon kneels on the other side to tend his son.

  Roan and Eli look wrecked and beaten, but Roan suddenly opens her mismatched eyes, finding Natti’s. She smiles. “Did we do the thing?”

  Natti doesn’t stop herself from gruffly hugging Roan tight, in spite of her friend’s injuries. “You tell me, you stinkin’ idiot.”

  Then Phae is there, her hands pulling Roan away from the edge of pain.

  But Roan is frantic. “The targe!” She bolts up but sinks back as the dizziness takes over.

  “Eli?” Solomon clutches Eli’s hand. It’s badly burned, and his broken son doesn’t rouse. A white light glimmers at his chest, but subtly enough to look like a trick. Though he doesn’t open his eyes, Eli speaks. “Here,” he says, hand unfolding.

  No one moves. Eli drags himself to a sitting position, struggling to find his feet. Solomon steadies him, but Eli pushes him aside. “Leave me be, old man. You’ll hurt yourself . . .” By some superhuman trick, he’s on his feet, clutching his side but standing. There’s menace in his eyes.

  Roan is still not fully composed, and Natti shields her with her body as she turns to Eli. “Nothin’ changes, eh?” She juts her chin at him.

  Eli scowls, raisin
g the glinting green crystal flagstone. It contains three gold rings.

  “A targe of Ancient,” one of the council Owls murmurs, but no one moves to take it from Eli.

  “Yes,” Eli says, hypnotized by the green. Then he looks down at Roan. Natti and Phae block her, but the Fox-girl puts a hand up, stands, signals them aside.

  His eyes narrow. “You should have let me die.”

  No smartass remarks this time. Roan simply rips off what’s left of her sleeve, revealing a spiral scar, the imprint of a twisted chain.

  “You could’ve done the same.” She lets the arm drop to her side. “But you didn’t.”

  The light at Eli’s chest flickers. His breath hitches and he grabs his head. Solomon moves to him again. “Eli —”

  “Enough . . .” he fumes from behind rigid hands. Voices, so many voices, fill the chamber. A wind picks up. And when his father touches him —

  “I SAID ENOUGH,” Eli howls, and he throws the targe down like it’s on fire. It skitters to Roan’s feet.

  Silence, again, but Roan doesn’t pick it up. Instead, she steps forward.

  “You could help us,” she offers, hand out. “We need an Owl. It could be —”

  Now Eli is laughing. “What? Redemption?” His eyes are still clear.

  “I heard them, too. I know it’s not you.”

  Eli is weighing her, measuring her, as he did when he first saw her image in the phone Arnas handed over. This young Paramount has done too much damage to bear, and he will have to answer for it, no matter the reason or motivations. What was him, and what was the stone?

  “You’re right.” He glances down. “It’s not me.” And his wings are a thunderclap, snapping open, and in a torrent he is gone.

  The silence is heavy. Roan picks up the targe, thumbing the incised markings.

  “That sounded really dramatic,” Barton squawks from the Pool.

  Roans sighs, looking up to Solomon. “Now what?”

  He turns to her. “I’ll help you. I’ll be the last link you need. To finish this.”

  She nods.

  “The cunning of the Fox at work.” The voice carries through the building of statues and secrets, followed by a set of soft footfalls. The crowd parts. Sil.

  “Oh, look who shows up,” Roan grunts. Sil turns away from her, casting her golden eyes at all assembled. Whatever relief there may have been in finding the targe is underscored by a frightened heaviness.

  “The ice is broken.” Sil’s words rocket through the chamber. “Zabor is awake.”

  Red River Rising

  “The water levels are rising at an alarming rate, unprecedented for the Red River Valley in the history of our flood recordings. While precipitation and heavy snowfall from this past season are major contributors, coupled with frozen ground layers unable to take on the extra water, there is very little evidence for why the Red River has risen so quickly and so early in the season. Heavy rains are expected to continue over the week, making the building of sandbag dikes and the opening of Duff’s Ditch a futile effort to save the city of Winnipeg. The river is expected to crest above the levels of the 1997 calamity. The damage is already mounting, and will end up being catastrophic — not just for the city, but any other municipalities throughout the valley.

  “Therefore, we are declaring a state of emergency. The red line has been reached and the city is in jeopardy. Residents of the core and surrounding communities are urged to evacuate. Relief efforts are mobilizing, and we are doing everything humanly possible to maintain calm in the eye of this storm.

  “Nature seems to have her own agenda, and we must work around it.”

  The premier’s words echo in everyone’s minds for weeks after, as people’s lives are consumed by water, and higher ground never seems high enough.

  The rain comes down in sheets. The waterfront that has only ever been a picturesque caution of destruction is eating away the land on all sides. Should’ve known something was up when the animals started booking it, people concede too late. Should’ve moved to our time-share when we had a chance, others groan.

  But the uneasiness in the hearts of humans and Denizens alike lay in the dream they all seem to be having. Some details are different, some exaggerated or under-admitted, depending on who you speak to.

  But the dream is the same.

  There’s a massive woman, angry and hungry and beautiful. Tadpoles are sloughing off her like old scales, and they have teeth and claws and are made of tar. All this monster wants is to devour. Thousands flee her, but she is everywhere.

  In the waking world, the rain comes down harder. The river gets higher.

  *

  I stood in the middle of Cecelia’s living room, the broken furniture and fixtures cleared away now, the door repaired and cordoned off. Arnas and Deedee were over at my parents’ old place in Wolseley, on the other side of the river, helping the tenants save what they could. On Wellington Crescent, the water was over the street and nearly knocking on doors, Cecelia’s door an exception. The rain was still going strong, and the storm drains bubbled and gasped into roads and parks.

  I took a long look down the hall to the basement door. “What happens if the water gets into the summoning chamber?” Water and fire rarely mixed, and after seeing what happened to Sil after being “snuffed out,” I was anxious.

  Sil, at my ankles, said nothing for a bit. Then she sighed. “The hearth is empty. If it floods, it floods. Another chamber can be built.” She padded towards the basement door, completely avoiding my question, and that made me feel worse than I already did.

  I followed her to the chamber, past the debris of the destroyed basement, and down into the place where I’d agreed to this stupid enterprise in the first place.

  Cecelia’s body was laid out in the centre of the golden rings. They pulsed gently, as if singing a lullaby in melodies of light. Her breathing was shallow, no IVs connected. Just the cradle of the chamber to protect her now, with her head resting in Aunty’s lap. Sil had said this was the safest place for her “shell” — safer than the hospital, anyway. It still made me nervous, seeing her there, so vulnerable.

  “I’ll keep the water at bay as long as I can.” Aunty winked, though her brown, weathered face looked much older than when I’d last seen her in Natti’s living room. The flood was eroding us all. “You just take care of Natti, you hear?”

  I rubbed my foot against the shining granite floor. “More like she’ll be taking care of me.”

  And I needed all the help I could get. The others were downtown now. A Grand Council had been called, meaning every head or representative of the Families in this district were gathering. And I had to speak my piece to them all.

  “Roan.” Sil sat at the feet of her human body. She’d said little to me over the last week as the flood waters rose and panic rocked the lives of both humans and Denizens. There was nothing to say, and so much unsaid. We were trapped in separate cages of pride and grief, but time ticked, and we were nearly run out of it.

  Then she looked at me, eyes shining and ears flattened.

  “This battle is yours. And mine. And your mother’s. You are the scion of this family. I would not trust our fate to anyone else. I would bite the head off Death herself to save you again. But I can only do so much, and so can your friends.”

  I stiffened and tried to swallow around the huge lump in my throat. I glanced at Aunty, but her eyes were closed, and she was humming low, lost in her own world.

  I tried to smile, to laugh it off. “Ah, don’t worry about me, Gram. I’ve come close to snuffing out too many times to be concerned.” But I was. Phae was a gifted healer, but it was taking its toll. She’d helped Seneca recently, and Barton and me too many times to count. Solomon Rathgar told me that she may have the power to heal, but not to bring anyone back from the dead. And if she did it too many times . . .

  “You’
ve come far. Your power is great. And you are all worthy of the targe,” Sil continued. “But each one of you can still die. We all can. And we all may, when this is done. But when it is . . .” Sil stared long and hard at her shrunken, empty body. Then she looked away for the last time. “I want us to be the family we ought to have been. There is still so much you must know, that I have to tell you. I need to do it before my body gives out. I will hold on as long as I can, and I will fight alongside you. I won’t let you down again.”

  I felt my knuckles go white without looking at them. I badly wanted to shrug off this promise of hers, to protect myself from the disappointment that loomed familiar.

  But my heart opened willingly as Sil did her classic vertical leap into my arms, fur warm in my open hands. My spirit felt heavy with possibility, and I smiled back the tears.

  “Okay,” I nodded. A family.

  The Grand Council was held in the hidden chamber above the legislative building. Before all of this happened, I’d read The Hermetic Code, an official coffee table book on the elaborate mythology of the building, and I had pretended secret cultish meetings were taking place in the dome. Now I felt vindicated; too bad I couldn’t tell anyone about it . . .

  At the head of the gathering, on a raised dais in an extremely over-the-top Owl throne sat Solomon, flanked by the other Owl council members I’d met when the Bloodgate swung shut. Solomon was silent, but his features were arranged carefully, like those of his son — who hadn’t been seen since he’d come out of the Bloodlands with me. Everyone told me he could still be a threat, that the Moonstone would try hard to regain control of his incredible powers, but I didn’t feel worried. I looked down at the chain scar on my arm often. His spirit was stronger than any of them knew, strong enough to hold that rock at bay.

  And though it seemed like eons ago, the demon Urka’s answer still echoed in my mind:

  Is it going to it destroy you, too?