He took a deep breath, climbed onto the windowsill, reached outside and caught the tiled roof.
Something grabbed his foot before it could leave the sill. Roen glanced over his shoulder to see Hyan clutching him. Heart in mouth, Roen kicked and freed himself, spraying mud onto the duke’s bald head. He hefted himself onto the roof, where the storm raged and flapped his cloak. Brownbury’s roofscape sprawled around him like a field of thorns, black on black. Lightning flashed, and the roofs sparkled with raindrops.
The duke’s squealing came from inside. “Catch him, you incompetent fools! Catch him and bring him hither.”
Roen blundered down the slippery roof, arms windmilling. Clumsily he leapt onto the next roof, scraping his knees. He clutched the chimney, straightened, and glanced over his shoulder. Soldiers were climbing onto the roof behind him, shrugging off their mail. A lump suddenly filled Roen’s throat. It was all too terrible. Eyes burning, he stumbled onto another rooftop, then another. Soon he was running, leaping headlong from roof to roof, crashing into chimneys, sending tiles cascading into the darkness. Even as the sky grumbled, he heard the soldiers following.
They seemed to be everywhere. They leapt at him from surrounding rooftops, from the streets, from inside the houses. Three scrambled onto the roof before him. Two more leapt from the roof behind. Roen stumbled onto a third roof, but there too he found pursuit. Dozens of hands reached out to grab him. Swords flashed like lightning. The sparkling roofs whirled. Everywhere he looked were white faces, red eyes, yellow grins. Roen ran blindly, leaping, stumbling, awash with sweat.
Soon he skidded to a stop. He had reached the wide streets of the merchants’ quarter. The next roof onward lay far away, before it a dark chasm. Roen hesitated. It looked too wide to jump. The height made his head spin. Panting, he glanced behind him. The soldiers were rushing forward, eyes flashing in the lightning. Roen looked into the chasm again. You can make it, came a thought like a whisper. All you need to do is fly. He took three paces backwards. His knees knocked.
“He’s trapped! Catch him!” cried the soldiers behind.
Roen’s fingers curled into fists. He took a deep breath. With the soldiers jeering behind him, Roen ran forward, leapt off the roof and soared, legs kicking. Time slowed to a crawl. He seemed to be forever in the air. Wind blew the curls back from his feverish forehead. Raindrops fell like snow. Everything moved so slowly. Roen outstretched his wings and flapped them, laughing. I’m a bird, he thought, a bird flying to freedom, flying to its father, flying... to the ground.
The world began to tick at normal speed again. Roen had enough time to realize he missed the roof, before he slammed into the wall beneath it. He reached out as he fell and caught a window’s shutters. The wooden blinds snapped one by one, till Roen was left holding the windowsill, his fingers slowly slipping. His feet dangled. His head spun.
“Where is he?” came a voice from above.
“Fell to his death.”
“You sure? I heard some strange cracking when he fell.”
“His bones breaking! Come, let’s find a way down to his body.”
The soldiers voiced their agreement and walked away.
Roen released the cough that had been swelling in his throat. He scuffed his feet against the wall till he found a crack, and shoved his toes into it. He pushed upwards and grabbed a waterspout. After moments of struggle, his shaking limbs fueled by fear alone, he caught the eave and pulled himself onto the roof.
He collapsed over the tiles, sweat and rain pouring down his forehead. He lay sprawled and supine, too weak to lift his head, too hot to feel the cold. Tendrils of steam rose from his skin where the raindrops hit it, tiny wraiths rising to heaven. Soon I will join them, Roen thought, join them where cold is warmth and pain is numbness. The face of Death formed above him in the tenebrous sky. Eyes cracked open in the clouds, flashing with lightning, weeping icy tears. A mouth yawned open beneath it, dripping spit and laughing with deep, grumbling thunder.
In the clouds, Roen saw the stony face of King Sinther, the lord of malice. Roen knew it laughed for the end of his life, and he reached out toward it, and invited it to come.
Instead, came the fireflies.
The first one rose from an alley to bob lazily across the sky, like a wandering star. A second soon joined it, then a third, and before long the darkness brimmed with a million glowing specks that danced languidly, flickered, frolicked, hid the clouds behind their glow. Roen lay limp, watching as the fireflies swam above him, dipped down to circle his head, alighted on his fingertips and tugged at his clothes as if trying to pull him up. It was like floating in a sea of stars, an endless galaxy of glowing, swirling stars, swiveling around him, blinding him, filling his eyes with light. Even as the storm raged, the fireflies lingered, glowing like they had for every night Roen could remember, be it in summer or in winter, in country or in city, over land or over sea. Glowing, in a storm only evil could brew. Glowing, when no living thing should be outdoors. Glowing, when even the most powerful lord would bar his door and shut his shutters and hide behind thick walls.
Like Hyan was doing right now.
Roen sucked in his breath. Pictures floated across the fogs of his mind. He could see the soldiers scurrying to chase him over a field of thorns, leaving their master safe behind. He could hear the duke’s squeals: Bring him hither. Hyan had stayed in the workshop, awaiting his underlings’ return, not daring to face the storming night alone. Roen reached into his pocket and caressed the crumpled laceleaf. It was dangerous, he knew. Even with the clouding fever he knew as much. But he also knew it was his only chance to save Smerdin. He looked up at the sky, so mocking, hating, awhirl with endless glowing flecks. The storm did not stop me, he thought. Nor will men. I may be only a humble painter, but I will save my father, if I have to kidnap a duke to do so.
He sat up. The fireflies tugged at his shirt, and he rose to his feet. With weak legs, he began moving again, stumbling across the roof. The fireflies swam around him, lighting his way. The dainty, ethereal creatures took hold of his shoulders and lifted him, carrying him over the city. Roen saw all of Brownbury beneath him, tiny roofs and tiny domes, towers like sticks and streets like thread. The beauty of it brought tears to his eyes. Maybe he was dreaming. Maybe he was dead. He was too muzzy to care. The fireflies descended and lowered him onto the roof of his home. Roen stood on the wet tiles, holding the chimney for support. The fireflies swirled around him in a twister, rising and rising till they rose above his head and settled into the clouds like stars.
Roen took a deep breath. He felt dazed, but he also felt stronger, calmer. Firefly light still shining in his eyes, he crawled down the roof to peer into the attic window. The room was empty. Carefully, he lowered himself onto the windowsill, but there he slipped and crashed inside onto the floor.
“Did you hear something?” came a squeaky voice from downstairs, speaking with a foreign accent. Roen’s heart skipped a beat.
“Only the thunder, dear Ketya,” replied Hyan’s unmistakable nasal voice.
Roen let out his breath and slumped into a chair, his face wet with rain and sweat. His head spun and he felt faint. One more hour, he prayed. All I need is one more hour. When he shut his eyes he could still see glowing orbs, floating languidly against his lids. The sight calmed him, gave him strength, parted the mist in his mind. He took a deep breath and made himself think. How will I do this?
Hyan was not alone. A girl was with him—Ketya—an Esiren by her lilt and name. What was one of her race doing in Heland? Ketya might want to warn him, the duke had said. Could there be some scheme afoot, some devilry involving more than gold and paintings? And if so, why would it involve him? Roen could not guess. He had to learn what was happening. He rose from his chair and inched along the floor, thrust his head into the staircase and peeked downstairs.
Hyan was standing by the hearth, firelight glinting off his pink head and samite robe. Before him stood a girl of maybe thirteen years, with a pale bro
wn ponytail, protuberant ears, and an impish face. She was dressed in rags, but held an embroidered purse in her hand. Roen gasped. His purse! His stolen purse from the coffer! Hyan reached out to take it, but the girl pulled it back and gave the duke a scolding glare.
Chin thrust out boldly, she said, “You didn’t tell me you wanted it stolen so you could frame the painters.” Her voice was high and squeaky, almost comically unfit for her brazen tone.
Hyan steepled his plump fingers and smiled over their tips. Spit bubbled on his lips. “We seldom divulge our machinations to, hum, orphan refugees, you see.”
The girl placed her hands on her hips. “You should have told me! You said you’d free my friends if I stole your gold. You said nothing about imprisoning others instead. I don’t like this.”
Hyan’s smile widened. His lips were like two quivering, well-fed leeches. “We thought you might not, dear Ketya. That is why, of course, we cannot let you go free.”
Ketya took a step back. “What do you mean?”
Hyan stepped toward her. “That you’re joining your ‘Esiren friends’ in prison, where you’ll all await Joren of Stonemark together.”
Ketya paled. “Not Butcher Joren....”
Through the curtains of Roen’s fever, the duke was looking like a pig again. With a fat, black trotter he grabbed Ketya’s arm. She yelped and struggled, and the duke backhanded her. Blood speckled the wall.
Before Roen realized what he was doing, he was limping downstairs, leaning against the rail with one hand and holding his chair in the other.
“Leave her alone, Hyan,” he said hoarsely. “It’s me you want.”
The girl and the giant pig holding her turned to face him. Ketya gaped slack-jawed, but Hyan only nodded slowly, all amusement gone from his eyes. He shoved Ketya to the floor and drew his sword. The blade hissed free and whistled toward Roen’s belly.
Mustering his scant strength, Roen lifted his chair and swung it. The blade tangled in the oak legs and flew from the duke’s grasp. Roen and Hyan stared at each other, frozen for a moment. Then, with his last drop of vigor, Roen tossed the chair at the duke and dived for the sword. He came up with his back to the wall and the sword gripped in his shaking hands. He pointed it at Hyan’s chins.
“Free my father,” he said.
At least, he tried to say so. It was, at best, a hoarse whisper that actually left his throat. The sword was suddenly heavy. He could barely hold it up. He tightened his grip, but still the blade wavered, bobbing like a drunkard over a cup. Roen cleared his throat and tried to speak again, but managed only an unintelligible wheeze. Sweat dripped into his eyes and he blinked it away. When he could see again the door was open, and he glimpsed Hyan fleeing down the dark road, pulling Ketya behind him. Roen bolted after them.
The small effort was too much. His knees felt as soft as rotten apples. For a moment he stood catching his breath. The fireflies swirled furiously around him. Wind and rain buffeted him, piercing his shirt. He heard a clang at his feet and realized the sword had fallen. He leaned down to lift it, but could not stand up again. Too hot. It was too hot. The road swam. His eyes lolled. He felt water flow around him, pulling him down a gutter. Somewhere in the distance a girl screamed, but her voice soon drowned under the roaring stream. All thought faded. The last thing Roen Painter felt was the pattering rain, and then nothing.
Chapter Three
Secret Gift
Aeolia slept for a long time.
It was a deep, dreamless sleep, peaceful as a midnight sea. Its black waves covered her, smoothed her worried face and washed her memories clear. She floated in this slumber, smiling, wanting never to wake, only to drown in oblivion. For ten years her hope for rescue had deprived her of rest. Now, with its demise, she slept with the calmness of surrender.
She awoke slowly, reluctantly, peeking fitfully from slumber like pebbles between waves on shore. She tried to stay asleep. She furrowed her brow, tightened her eyelids, tossed an arm over her head. She rolled over, hugged her knees, mumbled sleepy nonsense. She sucked her thumb. She moaned. But no matter what she tried, she could no longer find her slumber. One by one her senses awakened, and the world came into focus.
The stench assailed her first, a mixture of rot and mold, churning her stomach. Soon after came the cold, freezing her bones, making her teeth chatter. Next she heard the sounds: chirping, squeaking, pattering, sniffing. Aeolia shivered, not daring to open her eyes. Sight was a sense too frightening to use. Where was she? She could not remember. Finally her curiosity overcame her fear, and she parted her eyelids to slits, and peeked.
Darkness stared back, darkness thick enough to breathe, thick enough to feel, darkness blacker than the space between stars. Aeolia yelped, shut her eyes tight and covered them with her hands. Icy sweat washed over her. She could have sworn the darkness was sentient, that it scorned her. There had been hate in its stare. Aeolia vowed never to open her eyes again; the darkness within her lids seemed like sunlight compared to what lurked beyond.
As she lay shivering, her memories slowly returned. First they were murky, and she could recall only her hope and its loss. But soon she remembered the spilled wine, the rubbing of feet, the tossed pot of broth. Finally she remembered the green key, the open trapdoor, and the skeletons of former, recalcitrant slaves that surrounded her. And with her past she saw her future, saw her flesh rot and be eaten, and her dry bones dwindle to dust. She would never see Joren again.
She curled up into a ball and waited to die.
It was hard not to weep. She fought it as best as she could, biting her lip to keep her mouth shut, clenching her eyelids lest they leaked. It was all she could do to withhold total misery. She lay still with her knees to her chest, afraid to move and touch the bones. She kept her hands over her face, afraid to move even them. Sleep claimed her several times, but never for long, and it now carried nightmares. Hours passed as she lay curled up, maybe even days. Her lips and tongue parched, and her stomach cramped. It would be a hard death, she knew, and she could not wait for it.
Aeolia thought things could get no worse, and then they did.
At first they just squeaked, but Aeolia knew they squeaked for her. I’m not dead yet! she wanted to cry, but her throat felt too dry. She covered her ears, blocking their noise, and for a while she could imagine them gone. But soon the rats began to sniff, placing their quivering noses on her skin, tickling her with their whiskers. They were too many and too hungry to beat off. They climbed her, covering her with a blanket of coarse fur. She could not help but sniffle when their claws tickled her skin. As she squirmed, trying to shake them off, she crashed into the skeletons, scattering bones. She had never known such anguish.
Then one bit her. She yelped, beat it off, and felt more teeth sink into her thigh.
“I’m not dead yet!” she sobbed. “Wait till I’m dead!”
More teeth bit her arm. Claws ran all over her body. Her mind whirled with terror, and the rats kept biting, eating. Aeolia wanted to tell them, wanted to beg.
“I’m sorry, Joren, I’m sorry, I have to break my promise....”
Panting, she opened her eyes and stared into the darkness. She let her fingers uncurl, welcoming her gift. The old tingling filled her. She cried then, and arched her back, and clawed the air. Tears ran into her mouth. Sorry, she thought. Sorry, sorry.... The rats flurried, scratching, biting, and Aeolia reached out her mind. Buried alive, leagues from home, grown, saddened, dying, Aeolia broke her old promise. For the first time in ten years, she did what Joren had forbidden. She used her secret talent. She linked to the strongest rat.
Their minds merged.
Suddenly she was two beings. She lived inside herself, but also inside the rat. She felt the hunger in its belly, her skin in its paws, smelled her fear in its nose. She knew it experienced her senses too; their minds were one. The rat, confused, bit and clawed with more fervor. When its teeth sank into Aeolia’s flesh, both felt the pain, and the rat shrieked, leapt off, and scurri
ed away.
Overwhelmed with the sensations, Aeolia barely managed to sever the link. When she did, one half of her vanished in a blinding flash. Senses disappeared. Bits of the world shut down. She was only herself again. All the rats had pattered away, as if they knew to fear her magic, and Aeolia lay alone and trembling.
“It’s okay, I’m Aeolia, I’m only Aeolia, I’m not a rat, it was just the link, I’m only me again.”
She took deep breaths, forcing herself to calm down, and for a while she lay still and numb and dazed. When her thoughts finally cleared, shame inundated her. She had broken her most sacred vow, she realized, only days from her death. She would die knowing she had betrayed her brother. It would’ve been better to let them eat me, she thought.
Gingerly, she curled back into a ball and continued waiting.
The wait was worse this time. Before, death might have brought solace. Now, she knew, it would bring only perdition. She was an oath breaker. There would be no clemency for her in the afterlife. She awaited her judgment in a haze, floating between wakefulness and slumber, neither in one nor the other. She suspected she was feverish, but her skin felt cold as snow. She wondered how much time had passed. Though her tongue was parched, thirst had not yet killed her; it couldn’t have been more than a day or two. Yet it felt much longer. She could hardly remember her life aboveground; it seemed distant and unreal as a dream. The darkness had become her only reality, solitude her only companion.
She thought of her homeland, of Stonemark, of her king—who also lived underground. She took comfort imagining she was him, strong as stone, not a prisoner but a ruler of men. In his subterraneous cavern, King Sinther drew magic from the surrounding rock, turning his skin to stone against which swords broke and arrows shattered. Aeolia wished her body, too, were hard as granite, unable to feel pain. She wished her heart were made of flint, unable to cry. She wanted to stop feeling, to sink into nothingness forever. With her chance for life perished, with her hope for salvation dead, Aeolia could only pray to join them quickly.
Firefly Island, an Epic Fantasy Page 4