And so it was, that when the footsteps creaked above her, Aeolia covered her ears and tried to ignore the noise. She wanted silence for her death.
But the footsteps continued pacing, and try as she may, Aeolia could not ignore that something was wrong about them. Something alien and familiar at once. She frowned, uncovered her ears and listened. The footsteps were too light, too graceful for an ogre’s stomping. And there were many of them, three or four pairs of feet.
She could also hear a chinking, almost like her shackles. Has the ogre bought another slave already? she wondered. No, she heard no chains dragging, and this chinking was finer, soft as summer rain. The sound tickled a childhood memory, and an image flashed through Aeolia’s mind, an image of a Stonish soldier, sword at waist, clad in chinking mail.
“What are you saying, you overgrown, flea-bitten freak?” a male voice demanded above, his words muffled by the ceiling. “I can’t understand your gibberish.”
Aeolia’s heartbeat quickened. The man spoke Northtalk, the language of her childhood, with the liquid vowels the ogres never could master with their guttural voices. She feebly sat upright and strained her ears, listening. Through the ceiling then came the ogress’s voice, speaking Ogregrunt, and Aeolia could just barely hear her whispers.
“The girl you seek, she is here, beneath the sofa.”
A grating sound scratched along the ceiling—the sofa being pushed aside.
“Spirit’s Beard,” swore the man speaking Northtalk. “A trapdoor.”
Aeolia could scarcely believe her ears. She rose to her wobbly feet, leaning against the wall and trembling. Her breath came fast and shaky and her aching stomach churned. Was that Joren speaking? Had the ogress led him to her? A slam came from above, and Aeolia knew it was the lock being broken, and she tasted salty tears on her lips. She stood still, gazing at the ceiling. Dust and beautiful light showered into the basement as the trapdoor swung open.
“Joren!” Aeolia gushed into the blinding light. “Joren, I knew you’d come for me!”
As her eyes slowly adjusted, her smile faded. Three Stonesons were gazing down from above, but her brother was not among them. Two of the men were soldiers, with cold faces under iron helms. The third man wore no armor, only a draping robe that was gray like his eyes. A long scar rifted his cadaverous face, tweaking his smile.
Aeolia took a step back, her stomach turning cold. The scarred man let down his hand for her to grasp. It was the first human hand Aeolia had seen in years, and yet it seemed cold and alien, and she could not take it. It did not belong to Joren. Joren had not come.
“Where is my brother?” she asked, her long-unspoken language tasting strange on her lips.
“In Stonemark,” the man replied.
His words were a slap in the face. It was a struggle to keep her voice steady. “Who are you?”
“My name is Lale. I’m your brother’s best friend. Here, Aeolia, take my hand.”
Aeolia had forgotten the sound of her own name; she hadn’t heard it spoken in a decade. The flowing vowels sounded sweet as wine to her ears, and she bit her lip to fight back her tears. Why wasn’t it Joren speaking her name now, calling her Aeoly as he always had?
“Why didn’t my brother come?”
The man’s smile widened, causing his scar to crawl like a caterpillar. “Why, he is preparing your new house. You will live together now, in the richest neighborhood in Grayrock. Joren says he hopes you kept your promise, because now he sent me to keep his.”
Aeolia gasped, joy blossoming in her again. It’s true! she thought. This man knew of the promises; he truly was Joren’s friend! With a wide smile and happiness bubbling inside her, Aeolia reached up and took Lale’s hand.
When his hand tightened painfully, and his smile curved into a snarl, she did not understand. When he yanked her up her arm hurt, but she did not cry out, only gaped in confusion. He dropped her to the living room floor, at the boots of the soldiers, on the bearskin rug which was always the toughest to dust. When he drew his sword above her, ready to strike her dead, still she could not comprehend, only stared. Her mind blurred. It was like floating in a dream—as surely this was—and she watched, eyes wide with confusion, as the nightmare unfolded around her.
The ogress, so frail but twice a man’s size, grabbed one soldier’s head and cracked it against the hearth. As the second soldier drew his sword, the ogress lifted the poker and thrust it deep into his eye. Like a puppet show, Aeolia thought, everybody twitching like dolls on strings. The blood didn’t even look real. She wanted to laugh. There, another splash of red paint as Lale buried his sword into the ogress’s thigh. Such a realistic puppet! The wooden, yellow face, looking down at the pooling red paint, almost seemed lugubrious. Then—what wonder!—the ogress puppet looked up into Aeolia’s eyes and whispered sad words.
“I’m sorry, girl, I’m sorry. I know how it feels.”
Lale’s blade flashed. Red liquid splashed like wine from a cracked jug. The ogress’s head wilted onto her shoulder.
Aeolia stared, eyes wide and jaw unhinged. Some strange, whining whisper left her throat, like a baby’s mewl. Hot, sticky droplets trickled down her face, onto her lips and into her mouth. Blood. Aeolia grimaced. She began to pant. She looked up at Lale, who stood over the body of her dead mistress, and her heart seemed to shatter inside her. Her mewl turned into a hoarse, wordless cry, and she lunged forward. Lale turned his head at her cry, amused surprise on his face, and Aeolia slammed into his chest.
The amusement left Lale’s face as his heels hit the basement’s opening. He stood tilted, arms windmilling. Aeolia had to shove him again before he toppled into the darkness. His hand caught the rim, and Aeolia slammed the trapdoor shut, crushing his fingers. The floor was slippery with blood, and the sofa moved easily when she pushed it. She placed it over the trapdoor.
Her ears rang in the sudden silence. Aeolia shivered and hugged herself. She gazed around her, knees quaking. The shutters were open, and it was early morning outside. So long since she had seen daylight! The sunrays slanted into the room, illuminating it with a soft glow. The room was dusty, Aeolia noticed. She should clean it. The ogre’s nose was sensitive to dust, and the cane always flew with the sneeze, and—what’s that?—there was no firewood in the fireplace, she’d have to chop more, and look at all those dirty dishes on the table—
Aeolia barked a laugh. She would have given the world for those old troubles again. Suddenly she felt faint. She held her head in her hands and took deep, shaky breaths. She could not comprehend what was happening. It was too surreal to accept.
A thud came from the basement, and the sofa budged an inch. The Stoneson was breaking free, Aeolia realized. She had to hide somewhere, maybe in the barn, or in the honeysuckle behind the sheep pen. She dragged her shackles two steps toward the front door, but it swung open before she could reach it. She stopped in her tracks. The ogre stood in the doorway before her.
The old shepherd stood still, gazing into the living room. His face was flushed from cold, and his hat sparkled with raindrops. The scent of sheep and grass mingled with the coppery smell of blood. The ogre passed his eyes over the room, and when his stare rested on his daughter, his face grew ashen. His fist tightened around his cane. Slowly he looked up at Aeolia, his brow pushed low over his beady eyes.
“You killed her,” he said and began to limp toward her.
Hurriedly, Aeolia knelt by a dead soldier and grabbed the hilt of his sword. The ogre reached her before she could draw it. He slammed his cane onto her wrist, knocking the sword from her hand. The cane came down again, this time on her shoulder, knocking her to the floor.
Aeolia knew what to do. Eyes burning, she prostrated herself and covered her head with her arms.
Three blows were enough. She did not think she could have endured more. Three blows and she was crying, her tears spilling onto the floor. Three blows she welcomed, embracing their pain, soaking them willingly. Three blows, and she was unbroken but bruis
ed, and hurting, hurting. And with pain saturating her, nearly wiping her away, Aeolia opened her eyes, stared at the ogre, and linked to him.
The cane dropped from his hand. Was it his hand or hers? For a moment she was not sure. What is happening to me? came a frightened thought. I must have sprung my old back, how come it hurts so? Confusion welled inside her, confusion at a whirling world viewed from two sets of eyes, the dizzying awareness of two bodies and beings merged.
Who am I? both minds thought. Am I ogre or girl?
Aeolia yelped as the ogre’s bad leg gave way and he crashed to the floor. She shakily stood up, tears streaming down her cheeks. At the same time she felt the ogre groping for his cane, trying to rise to his old, aching feet.
What am I doing in your body?
I’m sorry, I didn’t want to break my promise, I had to....
You killed my daughter!
No, I didn’t know, I only wanted Joren....
Aeolia stumbled toward the dead soldier and drew his sword. She dragged it back toward the ogre. He was gritting his teeth against her pain and struggling to stand up. Mustering her scarce strength, Aeolia lifted the sword above him.
No, don’t kill me!
Help, I’m killing myself, no!
Aeolia severed the link. Her one half vanished, and she was only herself again. She leaned weakly onto the sword’s pommel, and her weight drove the blade into her master like a hot needle into wax. Blood bespattered her, and she blundered backwards. Her back hit the wall and she cried in pain. Her wet hands caught the windowsill for support.
Autumn was beautiful behind her. A breeze blew through the shutters and caressed her hair, kissed her skin and whispered in her ears like a lover. Golden leaves swirled into the room, and Aeolia heard the warbling of cardinals and robins, and smelled the scents of heliotropes and roses and sweet, sweet lilies. They were her favorite flowers. She grimaced, leaned over and gagged, her empty stomach heaving. Her head spun.
Another thud came from the basement, almost knocking off the sofa. Aeolia squelched forward and pushed the sofa back. But the scarred man inside, though pale and sickly, was tall and strong. Aeolia knew the prison would not contain him long.
She knelt by the dead ogre and rummaged through his pocket. She pulled out his round of keys. With shaky fingers, she found the right one and placed it in her irons. For a moment she paused, thinking of Joren’s warning, of her secret gift, and mostly of her stone king whom no sword could harm.
She turned the key, and her fetters fell off like two broken promises.
Chapter Four
The Forest
The Forest had no sky. Like pillars, its boles supported a ceiling of crisscrossing branches, bronze leaves, and entrapped wisps of cloud. The forest floor was a reflection of its canopy. Fallen leaves carpeted it, and from their depths rose gnarled roots like branches. Moss covered everything. The moldy air was silent as sin.
Tracking a faint trail, Taya of Yaiyai was careful to keep this silence. So warily she paced, her moccasins did not crunch the dry leaves. These hoary oaks had been growing undisturbed for generations. It was known they disliked strangers. Like lecherous old men, they huddled around her, stretching knobby fingers over her head, brushing beards of moss against her face. Taya bared her teeth at the endless green shadows between the trunks. Her knuckles were white as she clutched her spear.
The trail was leading her far from her clan, farther than she’d ever gone. The woods here were no less dim, damp, or dense than at home, but it was whispered that where no humans dwelled, fairies frolicked free. They could be anywhere, Taya knew—peeking from behind any leaf, hiding under any toadstool, crawling along any branch.... Taya was not afraid, though. She was never afraid. At eighteen, she had already killed dozens of beasts. Why should she fear some old trees and invisible spirits? She forced herself to laugh.
Wings fluttered past her eyes, and Taya started, her heart leaping into her throat. She spun around to see a bat disappear into a hollow cedar. Bats often nested in imps’ hair, her mother once said, and Taya narrowed her eyes, raised her spear and scanned her surroundings. Moss swayed like ghosts from the oaks’ branches, while elf cups clung to the birches. Mushrooms sprouted from the leafmold or coated fallen logs. Above her, wind rustled dry leaves the color of her hair, and stirred moss the color of her eyes. Down where she stood, the air hung thick with the smell of humus.
Nothing, Taya thought. Nothing. No fairies, no spirits. She forced herself to smile, a savage smile, her breath fast and her jaw clenched. The spirits dared not harm her, she told herself. Who could blame them? Around her neck clinked a string of boars’ tusks, wolfbone beads hemmed her bearskin mantle, and her two thick braids were strewn with eagle feathers. No sprite would dare enchant a warrior thus attired, she told herself.
Teeth bared halfway between snarl and grin, Taya outstretched her arms, flaunting a weapon in each hand. One was her knife, with its bone blade and antler hilt. The other was her flint spear, its knotty staff decorated with strings of scrimshawed snail shells.
“I cannot see you!” she announced, staring around defiantly. “I’m no shaman like my mother. But I am Taya of Yaiyai, the Forest Firechild! I killed wolves when I was eight, and bears when I was ten, and I’m not afraid of you. I’m never afraid!”
She stood with arms outstretched, breathing heavily, daring any spirit to challenge her. The trees were silent. Good. Let them fear me, she thought. I won’t fear them. I’m never afraid. With a satisfied nod, Taya lowered her arms and placed her knife back in her belt. She snapped her teeth at the knurled boles and, feeling reassured, resumed following the trail.
It was a faint trail—too faint, Taya thought proudly, for most trackers to follow. The warrior pack had walked like ghosts, leaving no footprints, only the occasional bent fern or mud smudge, soon overlain with fallen leaves. But Taya was better than most trackers. Her cousin Talin—the Halfman of Chameleon Skin—had taught her the skill, and even without her magic, Taya walked at a quick, steady pace. It made her proud. She wished Talin were there to see.
Her mother, of course, thought woodcraft unbefitting an apprenticing shaman. Taya’s lip curled bitterly at the thought. The old shaman had insisted Taya study only the invisible world. But Taya hated studying, hated being cooped up in some dusty treehouse while the village boys played outside amid the branches. What need I chants or charms, Taya would demand, I who am the Firechild? I am more powerful than any shaman. Her mother would only shake her head and mutter words about discipline, tradition, and other hogwash that boiled Taya’s blood.
She was the Firechild. She was powerful. She would not spend years studying just to talk to some stupid spirits. Being shaman was fine for some, but Taya was destined for greater glory. They said Sinther of Stonemark wanted to conquer the Island, and only as a warrior could Taya protect the Forest. And as for her mother, well... as far as Taya was concerned, the old woman could catch greenskin and rot.
Taya forced her mind back to the warriors’ trail. It had turned down a steep slope, between clumps of elm and dogwood with ivy hanging from their branches. It was a difficult route, strewn with roots and rocks, but full of animal prints and droppings, which meant it would not dead-end. Before long, it reached a rocky stream of silent green water. Taya walked alongside, her moccasins pushing into the moss that carpeted the bank. Soon, she thought. Soon I’ll be a warrior and never have to study again.
As time went by, the trail became fainter. Unlike the leafmold, the moss was springy and did not hold footprints. Taya chewed her lip and searched for mud smears. After a while of meticulous tracking, however, it began to drizzle. The raindrops fell plump from the canopy, effacing what clues were still visible. Taya cursed softly. Doggedly, she continued moving, refusing to concede defeat. But after three dozen steps and not a clue, she was forced to stop. This trail, she suspected, would have stumped even Talin.
She sighed. She’d have to use her magic.
Fingers trembling sli
ghtly, Taya clutched her spear to her chest. She drew a long breath and shut her eyes. The first prickle of magic made her wince. Her fists clenched around her spear. Sweat dripped down her temples. The magic slowly filled her, magic such as no other Forestfellow had, magic that was hers alone. It flowed through her veins, stirred the soft hairs on her nape, made her teeth ache. Her own magic. Firefly magic. And when it saturated her, and she could soak up no more, she used it.
As if punched in the belly, she bent forward, and her hands hit the ground. She tossed back her head and howled. The surrounding bushes soared high as trees as she shrank. Stones bulged into boulders. The magic went wild, flurrying the leaves, crackling the air. Taya felt fangs push through her gums, a tail shoot out of her back, fur sprout over her body, and claws spring from her fingertips. Her clothes and weapons—parts of her no less than her limbs—melted into her skin. It all burned like a bath of embers.
And then, it ended. The magic slowly settled in the pit of her stomach. Trembling, Taya opened her eyes. The world had become a blur of blacks, whites, and grays.
But if her eyesight was weakened, her other senses had become keen as a claw. She could hear geese honking miles away, mice rustling in bushes, her own thumping heart. Every odor was distinct to her nose: every plant, every animal, the faint spoors of things that had walked by hours past. She could even smell the tangy, human scent of herself as she had been a moment ago. Taya padded over to the stream and glanced down at her blurry reflection. She was the perfect vixen.
Firefly Island, an Epic Fantasy Page 5