Firefly Island, an Epic Fantasy

by Daniel Arenson

  Esirens, she realized with a gasp. Her kin. She had never seen other mind readers before, but she recognized them instantly, like a newborn babe recognizes its mother. She had once had such a mother, Aeolia suddenly thought—a mother she had never known, a family she had somehow lost. Esirens. Her true people. What were they doing in Heland? As the guards pulled Aeolia by the cell, she felt a prickling in her head. One of the prisoners was linking to her, a girl two or three years her junior.

  Here, take this, the girl thought to her. As the guards escorted Aeolia past the cell, the girl reached out through the bars and placed something in Aeolia’s bound hands. The guards didn’t notice.

  And be brave, friend, the girl thought as Aeolia was pulled away. The golden fireflies glow. Our Firechild will save us in time.

  Save us in time..., Aeolia echoed hollowly, when the guards rounded a corner and the link snapped.

  The guards dragged her onward. For a long time they walked, plunging deeper into the Dungeon. It seemed hours that they descended, down dingier tunnels where the rats grew larger and the screams grew louder, where writhing vestiges of men dwindled to dust. Aeolia thought of the girl as she walked, and held her gift tight in her fists.

  Finally, when she was surely beneath the mountain, the guards stopped. They unlocked an iron-studded door and shoved Aeolia inside. She fell to the floor, scraping her knees. The door slammed shut behind her, and she was enveloped in darkness.

  It was like the ogre’s basement, the darkness so thick she could feel it—touching her skin, filling her lungs. It reeked of smoke and mold and waste. A muffled scream came from somewhere far above, and Aeolia began panting. Her eyes began to burn. No! she told herself. Don’t cry. Be brave. Like Taya.

  Sniffing back tears, she sought distraction by rubbing the Esiren girl’s gift. A waxy cylinder, a cold, hard cube.... A candle and tinderbox! Aeolia whimpered with joy. Funny, she thought, how just the promise of light could comfort you in the blackness. She stood up, leaned down, and passed her bound wrists under her legs. After ripping off her gag, she sat down. She played with the tinderbox till she managed a spark, and lit her candle. The small flame flickered into existence, and Aeolia lifted it, surveying her prison.

  The sight was not heartening. The cell was narrow like a closet. Cobwebs and soot upholstered the cracked granite walls. The door was heavy and studded with iron. Aeolia saw no escape this time. There was no ogress to save her in this strange city. There wasn’t even a wall to jump off of. This time, Aeolia knew, all was truly lost. Despair inundated her, but she shook her head, stifling it. Don’t cry, she told herself. Be brave. Talin had been imprisoned here before. I must be brave like him.

  Talin. She longingly recalled his kind face, his erudite eyes and gentle lips. It was a mistake. At the tender thought of him, her eyes moistened and her mouth curved bitterly. Aeolia forced her mouth shut, rubbed her eyes determinedly, and banished Talin from her thoughts. She would not submerge in grief and longing. Don’t cry. Be brave. Perhaps the queen had received Wilon’s doves and was arranging Aeolia’s rescue. Yes, yes! A jailer might come any minute now, sent by the queen to free her. Any minute, that jailer might appear....

  A peephole in the door rattled open. A jailer’s red eye peered in.

  “Hey there, girlie,” the man rasped. “At dawn the shifts change, and then us free turnkeys will give you a little welcome party. One by one. All day long.” He smirked. “Just thought I’d let you know. Have a good night.”

  The peephole slammed shut.

  For a long moment Aeolia stared in numb shock, not comprehending, not feeling, just staring blankly. Then she slumped to the floor and surrendered to her tears. She cried violently, the sobs racking her body. The tears claimed her completely, all her unshed tears, from all her tribulations. They soaked her hair, soaked her dress, and still they flowed. She wept for hours, like she had never wept in her life, crying and crying until she could cry no more.

  She lay sprawled on her back, cried dry. Her mind was befogged and thoughtless. In numb, hopeless misery, she gazed up at the ceiling. In the flickering candlelight, she thought she could discern letters carved into the granite. Two letters. Initials.

  Aeolia blinked, raised her candle, and strained her eyes. Though neither of them could read very well, Joren had once taught her the Northern letters. And so, recalling her lessons, Aeolia concluded that these letters carved into the ceiling were a T and a G.

  At first she thought it was just her imagination, but slowly Aeolia came to realize it was true, had to be true. She lay in the same cell where Talin Greenhill had been imprisoned.

  It must be a good omen, she told herself. She felt she must touch the letters, caress them, borrow from them strength. That would help her for the morrow. She put down the candle, rose to her feet, and shoved her fingers into the cracked wall. Clumsy in her bonds, she climbed to the ceiling. She reached out her tied hands and touched the letters.

  The ceiling bent like a blanket.

  Aeolia fell to the floor, but she hardly felt the pain. Chameleon magic.... Shaking, she climbed back up, let go of the wall, and grabbed the ceiling. The camouflaged blanket came into her hands. She fell back down, coughing as soot showered onto her. Gazing up, blinking the soot away, Aeolia saw a large hole.

  A trembling seized her. A crawlway concealed by Forestfolk magic! She lay a moment, crying and laughing, then climbed up and grabbed the hole’s rim. Leaving the candle behind, but dragging the magic blanket with her, Aeolia wriggled inside.

  The thin burrow wound like a wormhole, rising four feet and then curving to the left. Aeolia crawled along, coughing at the smoky smell. She imagined Talin digging the tunnel for long moons, planning his escape. She promised herself she’d give him a thousand kisses next time she saw him. She would see him again, she decided stubbornly.

  The crawlway ended at a vertical, bricked shaft—a chimney, Aeolia surmised. She took a deep breath and squeezed inside. She barely fit. The chimney was so tight, the walls pushed against her, trapping her in midair. Her feet dangled. How would she climb? The chimney was too narrow. Slowly she released her breath.

  She slipped down two feet.

  She inhaled sharply, and immediately found herself stuck again. The chimney was so narrow, she realized, it trapped her while her lungs were full, but let her climb when they were empty. And so Aeolia began to climb, moving breath by breath, marveling how Talin, bigger than she, had ever squeezed through. Soon she was covered with soot, coughing, blinking it away. The chimney seemed to wind up forever, curving in crazy angles. Aeolia plodded upward, praying no one lit a fire below.

  Finally, sooty as charcoal, she saw moonlight and fireflies above. Tears wet her face. She climbed with more vigor and soon reached the top of the chimney.

  The opening was wide as her palm.

  Her spirits crashed. She could not exit. But Aeolia refused to despair. She would find another way. Lips tightened, she climbed back down the chimney, down all the twists and turns. She passed her old cell and continued descending. Finally, after what seemed like miles, she saw light beneath her. She glanced down. A hearth lay below her, with a maid stacking firewood. As Aeolia watched, the maid took a flint from her pouch and prepared to light a fire.

  Heart racing, Aeolia began scrambling up the chimney. But in her rush she slipped, yelped, and crashed down into the fireplace.

  Nearly fainting, Aeolia spun around. The maid was gaping, jaw unhinged. Aeolia rose to her feet, holding her blanket over her bound wrists. She glared at the maid.

  “What are you looking at?” Aeolia demanded, trying to sound as stern as Taya could be.

  “I.... That is, you...,” the skinny maid stuttered.

  Aeolia frowned. “Don’t tell me you were going to light that fire.”

  “Well, I kind of....”

  “Didn’t anybody tell you the chimney was being cleaned today?”

  The maid shook her head, her eyes wide.

  Aeolia scowled. �
��You can get in deep trouble for this.”

  “No, no,” the maid pleaded, waving her palms. “I didn’t know. Nobody told me....”

  “This is very severe,” Aeolia said, quivering beneath her stern facade. “I’ll need to talk to the cellarer. Go fetch him at once.”

  “The cellarer?” The maid seemed confused. “You mean Old Tawm?”

  “Of course I mean Tawm,” Aeolia snapped. “Go get him at once, or there’ll be trouble.”

  The maid spun on her heels and fled the room.

  Aeolia breathed shakily and stepped out into the empty kitchen. She reviewed the shelves quickly. Her eyes landed on a bread knife and she breathed with relief. She took the knife and cut the ropes off her arms. Her wrists were a bloody mess, but she spared them not a second glance. Holding the knife in one hand, the magic blanket in the other, she tiptoed out the door.

  A dark tunnel stretched before her. Aeolia entered it warily, holding her knife before her. She began to walk. The narrow, twisting passageway sloped steeply upward, with not a single intersection. Aeolia was thankful; with any hope, the tunnel led straight to an exit. She rounded a corner, then suddenly reeled back. Behind the corner, the maid and an old man were returning to the kitchen. Heart in mouth, Aeolia lay down in the shadows where wall met floor and tossed the blanket over her.

  The maid and the cellarer walked by.

  Aeolia rose to her feet. They had not seen her. She mumbled a thankful prayer and continued creeping up the steep tunnel, away from the kitchen. Soon she reached familiar grounds—the rat-infested, scream-permeated place she had been dragged down that evening. Had it all occurred only several hours ago? It seemed an eternity.

  After walking for several minutes, Aeolia heard footfalls approaching from ahead. She peeked around a bend in the tunnel to see a group of crimson-clad jailers sauntering her way. Again, Aeolia hid in her magic blanket. Apparently, however, her luck had run out. Rather than pass her by, the jailers paused at the corner where she lay and leaned against the wall. One stood so close, her nose almost touched his heels. They began to talk.

  “Boy, she’s a cute one, isn’t she?” one jailer said. “Large honey eyes....”

  One of his comrades smirked. “Honey eyes? Me, I’m after more than just her eyes....”

  The jailers laughed.

  “I hear Prince Lale is coming to fetch her himself,” one said.

  “Yeah, but you heard the duke—keep your mouths shut, and don’t let the purples find out. Apparently the queen wants the girl just as bad.”

  “Oh, yeah? What she want of her?”

  “Who knows? The girl is probably some runaway Esiren princess, a pawn in the war. Who cares, as long as we can dip into her?”

  “But still, you don’t want to anger the queen.”

  “Bah! The queen’ll be dead soon. And then, all of Heland will be ours!”

  The jailers roared their approval, and Aeolia’s nervousness mounted. They seemed intent on staying a while. How long before they noticed her lying concealed at their heels?

  Then, as she was becoming certain her escape had failed, she heard footfalls dashing up from below.

  “The duke’s girl!” a new voice panted. “She’s gone!”

  The tunnel erupted with curses. Aeolia heard the jailers clanking away, running down whence she had come. She peeked from under her blanket to see them gone.

  She leapt to her feet and began running up the tunnel. She remembered the way; the exit was not far. She heard the jailers shouting and cursing somewhere below, and she quickened her step. The tunnel twisted upward like a streak of lightning. Aeolia ran fast as she could, past the prisoners’ cells, toward the exit.

  Suddenly, she skidded to a stop and fled behind a corner. Not a dozen paces up the tunnel, another turnkey was leaning against the wall. The man had not seen her, but still he blocked her way. How would she creep past him?

  Then Aeolia realized what cell the man was guarding. The Esiren cell, crowded with her kin. Esirens. Mind readers.

  Aeolia swallowed. She peered around the corner, took a deep breath, and shut her eyes tight. She linked to the guard.

  Hey, ugly! she thought. Here, inside the cell.

  The jailer reeled to face the cell. He pounded against the bars.

  “Stop linking to me, you rats!” he shouted.

  As he roared, Aeolia severed the link and began creeping past him. But as she was slinking by, she caught the eye of one of the prisoners—a young, ponytailed girl with protuberant ears. Aeolia recognized her: the girl who had given her the candle.

  Esirens, Aeolia thought again. Like her. Like the true family she had never known. For all she knew, the mother she had never met, the mother she had lost for reasons unknown, might be there in that cell. For all she knew, this girl with honey eyes and almond hair might be her younger sister.

  The jailer, muttering, was slowly turning away from the bars. If Aeolia wanted to flee, it would have to be now. So instead, she lunged forward and knocked the butt of her knife against the jailer’s head.

  Rather than passing out, the man turned around, eyes widening.

  “Outbreak!” he managed to cry, before Aeolia plunged the knife into his throat, silencing him.

  Clanking footsteps began approaching from below.

  Fingers shaking, Aeolia grabbed the jailer’s keys. So many! She frantically tried them in the cell’s lock, one by one. The footsteps grew closer. Finally one key fit, and the cell’s door swung open.

  The Esiren prisoners gazed at her in awe.

  “I’m the Esiren Firechild,” Aeolia said. “I’m here to rescue you.”

  “Don’t mock the Firechild!” the ponytailed girl demanded. Her voice was bold but squeaky. She couldn’t have been older than thirteen.

  “You don’t believe me?” Aeolia asked. “I’ll prove it.” She linked to the girl.

  The girl’s eyes moistened. “It’s true,” she said. “I see through her eyes, I feel her body. We share senses....”

  The jailers came clamoring into the hall, emerging from both sides as one, trapping the prisoners in the middle.

  “Fight them!” Aeolia said.

  The Esirens rushed out of their cell and crashed against the jailers. Blood splashed like wine from a drunkard’s cup. A jailer came snarling at Aeolia, and she shrieked and opened his neck with her knife. A second jailer lunged at her, and she sidestepped, raising her blade into his face. The prisoners fought alongside her, grabbing the dead jailers’ weapons. They were weak but fueled by desperation. The sounds of battle shook the walls.

  “Send reinforcement!” the last living jailer called, before Aeolia slashed him silent.

  She surveyed the scene quickly. The Esirens had suffered only several casualties and stood beaming, weapons in hands, over the dead jailers.

  “Run!” Aeolia said, pointing her bloody knife toward the exit. “Follow me!”

  The sound of more jailers came from below. Aeolia leading, the prisoners began to run. They stormed like an underground river, raging through the caverns, gushing toward the surface. Aeolia opened the cells she passed by, freeing more prisoners. Joyous wails echoed through the dark halls.

  “What’s your name?” asked the ponytailed girl, running beside Aeolia.

  “Aeolia,” she said.

  “You saved us, Aeolia,” the girl said, diamonds twinkling in her eyes. “We knew you would. And you’ll save us from Sinther, too.”

  Jailers came charging from ahead, waving swords. The prisoners crashed against them. Steel rang. Blood flooded the floors. The jailers fell dead and the prisoners ran on, sweeping Aeolia at the crest of their wave. Sweet air and firefly light swirled ahead. The prisoners burst into the moonlit streets, erupting like a spring.

  Aeolia squealed in surprise as the Esirens lifted her onto their shoulders. They rushed through the city, chanting at the tops of their lungs. “Our Firechild has come! Our Firechild has come!”

  Chapter Twelve

  Hideo
ut

  Roen dreamed of the green-eyed woman again.

  This time, she was not turned to stone, but was of warm flesh and silky hair and soft, soft lips. She fell through the air, tumbling down and down. The furs she wore flapped, and her two braids streamed like comet tails. Her lips were slightly open, as in the middle of an unuttered word, but her slanted eyes were shut. Like a fallen angel she tumbled, outcast from heaven, flipping, gliding. Falling.

  Roen stood watching from a field of blood. Death and misfortune sprawled around him, but he was only dimly aware of it. His eyes were transfixed to the falling beauty above, this woman he did not know and yet had known forever. Tears streaming down his cheeks, he reached up his arms. She landed light as leaves into his grasp. He held her limp body and looked into her face, at the tattoos on her cheeks, at those parted, soft lips.

  “Who are you?” he whispered.

  Her eyes opened and she spoke.

  “Hyan Redfort.”

  Roen jerked up in bed. A dream. He exhaled slowly. He was still on the rooftops, fireflies around him. The voice had come from below, he realized. As he listened, a second voice joined it.

  “That is my name, Lale, you know it as do I. So spare me your tedious greetings, what? The sun will presently ascend, and we have, hum, much to discuss.”

  The duke’s nasal voice was unmistakable. The sleep left Roen and his pulse quickened. Hyan Redfort, back in the city! Roen shrugged out of his blankets, crawled to the roof’s ledge, and peered down. Soldiers stood at the alley’s ends, maybe twenty men in all. In the middle, right under Roen, stood two figures cloaked in shadows. One was thin, the other round.

  “There is nothing to discuss,” said the thin man, speaking with the soft, hissing accent of Stonemark. “You have the girl. I want her.”

  “Tut tut, Lale. I do believe we’ve never agreed on a price, hum?”

  Roen wanted to leap down and throttle the fat duke. But something Hyan had said made Roen stay still and listen. Lale. Could this tall Stoneson truly be the prince of Stonemark? Roen felt icy fingers running down his spine.