False Mother and False Farima shriek and howl, but they appear tethered to the collapsed structure. Their forms dissolve, shed their last vestiges of human resemblance. They are mostly teeth and flailing claws and cold, cold hunger. As the edge of Zeffron’s spell hits them, they writhe and foam and shrivel away like salt-encrusted slugs. The gantries upon which they stand scream in sympathy; sent spinning down.
It is one of these that strikes Father: a sheer physical object with weight and momentum that doesn’t care a jot about the laws of magic. A metal stanchion whipsaws and cracks loudly against the top of his head as the demons dissolve in a rain of ash. For a moment he just stares at the blackened spot where the warped images of Mother and Farima once stood, and then he staggers. He falls, and lies still.
I reach towards him, but a huge block crashes down from the demons’ nest. Instinctively I jump aside to avoid the tumbling mass. The world explodes into a blaze of shimmering color, as if I have smacked into a pool of translucent paint. My skin tingles; hot, cold, hot, cold. Everything is dissolving, whirling.
I am outside of Zeffron’s spell, in the region of strongest magic. The Source zooms forward to claim me.
* * *
Father struggles to breathe. His face is drawn, waxy, dripping sweat. A thin line of blood trickles from beneath his disheveled hair. He mumbles, delirious, Mother’s name and mine, again and again. Around him, the frayed edges of Zeffron’s spell beat like pennants in a storm, fading along with the health of its caster.
The Source glitters in its self-made bowl only a few steps away. The magic field howls in a vortex around it, unimaginably strong. Radiated power infuses my bones. For whatever reason, I have not yet been torn apart. Perhaps there is something special about this location so close to the Source, in the eye of this storm of magic. Perhaps there is something special about me. I can feel myself changing, my clay becoming molten, reshaping... I don’t know yet into what. My human form crumbles between the competing forces of magic and anti-magic; becomes something more earthen, more elemental.
Father’s slack frame shudders. Unlike me, the magic will soon overwhelm him. While it lasts, Zeffron’s spell cancels out the field around him, albeit in a diminishing radius. But placed at the tightest knot of magic, at the Source itself, the spell still has the power to undo it: the field, too, has Rules it must obey, even unto its own death. The howling storm would be quenched; the fissure sucking magic from the world plugged, once and for all.
This is why the King had Zeffron killed. The King, Proximus, the Near Kingdom; all gain their power from their position near the Source. Zeffron’s spell has put that all at risk. If the flow of magic ends, the field will rebalance, will equalize; much weaker here, but stronger throughout the Far Kingdoms. After centuries of oppression, the rebels will wreak their revenge.
And it will be my end, too. The power that kindles my thoughts, that drives my motion, will fade—and I along with it.
But that need not be my fate. All I have to do is leave Father where he lies. He will perish, consumed by the raging field, and there will be no more Angry Father. No more coping with his quiet desperation; no more lies about my nature; no more Rules That Cannot Be Broken. Instead, I will step towards the Source, into its cleansing blue light. Surely that is what Mother did; the Source’s call is irresistible. She and the other Farima stepped inside it. Through it. Into somewhere and something else.
I take a step forward.
The Source crackles, seems to surge, to swell in anticipation.
I stop and look down at Father. I admire his flesh, so pale and near death, so very different from my own. We are not related, but still there is a strange tightening in my throat. Only the destruction of the Source will weaken the field enough to save him. Good Father or Angry, he is all I have. All I ever had.
I know I cannot love. Mother told me so. My heart is a cold quartz stone, my brain a sandstone rock.
But even cold quartz can sometimes strike a spark.
I lean down, put my arms about him. The strength immediately begins to drain from me, but he and I still have a little time.
I lift him. I take one step. Two.
Copyright © 2013 Henry Szabranski
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Henry Szabranski was born in Birmingham, UK, and studied Astronomy & Astrophysics at Newcastle upon Tyne University, graduating with a degree in Theoretical Physics. He lives in rural Buckinghamshire with his wife and two young sons. He blogs, occasionally, at www.henryszabranski.com.
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COVER ART
“TheVillage,” by Sergio Diaz
Sergio Diaz lives in Buenos Aires, Argentina. He has studied with artists such as Eduardo Labombarda, Marcelo Maccarrone, and Ariel Olivetti, and has worked for Bridger Conway Agency and Gizmo studio. He currently freelances for several studios and agencies whose clients include Coca-Cola, Ford, Nestlé, Panvel, Nissan, Royal, Honda, Arcor, The Radical Company, and Clarin. View more of his work at www.sergiodiaz.com.ar.
Beneath Ceaseless Skies
ISSN: 1946-1076
Published by Firkin Press,
a 501(c)3 Non-Profit Literary Organization
Copyright © 2013 Firkin Press
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