by Joseph Lallo
The strange man ran off and joined the woman, greeting her with a peck on the cheek and a few jovial words. A few other denizens of the village greeted him and the group set off to whatever activity they had planned before Shadow's discovery had interrupted.
The malthrope let his gaze linger for a few moments, watching the friendly young man who had cheerfully accepted a bloody nose without an ounce of ill will. He then swept his eyes around the section of the village. At any other moment, if he'd found himself in the middle of a village, surrounded by people armed to the teeth, he would be running by now. Indeed, it was taking all of the strength of will he had to keep himself from doing so. And yet all he earned here was the occasional sidelong glance. The people here simply didn't care what he was. He turned now to the hut. It was a simple thing, perhaps even a bit smaller than the space he'd had on the plantation, but if what they said was true, it was his. A bed, a roof, and four walls to call his own. He sat on the bed and let his poor mind struggle with the events of the day.
Something deep inside of him rebelled, the part of him that had fought for every scrap he'd ever swallowed and every breath he'd breathed until now. This couldn't be true. How could it? He must have died in that cave. Or he was huddled in the darkness still, delirious from hunger and exhaustion. A place like this, a place where he was just another creature, couldn't exist. But the blows he'd taken in the sparring match were real. He could feel them throbbing. He closed his eyes and gripped the wooden frame, trying to focus on it. It was solid. Real. If he could push the rest aside, let it trickle in slowly, he might be able to accept this place. He breathed the fresh air, heavy with the scent of a hundred nearby people. He listened to the sounds of the place, voices in the distance and the nearby buzz of an insect's wings.
It was just another place, he told himself. There was nothing so strange about it.
“Mr. Malthrope, sir?” asked a small voice.
His eyes opened to a sight that did little to aid his mind in accepting the reality of this place. There was a tiny feminine form fluttering on gossamer wings in front of him. She was drifting to and fro, just barely beyond the tip of his snout. It was the same creature who had been watching his battle, dressed in a doll-sized outfit of thin red cloth. She was slender, and appeared to be quite young. Black hair was cut short and flared along its length around a pert and energetic face. Her wings had a dim glow to them, a deep orange around their edge like a candle that had moments before been snuffed out. Brilliant green eyes stared sheepishly into his. She had an apologetic posture, hands clasped before her and bottom lip chewed between her teeth.
“I'm sorry to interrupt you so soon after being assigned your quarters, but I am an apprentice to the master of flame magic, Master Solomon.”
“I have no interest in flame magic, or magic of any kind.”
“Perhaps not, sir, but he has got an interest in you. If you are fatigued or unwilling to see him at the moment, please take your time, but he would like to see you as soon as you are available. He asked me to bring you to the Wizard's Side at your earliest convenience. Please consider coming with me? I would really rather bring you to him quickly. I don't get many chances to impress him.” She raised her clasped hands into a pleading gesture and bent one knee, her expression turning hopeful. “Please?”
He sighed through his nose, the rush of air jostling her slightly, though she didn't seem to mind.
“Why wouldn't he come himself?” he asked.
“He heard you speaking Tresson, and newcomers like you usually only fully understand one language. He doesn't like speaking Tresson, he considers it too flowery, so he sent me to greet you.” Evidently suspecting his flat expression was evidence of an impending refusal, she darted forward, clasped hands held out imploringly. “Please! I will owe you a favor! He likes my partner Duncan much better than he likes me, and this would go a long way toward evening us out, I know it!”
He sighed again, though this time she deftly flitted aside to avoid it. “Very well.”
“Thank you!” she said brightly, punctuating the statement with a twirl. She flitted around his head once before darting to the doorway. “This way, please! I promise it won't take long.”
He reluctantly stood and followed her. The pair walked along, fairy leading the way. She had a peculiar rhythm to the way she moved, bobbing twice to one side, then darting and bobbing twice to the other. It was as though there was a song playing and she was joyfully keeping the beat.
“My name is Fiora, by the way. And I meant what I said about the favor. I'm very serious about that sort of thing. I don't have very many friends here on the Warrior's Side, and you'd be a great one to have.” As she spoke, she pivoted in air and floated along backward, facing him. Any words that she felt deserved a bit extra inflection received a full-body gesture, darting closer, bobbing upward, pointing with a full arm or kicking her legs. He was beginning to think she felt that someone her size needed to make a grand showing of emotion, lest it be missed entirely. “I know what you're thinking, by the way.”
He looked to her sharply. “Azriel suggested that was frowned upon.”
“What? Oh, no, no, no. I'm sorry. Not literally. No, no. I'm afraid I never got the knack for that. And it is frowned upon. Very much so. I would never do that. No. What I mean is that in a situation like this, it is only natural that you be thinking a certain thought, and I know what that is.”
“What?”
“You are wondering how it came to be that a fairy became an apprentice to a master of fire magic.”
“I wasn't thinking that.”
“You weren't?” She seemed disappointed.
“I don't know anything about magic.”
“Oh. Well, if you did, you'd be thinking that. Very much so.” She hung in the air, attempting to suppress the look of expectation on her face. When he refused to supply the question, she helpfully supplied the answer. “Most fairies, if they have an affinity for any one magic, have an affinity to wind, you see. But not Duncan and I. It is true that we both know more than a bit about wind, we both saw the way embers floated through the air and it spoke to us. Yes indeed.”
Fiora continued talking without pause, until her voice seemed to fade into the drone of her wings as just another constant noise. The only time a statement stood out is when it rose with the telltale inflection of a question.
“You know something? I don't think I've ever seen a malthrope before,” Fiora said.
“And I've never seen a fairy,” he replied.
“Well, that's no surprise. We try to make sure that no one sees us.”
“We do the same.”
“Why?”
“Because people try to kill us when they see us.”
“Oh. Well, it could be worse. For fairies, the problem is that people find us useful.” She said the final word with a shudder.
“What is so bad about being useful?”
“Different parts of fairies are useful for different things,” she clarified. “And even if they want to use a whole live fairy for something, they usually find them so useful that they don't let us go. My great-great-grandmother used to tell us about malthropes sometimes.” Her mind flitted about nearly as much as her body, it seemed. “She said that they are clever. You look clever. You must be clever if you made it through the cave all alone.”
He glanced at her. “That's all she said? That we were clever?”
“We don't pay attention to what the folks on the ground do much,” she said with a shrug and a bounce. “Do other people say different things? Well, I guess they would, if they want to kill you. I guess maybe things are different in North Crescent. That's where Gran-Gran-Gran was from. Well, here we are!”
The journey had taken them past the stone bowl that had served as his entrance and stopped at a hut that was quite different from those around it. Most of the huts he'd seen were made from wood alone, or perhaps wood and stone. This one was built entirely from stone. It didn't even have a thatched roof.
The size was curious, too. The structure wasn't even tall enough for a man of average height to stand, and it had a smaller footprint than a normal hut as well. The whole of the area smelled strongly of char, and patches of the hut and the ground surrounding it were blackened. A low pedestal was set up, and in a claw atop it was a rough chunk of uncut crystal.
Fiora drifted to the doorway of the hut and produced what at first seemed to be a whistle. After a few lilting notes, however, it became clear that it was her voice, likely forming the words of her native language. From within the hut came a grunt and the jingle of coins. Finally, a form slid from within.
It was a dragon, the same one that had discovered him. This was the closest he'd been to the creature, and the clearest he had seen it. The beast was perhaps the size of a wolf, covered in dark gray scales on its back and lighter gray on its belly. Its head was angular and reptilian, cold gray eyes with feline slits staring down the length of its long snout. Horns jutted back from its head, with smaller spikes sweeping back from its cheeks. The neck was long and serpentine, leading to a stout body with strong legs. Its fore claws had a hand-like quality to them, slicing finger-long claws into the gravel of the ground. Last to emerge from the hut was its lashing tail, nearly as long as the rest of the body and curling with prehensile grace. It thumped down to its haunches, rustled a folded set of wings on its back, and locked the fairy in its gaze. There was a brief exchange of trilling chirps from the fairy and rattling grumbles from the dragon before each turned to face the newcomer.
“Mr. Malthrope, sir. I present to you Master Solomon, our master of fire magic. He promises me he won't waste much of your time. He understands Tresson perfectly well, but he will relay his responses through me, as he is uncomfortable with his mastery of your language.”
“Very well,” Shadow said.
“Excellent! Please hold still while he takes a proper look.”
Solomon stood again, stalking around the malthrope. Instinctively, he turned to keep the creature from moving behind him, but this prompted rumble from the dragon.
“Hold still, sir,” Fiora reminded.
He managed to will himself into stillness.
Solomon circled him twice before planting himself on the ground before him and sweeping his eyes up and down, tongue flicking. The penetrating gaze came to rest on his eyes, staring into them for nearly a minute. Slowly, it closed it eyes. It growled what must have been a question.
“He asks if you are certain you have no use for magic.”
“Yes.”
Solomon's eyes narrowed.
“He says if you change your mind, he will gladly have you as a student.”
“Why? What is so special about me? Is it the mark?” He once again revealed it.
“He says the mark may mean everything or it may mean nothing, but what is most important is the spirit.”
The dragon rumbled one last comment before slinking back into its hut.
“He says you may go now, and he thanks you for coming. And he thanks me for fetching you.” Fiora added this last statement with no small amount of pride.
“That's all? He wanted me here to say so little?”
“I'm surprised he said that much. He's very terse. Why? Did you have more questions? I'll take you back to Warrior's Side, you can ask along the way. We shouldn't stay here, Master Solomon is probably going to sleep.”
She drifted off. He followed.
“Why is there so much interest in the mark? Azriel, the Elder . . .”
“Hmm . . . mark. Mark, mark, mark . . . I suppose they are probably thinking it might have to do with the prophecy. It is pretty intricate to be a simple birthmark.”
“What prophecy?”
“The big one. Tober's Opus. The one about the war. He finished working on it after he got here, though, so I suppose it might not be so well known outside of Entwell. It fills volumes, and it was never really my area of interest, but let's see what I remember. Mostly it deals with an unnaturally long war. A war that will never come to an end on its own. There are forces that wish to prolong it indefinitely, and naturally there are opposing forces. There are to be five chosen warriors who will unite to end it, and they will each bear the same mark. What were they? Well, one is to be a swordsman, and one a strategist. I believe one is to be a prodigy. Another will be an elemental, I know that. Then there's the weapons-master.”
“Master of every weapon. Azriel read that from a book. And something about the blood of a fox.”
“Oh, she was reading from an old interpretation of the prophecy. Newer interpretations record that blood of a fox bit as 'He will be a trickster by nature.' I haven't heard anyone use the 'blood of a fox' wording in ages. Funny, when you say it like that, it is a wonder no one was assuming it would be a malthrope all along.”
“What would it mean if I was one of these chosen warriors?”
“You'd go off and save the world, eventually. Around here, though, it mostly means you'd be expected to take part in the Blue Moon Ceremony. Every blue moon, we try to summon the shape-shifter. The prophecy says that she will only show herself if a Chosen is among those joined in the ceremony. There won't be another one of those for a few years, and because of its intensity, they don't usually let warriors participate unless they are exceptionally well-trained or hearty.” She assumed proud posture. “The mystic arts are no place for the frail. You'll need—”
There was an odd tone in the air, one that had been approaching since shortly after she'd begun to speak, but it finally rose to the point that she could not ignore it. She turned with a smirk to a point of light that was approaching from the north.
“Oh, here he comes. Excuse me for a moment,” she said.
Fiora flitted into the air. With three swift and precise arm motions, each trailing successively brighter strands of flame, she seemed to spark into an equally brilliant point of light. She flared and charged forward, clashing with the approaching fireball. The flames surrounding each form burst into a cloud of embers, leaving Fiora face to face with a similarly-sized and identically-dressed male fairy. He had youthful and oddly cherubic features. His round face was twisted in anger, fingers pointing in accusation and voice piping in a multi-layered symphony of tweets and whistles. Fiora began a conversation with the agitated fairy.
“Yes, Duncan, he's seen Master Solomon already. . . . I convinced him to, that's how. . . . With persuasion and diplomacy. Mystic endurance isn't everything, you know. You need to be well rounded. . . . I am not that far behind you in his lessons. . . . I'm not! That's it!”
She twirled, flames sparking up around her again. Duncan did the same, and the pair began flitting clashing, sending splashes of flame and bursts of light spraying through the air. All the while, they made sounds somewhere between the buzzing of an angry hornet's nest and two piccolos in a spirited discussion. Shadow backed away to avoid being singed by a curl of flame. The spectacle continued until the whorl of flame that hid Fiora began to dim, her strength presumably flagging. She shifted from her own language to Tresson, interjecting between clashes.
“Enough. . . . Duncan, enough! Hey!” she declared. “Listen!” This last outburst prompted Duncan to pull back and douse his flames. “We are being rude to our newest resident!”
Duncan turned to him, buzzed up and gave a brief and courteous bow. He furrowed his brow and glanced aside, then squeakily managed to say, “Welcome, friend.” He looked aside again, twittered something to Fiora, then gave a nod and blazed away.
“He is such a child sometimes. I'll get you back to your hut now. I'm very sorry about that.”
The lilt to the little creature's motion was considerably more subdued after the battle, and her chattering conversation was reduced to a few cheerful comments here or there as she bobbed along. She reached the hut, gave a bow of her own, and fluttered off to her side of the village once more.
Shadow stepped inside, shut the door tight, and leaned heavily on the bed.
He closed his eyes and did
his best to push away the sounds of life and community that filtered through the walls. It was too much, too quickly. He felt as though he'd been thrust into a new body, shoved into the life of one of the people he'd watched from afar when he first began to observe humans in his quest to find a way to free his fellow slaves. A tiny slice of his mind had craved something like this, a place where he could belong, where he could be accepted and live among others. Now presented with such a life, he was overwhelmed, almost terrified. Nothing had prepared him for this.
He very much doubted that anything could have prepared him for this. Magic all around him, hurled without effort or care. Clashing weapons everywhere, but none of them used in anger. A place where no two creatures seemed to share a common history, and yet all seemed dedicated to the same ends.
“A curious place, eh?”
At the sound of the unexpected voice, he turned and struck, the motion complete before his mind had even fully processed what he had heard. With a meaty slap, his balled-up fist was caught in a tight grip. When Shadow had been given time to exert a measure of control over his actions again, the grip was released and the fist pushed away without retaliation.
The man responsible was a match of Shadow's height. He was a human, perhaps a few years past fifty. His body had the sort of lean, durable muscle that is earned through a lifetime of training. His hair was a uniform mix of gray and black, and thin, but well short of bald. His clothes were dark—not black, but near to it—and had the same general features as those worn by Leo. Straps secured loose patches of clothing tight to his limbs, allowing maximum mobility with minimum rustling or risk of snagging. To one side hung a similarly-secured satchel.
Shadow looked around, but there was no obvious place the man could have been hiding, and he was certain the man hadn't slipped in behind him.