by Rain Oxford
“Leave Nathan alone,” Painter said. “The book has been destroyed. Maori doesn’t have the sword, but he’s powerful, and he’s going to be after us now.”
“Well, it’s a good thing you two have been reunited. You should have no trouble defeating Maori.”
“We’re not full gods like him and we don’t have as much experience as him. I don’t know how to kill a god.”
“Too bad you destroyed the book, then. I suggest you get the only other known weapon that can kill a god.”
“If he doesn’t have the sword, I highly doubt it exists,” Painter argued.
“Oh, it does. Nathan, give me your ring.”
“No.”
He laughed. “So little trust. I’m going to modify it so that it can take you back to anywhere you’ve been before, not just the last place, as long as you wore the ring when you were there.”
“How do you know what my ring does?”
Ignoring my question, he held out his hand for the ring.
“I don’t have to die, do I?”
“Not unless you want to. I know a lot of fun ways to do it if you want to know what your options are.”
I took off my transporting ring and handed it to him reluctantly. He opened the door and left, so Painter and I followed. Ten minutes and two flights of stairs later, we reached a sixteen-by-sixteen magic room. The walls were stone and covered in paintings and plaques of magic and general creepiness. The most eye-catching was a painting of a scull with fangs coming out of the pages of a book.
The floor was made of black marble and covered in glow-paint circles, triangles, stars, and sigils. The ceiling was black and speckled with tiny, illuminated dots so that if the room was dark, it would look like the night sky. I wanted to blow out the lights, but we needed the light to work by.
There was a gas sconce on both sides of the door and two more on either side of the desk. The desk was against the south wall. It was an ancient-looking thing, covered in papers, books, and candles. On the north wall was a massive wall-to-wall, floor-to-ceiling bookshelf, full of books, bottles, and other occult objects. To the east wall, opposite of the door, was a stone altar. Beside the door was a rack of measuring and stirring tools, along with some more questionable tools, such as rope and chicken legs.
Langril set the ring down and started gathering supplies off the shelf. “Langril is really good at enchanting objects and modifying enchantments,” Painter said, watching with avid fascination. Painter looked like Langril was about to turn water into wine. What Langril actually did was put some ingredients in a bowl. He didn’t carefully measure anything out. Once he was done with that, he dropped the ring in the bowl and waved his hand over it. The contents lit with blue fire.
Then he recited an incantation in another language.
Meanwhile, I was more interested in the items left on the shelves, including everything from bones to animal fetuses. “What animal did those eyeballs belong to?” I asked, pointing to a jar. I already knew the answer, I was just really hoping they were fake.
Langril looked and smirked. “Oh, those are from a very rare animal; I pulled them from the screaming, gurgling remains of a man who didn’t want to repay his debt.”
“You’re worse than Painter.”
“Where do you think I got it from?” Painter asked. “I was a broken mess who had a lot of anger pent up inside. I took everyone’s rejection to heart. Langril taught me to take it out on my enemies rather than internalize it. If it weren’t for him, I would have died shortly after Julia and Marco refused to tell you about me.”
The idea of losing my brother hurt so much worse than losing my parents had. At that moment, a small part of me hated them for keeping him from me. I loved them, but none of this would have happened if they had just told me I had a twin brother who wanted to meet me. Even if they thought he was crazy, they had no right to keep me from him. They had no right to lie to me.
Maybe they hurt me, just like Painter said they would, and I hadn’t even known it.
“Here you go,” Langril said, handing me the ring.
“How do I use this now?” I asked.
“You still have to say the phrase, but now you have to think of the place you want to return to. Picture it in your mind.”
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome. Now go back to the historians in Makha. Talk to enough people and you will find the answers you need. Get the weapon, use it on Maori, and then bring it back to me.”
“There’s no place---”
“Wait,” Painter interrupted. “I want to run home real quick.”
“Why?”
He blushed. “I want to let our mom know where we’re going. She probably expects us to be home by now and she’ll worry if we’re not back soon.”
“You’re right. It won’t hurt to pop home for a few minutes on the way. Do you want to do it?”
“No, you do it.”
I grabbed his hand, pictured our living room, and said, “There’s no place like home, there’s no place like home, there’s no place like home.” The world grew dark and when color and light returned, we were in our living room.
Keira was sitting on the chair, reading from my Kindle, my mother was drinking tea on the couch, and the kitten was on the back of the couch, spitting mad at the air above the coffee table. “I see he’s fitting in well,” Painter said. The kitten didn’t even look at us.
“He hasn’t let up since you left,” Keira explained. “His focus moves around, but his fury hasn’t tired. We thought it was a fly at first. Now we think it’s just his imagination. Either that or we’re haunted.”
“Didn’t Jackie die upstairs?” Painter asked.
“No, she moved out.”
“That’s what Dundas said.”
“Anyway, we just wanted to let you know we’re going back to Syndrial,” I said. “We’re going to hunt down the Sword of Draskara.”
“Thank you for letting me know,” my mother said. She set down the tea and stood. “I know I’m been cold since you two rescued me, but it’s because I have a difficult time adjusting. I’m still so afraid you two are going to be ripped away from me again.”
Painter went to her and hugged her. “We’re sorry we never tried to rescue you before. We thought you were dead.” He let her go.
“You saw me get stabbed in the chest. I thought I was dead, too. When this is over, we can talk about how I survived. I look forward to hearing everything about you both. Keira is catching me up on some of the basics.”
She put her arms around me and I hugged her for the first time. She felt a lot like Julia. I realized I needed more time to process this as well. Apparently, it was easier to think of Painter as my brother than replace Julia with Talot as my mother.
“Let’s get this crap over with so we can have a family day,” Painter said impatiently. I let go of my mother and grabbed his arm.
“Do you know the portal or do you need me to transport you somewhere?” Keira asked.
“Langril modified my portal ring. Now I can go back to anywhere I’ve been.”
“And you can take Painter with you?”
“I can take anyone and anything I’m touching, as far as I know. I’m sure there’s a limit, but I hope I don’t ever find out what it is.”
“Okay. Be safe.”
“Always.”
Painter flinched and twisted his head to look at his back. “What’s wrong?” I asked.
“Nothing. I felt something and thought the kitten had attached himself to me, but I see he’s just hissing at me from a distance.”
He was right; the kitten was now glaring and hissing at Painter. “Weird cat. There’s no place like home, there’s no place like home, there’s no place like home.
* * *
We appeared in front of Homa, who was carrying a pile of books that towered over his head. The man couldn’t see where he was going, so Painter and I quickly got out of his way. “Homa,” I said, hoping not to scare him. He carefu
lly stopped and turned his head to see us.
“Well, we weren’t expecting you back so soon. How can we help you?”
“We need more information on the Sword of Draskara so that we can defeat Maori,” Painter said. Homa looked at him and took a step back.
“He’s Luca, he just looks different now.”
“Oh…” Homa didn’t look so sure. I took some of the books from him to lighten his load and Painter automatically grabbed some as well. Homa still carried the most, but he could see over the stack.
We followed him to the library, where he set the books on a metal table next to the door.
“We did some research after you left, expecting you to return.”
“Why did you expect us to return?”
“Because we have never met someone who loved books more than Luca, and we have the best books on Syndrial.”
“That makes sense,” Painter said.
“Yet you do not seem excited to be back,” Homa said.
Painter shrugged. “I can contain my excitement better now… just not my anger and murderous tendencies.”
Homa was obviously unsure how to respond to that, so instead, he led us down many aisles. Eventually, we reached a door, which opened to a small, private study with nothing but a desk and piles of books and scrolls.
Homa set a book down in front of him, waived his hand over it, and said, “Darmat Maori.” The book popped open and the pages turned themselves until it was about halfway through the middle of the book.
Painter and I looked at each other. Painter shrugged. “I didn’t know we could do that.”
“Here it is,” Homa said, ignoring Painter’s comment. The page was covered in information about Maori and Painter’s eyes lit up with joy.
“I really hate to say this, but can you give us the quick list of strengths and weaknesses?” I asked. Painter shot me a glare. “Just in case Maori attacks in the next ten seconds.”
“In that case, we would die,” Homa said confidently.
“What is his greatest weakness?”
“Pride.”
That made Painter and me hesitate. “Well, we can’t exactly kill him with humiliation,” my brother said.
“No,” I said, “but people with too much pride will make stupid mistakes to save face.”
“He’s a god; I’m sure he has enough pride to---”
“He’s not a god,” Homa interrupted.
We both looked at him. “What do you mean?”
“He is a demigod. He was born of a god father and caster mother. He passed his trials, but when it came to obeying another god, he rebelled. He didn’t want to be a caster and considered himself a true god, so he became the ruler of Kradga.”
“Wait… he’s Satan?” I asked.
Painter rolled his eyes so hard I could practically hear it. “Someday, maybe we’ll meet a demigod who doesn’t have daddy issues.”
“Don’t hold your breath. We’re not half-brothers, are we? Is his father Set?”
“No,” Homa said.
“What power did he get for passing his trials?” Painter asked.
“He can control the dead. His god was Osiris.”
“So he has an army of dead under his complete control. Great.”
Homa’s face brightened, as he obviously didn’t understand sarcasm.
“I thought you knew that since you were his prisoner,” I said. Painter shook his head. “We really need to brush up on our communication skills.”
“What about the Sword of Draskara. Are you sure it can kill Maori?” Painter asked.
“It can kill a god, so yes,” Homa said. “You have to have god blood to wield it, though.”
“So a demigod will do?”
“Yes.” He put that book aside, grabbed another one, and set it in front of him. “Darmat Draskara.” Just like the last one, this book flipped open to a certain page.
Unfortunately, it was written in Sacred Syndrial, so I couldn’t read it.
“It says… the weapon comes in two parts…” Painter said. “A dagger and a ring. It says they were created with metal from the Asteroid of Rakma. What was the Asteroid of Rakma?” Luca asked.
“Rakma was Kradga’s twin,” Homa said.
“But Kradga is a planet,” I said.
“It’s a moon, actually,” Painter corrected me, “as is Syndrial.”
“Wait, what?”
Painter rolled his eyes. “Syndrial and Kradga are both moons of the mother planet.”
“That is correct,” Homa confirmed. “Before Maori ruled Kradga, there were two gods; twin gods, named Rakma and Kradga. They came here with the other gods to escape the wars. The twins each fought all the time because Rakma wanted to help people and Kradga wanted to rule.”
Painter blushed and looked away.
“I’m sure they found peace in the end,” I said, hoping for a happy end to the story.
“Not exactly. The twin gods took over twin moons and they were later named after them. Rakma saw the damage the gods were doing to our culture and decided to drive them off. He designed a weapon that would kill a god, but he couldn’t make it himself because his brother had too close an eye on him. Kradga would have thought Rakma was making it to kill him. Instead, Rakma had a son and instructed his son, Draskara, to make the weapon.”
“And Kradga found out?” Painter asked.
“Yes. He wanted to kill Rakma’s son, so Rakma put a casting on the boy that he would be reborn no matter how many times he died until he could make the weapon, and no matter where he would be born, he would end up back on Syndrial. In a fit of rage, Kradga trapped his twin on Rakma’s moon and destroyed it. Part of the moon smashed into Syndrial, driving the people underground and forcing the gods to give us our freedom. Realizing what he’d done to his own twin, Kradga killed himself.”
“Good,” Painter said. “Killing himself was probably the only good thing he ever did.”
“I thought you said there is no good or evil,” I said.
“I was wrong.”
“He obviously loved his brother.”
“It wasn’t enough. Love should be enough.”
“It is for us,” I said. He nodded slowly, considering it. Homa was frowning at us. “Sorry, we just needed a little girl moment. Continue.”
“That’s it, really. The weapon was created of two parts with metal from the Asteroid of Rakma.”
“Well, that is pretty…” I trailed off as Painter reached over Homa and turned the page.
“That is what Rakma’s followers said the two parts would look like,” Homa said, nodding.
Painter’s face grew whiter by the second. “What’s wrong?” I asked. Instead of answering, he turned the book so that I could see. As he did, the silver snake ring he wore glittered in the light of the lamp.
On the page was the same ring and a dagger that I recognized instantly. The dagger had a plane black leather handle. It was the dual blades that made it so unique; they were interwoven snakes. The bodies themselves weren’t sharp, but the last three inches were. The ring was just as unusual. The band was the body of a silver snake that wrapped around the finger twice and a black star sapphire was trapped in the snake’s fangs.
“Roman had it this entire time. Roman is the son of Rakma?”
“I had no idea or I would have taken the dagger. He told you he wouldn’t sell it to anyone but me.”
“What?” Homa asked.
“Nothing, we just know where it is now.”
“As long as Roman didn’t leave the city,” Painter said.
“He makes the magical tools for the priests; if he did leave, we’ll be able to find him easily. This is good. We have a plan,” I said.
“We don’t know how to make the weapon work, though. A ring and a dagger isn’t exactly the Sword of Grayskull.”
“How it is drawn is not written,” Homa said.
“Let’s get our hands on it first, and then we’ll figure out how to activate it. Maori is probably after it
as much as we are.”
The loudest roar of fury I had ever heard shook the building. Dust showered from the ceiling.
“No!” Homa shouted, fleeing the room.
Painter and I followed. “Five bucks the dragon’s awake!” Painter said.
“No deal. We’ve watched enough movies to know a dragon when we hear one.”
We made it to the dragon’s chamber in time to see part of the ceiling come down on him. With our height advantage, we could easily see over the mob of people blocking the door, but people got out of our way anyway.
Verjafriðr roared, stomped his feet, and tried to flap his wings. His tail scraped the wall, filling the air with dust and covering the ground with rubble. Some of that rubble was red with blood.
A few of the older citizens were trying to hold the younger ones back. It seemed that most residents hadn’t been alive long enough to see the dragon awake. “We cannot help him if we have to rescue anyone,” Homa said, making his way to the front of the group.
“He was not supposed to wake up yet!” someone yelled frantically.
“Who woke him?” another asked.
At that point, Verjafriðr turned his head and there were several screams from the citizens. I felt pretty sick myself.
Someone had stabbed the sleeping dragon in the eye with a metal spear.
His tail slammed against the wall and I heard stone tunnels collapse in the distance. Then the sound was drowned out by his earthshaking roar. I couldn’t blame the poor creature. While I covered my ears, Painter pulled out his book and started approaching Verjafriðr. I grabbed him by the back of his jacket. “Whatever you’re doing, don’t. You can help him from here.”
“I know what I’m doing.”
“I don’t.”
“Then you’ll have to trust me.” He went back to painting. “I may need your help in a few minutes.” A second later the doorway was walled over so that none of the citizens could see in. It also meant we were trapped.
To my surprise, Painter shut the book, put it in his pocket, and then knelt. “Verjafriðr, I am Painter, a caster of Syndrial. I will find the person who did this and bring him to you for punishment. If you will let me, I want to heal you.”