by Lucia Ashta
I looked to Brave, but he didn’t appear as if he were going to take advantage of these last few moments. He looked empty of any caring or resentment toward the man that had robbed him of a normal childhood, who’d tried to condemn him to the same disease that plagued his soul.
But I wouldn’t let these moments pass. I wanted to know. “What made you this way? How did you become so dark that you fed on the lives of others to sustain your own? What happened to you?”
Washur averted his gaze and was quiet for so long that I thought I’d never learn the secrets to him, that he’d die with them, and I’d never understand what could cause such a terrible, seething darkness to take root in a man.
Then he answered me, though he still wouldn’t look at me. His words were soft, the wistful murmurs of a man half dead. “A terrible disease came through the village I lived in. They called it the Black Death, and it consumed everyone and everything in its path. My family had managed to survive. Our father blocked us off from the rest of the village early enough that it appeared we’d all survived. We were hungry, near starving, unwilling to go out into the village to barter whatever we had left in the fields for other food. But we’d survive, together, father would say, and it would be worth it.
“As the weeks passed, the village grew eerily quiet. We thought the Black Death was nearly gone. Father, mother, and my five brothers and sisters, we’d all made it. We were thin and weak, but we’d survived. We’d gain our strength again, and we’d be together. We’d been spared from the awful torment and suffering of the rest of the villagers. Or we would have been if not for...” After all these centuries, it was still hard for Washur to speak of it, and I imagined what the loss that I realized must be coming would do to a boy—or a young man?
The Count tried again. “It was the first time since the Black Death arrived that father ventured beyond our land. Mother begged him not to, but he told her it’d be fine, that everything was quiet, and that the illness would’ve passed. Besides, we needed food. We had one cabbage head left to our family, and the worms had eaten through most of it.
“Well, father came back with food—a feast—and we ate and were grateful our family had survived. Our parents were kind, see, we were a good family.” Then he stopped, and it seemed as if he wouldn’t go on, perhaps he couldn’t.
Eventually, I said, “Without realizing it, when your father went out to get you food, he became infected with the Black Death, and he brought it back to the rest of you.”
Washur didn’t answer with words, but his body seemed to sag farther into the sand that cradled his dying body.
“And then you had to watch all of them die while you survived.”
For the first time since Washur admitted to killing his mother, Brave turned back toward him. “Is this true?”
“It is. They all died, but not before they suffered terribly. My little brother, who was only three, suffered the worst before he finally died.”
I said, “And then you, what? You snapped?”
“A bit. I was only nine, but I felt dead inside. I didn’t understand why I hadn’t died too, why I’d been left to suffer in a way far worse than physical agony. I lost everyone I loved in the world, and I was totally alone, with no one to help me. Those few who’d survived were struggling in their own ways. No one was left whole after the Black Death, even if they’d lived.”
“So what happened?” I realized he didn’t want to talk about it, but I needed to understand, and I figured knowing would help Brave too. Perhaps it’d allow him to forgive Washur for what he’d done to him, and if not forgive him, accept, and deliver him to peace. “How’d you turn into what you were?” I persisted.
He sighed heavily, and bubbles drifted up from his face. “Eventually a magician found me and took me in. He taught me enough to become who I was.” His voice sounded dead already.
“This was a dark sorcerer?”
“It was.”
“And he made you dark?”
“Much as I tried to do the same with... Brave.”
I had to hold back tears, even though no one would have noticed them in the water. There had been a good man inside the dark sorcerer, all this time, one who wanted to give Brave a chance at a better life with his final words. His son could become a far better man than he’d been.
My voice quivered, “What made this dark sorcerer the way he was?”
“I don’t know for certain, but he had his own story. No dark magician is born that way.”
It wasn’t the whole story, but it was enough to soothe my heart, to help me see how someone could cause so much pain, how a person could wish ill upon another, or steal their soul. It was because Washur hadn’t been in control of his free will any more than Brave. He’d tried to take from Brave what he didn’t have himself.
Washur looked at Brave. “I truly am sorry.”
Brave gave one sharp nod.
Then Washur looked to me. “Will you let me go now?”
I was taken aback. “Me?”
“Yes, you. Your magic is far stronger than you realize. Your intent to keep me here until you understand is holding me in my body.”
“Oh, is it?” It wasn’t the most astute of answers, but I really had no idea.
“It is. You’re an extraordinary witch. No doubt, you’ll make extraordinary contributions to the magical world, ones that I won’t be around to see.” He sounded relieved about it.
If I was holding him back, it was time to let him go. “You may go. I won’t hold you here any longer. Go, and be at peace.”
“Son,” he said, “claim your inheritance. If I did nothing for you in life, allow me to do so in death. You’re my only legitimate heir. Claim Washur Castle and its lands for yourself, just be careful to disable all the traps I have in place. And claim your title. You’re now yourself a count. I realize it doesn’t make up for what I did, but it’s all I can do now. Farewell.”
Then that was it.
The Count shut those icy orbs, which finally had a glint of real life to them. His body completely stilled in that way bodies did as life fled them and they’d never move again.
His last breath escaped his body in a stream of continuous bubbles, and then there were no more.
The bindings of the five elements that cinched his body unwrapped, starting with the five-petal knots that fastened them. They unwove from around him and coalesced into one big ball of glowing yellow in the water above his body. Then the ball, much like Washur’s gray ball of death, with its continuously swirling filaments of magic, drifted toward me.
I watched, unable to breathe, as the ball of glowing yellow magic hovered in front of my chest, which was glowing nearly as brightly as the ball of magic, ready to receive it. Then, slowly, as if it were the most natural of processes, the glowing yellow ball of pure magic merged with the five-petal knot at my center.
And finally, the Count of Washur, the dark sorcerer of legend and nightmare, was free from the darkness and torment that bound him to this world, far beyond his natural lifespan.
After five hundred twenty one years, the Count of Washur was dead.
Chapter 21
Although the father he’d killed just died, Brave stared at me, not Count Washur. That the Count had revealed his inner goodness before death may have been enough to secure Brave’s forgiveness—eventually—but not sufficient to change how Brave felt about his father in any immediate sense. It was too little, too late. The harm the Count had inflicted had been too great and too long-lasting. The greatest blessing in it all was that we were now free of Washur, to continue our lives without his constant threat.
That is, if Mirvela would allow it.
“Why are you looking at me?” I asked. “We have to go help the others.” Although I had little idea what we might be able to contribute when Grand-mère, Mordecai, and Marcelo, even in his weakened state, were far more accomplished magicians than Brave and certainly more than me, since I relied on intuition and luck for my magic, two inconsistent fa
ctors.
“I’m looking at you,” Brave said, “because your chest just absorbed a glowing ball of magic, and now your whole chest looks like it’s on fire from the inside.”
I looked down. He was right. My chest glowed so brightly that it did appear as if the fire element were alight inside me, giving an orange tint to my skin.
“You don’t even look human,” he continued. “Wait, are you human? Because I’ve never seen or heard of anyone doing what you just did.”
“Of course I’m human,” I snapped. But I had no explanation for what I’d done. I hadn’t known what I was going to do until I did it, as usual.
I searched for the angelic-looking merqueen, wondering if she was still staring at me.
But the merqueen wasn’t where she’d been when I last saw her, and neither were her guards. I found them over by Grand-mère, Mordecai, and Marcelo. Her guards flanked her as she approached Mirvela.
It was the first time I’d ever seen Mirvela frightened. Her turquoise irises jumped back and forth nervously, and she was retreating, even though there was nowhere she could go, all the while pressing her hostage firmly against her chest.
It appeared that the merqueen of these waters was finally going to interfere. It’d be amazing to see what she’d do, how she’d manage to control someone like Mirvela.
“Do you see what I’m seeing, Brave?” I said over my shoulder, not wanting to take my eyes from the scene unfolding on the other side of the clearing. “Let’s go,” and I started swimming.
I was already a few feet away when Brave’s words stopped me in mid-stroke. “Uh, I think you might find what’s going on over here pretty interesting too.”
I turned back to Brave and Count Washur’s dead body. “What do you mean?” But then there was no need to ask anymore. It was clear what he meant.
I tried to swim back to them, but I couldn’t manage to get my limbs to coordinate the way I needed to.
Brave, however, appeared unsurprised. His calm shocked me almost as much as the rest of the scene. “Did you know this would happen?” I asked, my voice softer than I intended it.
“I suspected.”
“You suspected that the spirits of all the souls Count Washur stole would be released after his death?” My words were thick with incredulity, but once I said them, I realized it was logical—somewhat, at least as logical as anything else I’d discovered so far in the magical world. If a sorcerer could steal a person’s immortal soul in the first place, then why shouldn’t it be released from whatever hold he’d had over it once he no longer lived to imprison it?
Actually, it made sense.
The first to escape was a woman I didn’t recognize. In a gradual process, she at first emerged from the Count’s dead body as a translucent glow without definition. But once she managed to separate herself from Washur’s body more, she took on the form of the body she’d possessed when alive.
She was a plump woman in fine dress, who appeared to have gray hair, but it was impossible to tell, since her specter was the color of light and shadow. She was almost all the way removed from the Count’s body, but her feet seemed to be stuck. She pulled and yanked and managed to free one foot. She landed a high-heeled shoe just above the Count’s body, where it hovered, but didn’t touch.
She bent over and gathered all her strength into pulling her other leg free. “This blasted man. Not even in death will he make it easy to be free of him. I should’ve known he’d make it hard even once he was dead. He loved making things hard for us, didn’t he? It wasn’t enough that he killed us and robbed our souls, he had to taunt us and rub it in all the while we were in there.”
The woman didn’t seem to be talking to us, instead, she seemed to be continuing some long held conversation with, what I assumed, were the other tenants within the Count.
Finally, she pulled her second leg free. “Ah, now that’s much better. Free of that nasty sorcerer at long last.” She stretched, swiveled at her waist in her dress, and startled at the sight of Brave and me.
A translucent hand shot to her translucent chest. “Oh my. You nearly frightened me to death.”
I didn’t bother to point out that the statement was impossible. It seemed that habits didn’t die with us.
“Sorry about that,” Brave said, speaking as if he had conversations with spirits that floated out of his father’s dead body all the time. “We weren’t entirely prepared to see you coming out of the Count either, but we’re glad you’re free of him.”
I nodded, expressing my agreement silently. I wanted to speak, but wasn’t sure what to say or if it’d come out the way I wanted if I managed to get my jaw to work properly.
“There are more people like you inside, I presume?” Brave said.
I wondered if spirits continued to be considered people, although it was certainly the more polite way to address them. I wouldn’t take too kindly to being murdered, robbed of my soul, and then not even referred to as a person.
The lady ghost said, “Oh, there are lots more in there, all desperate to get out.”
“Is there anything we can do to help?” Brave offered, cool as a breeze on a hot summer day.
“That’s very kind of you to offer, laddie, but I don’t think there is. I don’t think you can touch us, can you?”
Brave reached out to the hand she’d extended in offering, and tried to grasp it. His hand sliced right through hers.
“I guess that’s a pretty clear no,” he said.
“Albacus,” I blurted out. I still hadn’t gotten my mouth to cooperate like I wanted it to, but my brain was starting to process again. If this woman had managed to come out of the Count, then Albacus could too. Count Washur killed Albacus and took his soul. He should be inside there as well, no longer captive for however long the Count managed to extend his life by robbing others.
Excitement was starting to bubble even before the woman answered.
“Just ‘Albacus?’ Well you certainly don’t have your friend’s manners, but yes, we have an Albacus among us in there.”
My smile was brilliant, even though I’m not sure it should’ve been. After all, Albacus was still dead, and Mordecai still robbed of a brother. My brain and mouth started connecting properly again. “Forgive me, Milady, it’s just that I’ve never seen a... soul come out of a man’s body before. I was a bit shocked.”
“Oh yes, well, I guess I can understand that. It’s been us who’ve been thinking of this moment nearly since he killed us. I’ve been in there so long I lost count. What century are we in now?”
“The nineteenth century.”
The woman didn’t say anything more, but from the look on her translucent face, it was evident she’d died in a different century than ours. I didn’t dare ask what year she died. The Count had lived for more than five hundred years, and he’d been killing and stealing souls for most of that time. I didn’t want to be the one to explain exactly how long she’d been a prisoner of a dark sorcerer.
The lady lost a lot of her bluster after that and began to take in the rest of the scene aimlessly.
Finally, Brave interrupted the silence. “Will the others be coming out too?”
She startled, as if in that short time she’d already gone somewhere else. “Oh. The others. Yes, they’ll want to come out too. I guess I should help them.”
“If we can’t do anything to help, then yes, you’ll have to,” Brave said, and I let him do the talking. He seemed to know what to say better than I did. Perhaps he’d have found a nice way of avoiding telling this woman what century we were in to spare her from unnecessary torment. I imagined that as a prisoner of Washur’s world, she’d already had enough of it.
The woman positioned herself over Washur’s body, taking a few seconds to grind the heel of one of her high-heeled boots into the flesh of his chest. It couldn’t hurt him, but she still appeared to derive pleasure from the act. Then she reached a hand into Washur’s chest, where it disappeared.
“Oh come on,” she g
rumbled, moving her hand back and forth inside there. She huffed loudly, then lowered herself down to her knees next to Washur’s body. She pushed her arm in all the way up to the shoulder joint and wiggled it around. “You’d think they don’t want to be free.”
She lowered her face to Washur’s chest and called, “Do you miserable fools want out or not? I’m not just going to sit here all day trying to help you. I’ve had enough of this man. I can’t wait to get him out of my sight.”
She shoved her other arm into Washur’s chest too and was forced to bring her face nearly onto it. “They’ll pay for making me get this close to this awful wizard on purpose.”
Apparently, this woman didn’t bother with a genteel nature in death.
“Ah! There,” and she started to pull someone up.
The second the next spirit’s hand emerged from Washur’s chest, I realized whose it must be. I’d recognize the gnarled, yet strong, hand anywhere, with its signature rings on several fingers. The stones no longer sparkled with their telling red, blue, and green colors. They were faded to the color of light and shadow like the rest of him.
But, without a doubt, this hand could only belong to one sorcerer, who was skilled enough to extend his own life for centuries before Count Washur came along and ended it.
I didn’t turn around, I didn’t want to miss it. I called out, as loud as I could to make sure my voice carried over whatever was happening with the local merqueen, Mirvela, and the hostage situation.
“Mordecai! You’ll want to get over here, and fast.”
CHATPER
“What about Mirvela?” I asked, alarmed, when Mordecai arrived, along with Marcelo and Grand-mère, leaving the merwitch and her hostage unattended.
“She’s under control, ma cherie,” Grand-mère answered but didn’t look at me. She, like the two wizards that arrived with her, only had eyes for the spirit that was emerging, bit by bit, from Count Washur’s remains.
“Who? The other merqueen has Mirvela under control?”
“Yes, darling.”
“And Anna? She’s safe?”