by Colt, K. J.
Forgetting his weakness, he swung over the side of the altar and fell hard upon the ground. Something snapped, much like the sound of a branch breaking. He lay there frozen, pained from the impact but feeling nothing so sharp as to pinpoint a break. He moved his arms, his legs, his wings… He turned to glimpse something behind him. Nigqor-miq… It was a wing. His wing. Broken and twisted and completely separate. He groped for the other appendage, and it, too, snapped off in his hand. He swallowed the bile in his throat and buried his face in his hands. Nigqor-miq. And as he pulled his hands away, the rest of his face came with them.
When the Larini had completed their celebration at the fire shrine, they headed back to the Cantalereum with their prize. They did not seem to notice or care that Miria trailed them at a distance, burdened heavily by what she had been forced to witness. When the witches passed the water shrine where the Demon had taken his bath, Miria took shelter there, not wanting to share their company.
There she cried at the loss of a young man she barely knew, and she cried because she was so very much alone. Her two companions were gone, and she was trapped in a setting that had grown increasingly more dangerous and unwelcoming as her stay lengthened. She did not know how she would leave, if she could leave, or where she would go. The very council in which she had placed faith was corrupt, and what she thought had been solid ground was as vague and as hidden as the darker powers of the witches whose company she kept. Her once clear-sighted optimism was now weighty with heavy clouds of doubt; she was lost to any sight of the future.
The afternoon shadows lengthened, and the light that passed mottled through the colored glass of the ceiling began to dim. She did not want to spend the night alone at the shrine, but she did not want to spend it with the Larini in the Cantalereum either. She found an extra robe behind the screen and layered it atop her clothes for added warmth.
“How did this all change so fast?” she asked aloud, dabbing at her tear-stained face. “All because an Ilangien passed through the Southern Gate with his illegal collar.” Her gaze fell to the place on the floor where she and the Demon had spoken. “Since then I find I can’t trust my associates, I become involved with the Larini, I lose a mythical being of Light…I start to lose my heart to a notorious criminal…” Miria sighed and brushed away another tear. “And I stand by to watch him die,” she finished in a whisper. “My job is to uphold Mystland law, justice. Where is the justice in any of this?” Miria drew her knees to her chest. “What good is justice if I’m the only one who cares?”
“What would lead you to draw such a conclusion?”
Miria started, her head spinning to see a tall, slender form enveloped by warm, ethereal light. She noticed that his collar was gone. She took a breath before speaking. “Eraekryst, you’re still here!” Like a young girl, she leapt to her feet and embraced him tightly.
“Did you think I had abandoned you?” he asked, stiffening slightly at her touch.
She drew back. “Yes! You had disappeared with the Larini. What else could we think?”
“They removed my bane,” Eraekryst said, coldness creeping into his expression. “I was…lost, but now I am whole again.”
“We went searching for you,” Miria said. “He had a feeling you were still here.”
“They are ill-intentioned; our concern is justified,” he said as though she had not spoken. “I do not fear for myself, but the durmorth is in peril.”
Miria stared at him and shook her head.
Eraekryst gazed at the pool. “I do not sense him here.”
“No,” Miria whispered. “He’s at the fire shrine. Eraekryst—”
The Ilangien frowned. “’Twas not prudent to leave him alone. They will find him and take from him—”
“He’s dead.”
Eraekryst’s sharp eyes bore into her, but she did not waver. “Nonsense,” he said, turning toward the entrance of the shrine. “’Tis the trail of his Shadow that I follow.”
“His Shadow, in the knife.” Miria closed her eyes. “It’s too late. They took it from him.” In the aftermath of silence, she felt compelled to open her eyes to read his expression. She found she could not, though his eyes were affixed to the doorway.
“My absence was not so long.” He glanced at her. “Was it?”
Miria shook her head.
“Take me to him, then.”
They headed for the fire shrine, though it was the Ilangien who kept several steps ahead of Miria, as though he could sense her next direction.
“We went to look for you in the labyrinth,” Miria said as they walked, her voice uneven from the effort of keeping pace. “Somehow we were separated. It wasn’t for long, but something terrible happened in that time. I don’t know exactly what it was, but when I found him, he was very sick. We tried to leave, but the witches had us trapped.” She took a deep breath to hold back her tears. “It was terrible, what they did to him. And there was nothing I could do to stop them.”
Eraekryst stopped abruptly at the sight of the shrine, and Miria fell silent. There was not a sound to be heard in the descending shadows of the evening, but the sight of the altar, dark and still, was like a waiting specter. Together they approached it, Miria guided by Eraekryst’s soft light. She gasped as they drew nearer. “It’s empty!”
Eraekryst said nothing. He held his hand over the stone surface, over the strange remnants of webbing, blood, and charred cloth that remained. Then he closed his eyes and touched it. Miria watched as his expression tensed until it seemed the Ilangien would cry out. She moved to touch his arm when his eyes flicked open, and he turned away.
“Are you all right?” she whispered.
“No,” he replied, staring at the ground.
Miria stood with him, until she realized he was actually looking at something near their feet. She squinted, then bent to the ground for a better view. Her eyes widened at the sight of a clump of white hair. There was more of it, scattered around. “I don’t understand,” she whispered in horror. “The Larini did not do this.”
“Aye, but they did,” he said, emotionless.
They moved a short distance, following a trail of pieces of thin, white tissue and hair. Miria nearly tripped over a branch, only to cry out when she realized it was an entire wing. Eraekryst steadied her before she could faint. “Mind yourself, Lady Miria,” was all he said.
She stayed close to him as they neared the darkened shrine. Eraekryst entered first, and she clung to him from behind. Before they could see anything, they could hear the sound of loud, ragged breathing.
“Durmorth,” Eraekryst said softly.
There was no response; the breathing remained unchanged.
Eraekryst’s slow, cautious steps echoed in the chamber, followed by Miria’s reluctant shuffles. Eraekryst held out his hand, and its surrounding light brightened. He stopped his advance when the pale illumination fell upon an irregular shape behind a pillar against the wall.
“Durmorth,” he repeated. They crept forward until they could see a small and huddled form tucked beneath the torn and withered appendage that had been the Demon’s other wing. Eraekryst held out his hand for Miria to stay back while he drew closer.
The figure’s head was bent, and its body trembled with every breath. Still the form did not move—even when Eraekryst was close enough to reach down and touch it. The Ilangien extended his hand slowly, ready to gently move the wing aside.
The breathing froze.
“Durm—”
With a raspy gasp, the form leapt at him and knocked him to the ground. Miria screamed. The stunned and breathless Ilangien stared at the creature above him. Dark, wild, maddened eyes bore into him from a gaunt and hollow face marked by legions of raw, red flesh and remnants of colorless skin that hung from prominent bones like spider webs from rafters. What little hair that remained upon the creature’s mottled scalp looked fit to fall away at the slightest graze. Its rounded ears were red and flaky, and traces of blood stained the corners of the creature’s t
hin-set mouth. The rest of its naked body was as raw and peeled as its face, prominent ribs heaving with effort as it breathed noisily.
Gradually Eraekryst lifted his hand and took gentle hold of the creature’s wrist. “Durmorth.”
Miria made a sound, and the creature lifted its head, blindly trying to see her in the darkness. It bolted for her, but Eraekryst held fast to its wrist. It collapsed atop him, struggling frantically to free itself. With no success, it sank its teeth into the Ilangien’s hand.
Eraekryst blinked in surprise, but did not yield—not even as he felt the warm fluid begin to run down his hand. He allowed the Light to flow through him, and it began to spread up the scrawny arm in his grasp. The creature released its hold, leaving several of its sharp teeth behind. Only some of the blood had been Eraekryst’s; red streams trickled out the corners of the creature’s mouth.
The Light continued to spread over its body until the harsh breathing slowed. Eraekryst unwrapped his fingers from the creature’s wrist, watching and waiting. The dark eyes blinked and focused upon him. The creature’s hands rose to its mouth, then moved before its face, slick with blood. It made a sound and reeled away, scrambling across the floor and into the shadows.
Eraekryst sat up and glanced back at Miria. She was backed against a wall, terror upon her face. He redirected his attention to the shadows. “We have come to help you,” he said. He crept forward, his Light tracing the contours of the creature as it shrank away.
“Durmorth, there is no shame—”
The creature whispered something unintelligible.
“We are here to help,” Eraekryst repeated, moving closer.
“What ‘ave y’ done to me?” the creature said again, only slightly more audible. It lowered its hands from its face, which was now smeared with the blood from its mouth. Its eyes brimmed with red-stained tears.
“We have done nothing to you. ’Tis the gross aberrance brought upon you by the witches that you suffer.” He studied the creature that had been the Demon, extending his hand in a gesture of help.
The Demon stared back at it as though it would destroy him. “Am I dying?”
“’Twould seem you have survived, though I know not at what cost.”
“Kill me,” the Demon begged. “Please.”
The Ilangien was taken aback. “I cannot.”
The Demon turned away, fresh tears freeing themselves from his eyes.
“Allow me to help you. I will heal your wounds,” Eraekryst said.
“’Tis gone, isn’t it?” came the Demon’s choked voice.
“They took it,” Miria said, joining them. Her eyes were also damp. “It’s in the knife they stole from you.” The Demon did not move away as she came to him, and he did not withdraw as she knelt beside him. Miria reached out and touched his face with her fingertips, unable to control her emotions any longer. “I’m sorry,” she broke and pulled him close. He crumpled in her arms, his slight form shaking.
For a long while Eraekryst watched them, his expression grim. At last he murmured. “We will leave this place, but not before we reclaim what was stolen.”
The Larini had been too engrossed in their work at the table to notice the appearance of three intruders in their lower sanctuary. Only when Eraekryst spoke did the witches turn to acknowledge them. “We have come to claim what was stolen.”
At first the Larini said nothing. They stared at the robed and hooded form supported by the wall and by Miria’s shoulder. Then their eyes shifted greedily to the Ilangien. “How unexpected,” Maevia said. “The dead do walk.”
Eraekryst strode toward them, his silver-blue gaze level. “Clearly he is not dead; therefore he will require the return of his Durós.”
“An impossibility,” Neriene said, the scarlet light of the hearth’s flames illuminating her humorless face like a skull afire. In its sockets were her eyes, darker and emptier than spent embers.
“For what reason?” Eraekryst asked.
Neriene stood. “We cannot physically return it to him, and if we could, it would mean the return of the plague that afflicted him.”
“The knife belongs to him,” Eraekryst said, watching as Maevia picked up the object in question and studied it.
“On the contrary, it belongs to us,” Maevia said. “Hawkshadow will acknowledge that we rendered him a service in saving his life. The agreement was for his Shadow to be entrusted to our care.”
The Demon made a sound that betrayed his fury. The flames leapt higher at the same moment he moved forward—as though he would rush at the witches. Unable to stand on his own, he fell—despite Miria’s desperate move to catch him.
Maevia laughed. “Oh, he is like a babe! So new in this different life! We will send him on to enjoy it, won’t we?” she asked her daughter.
Neriene did not crack a smile. “The boy will have to adjust as half a being. If he still wishes to die, then we can see his desire fulfilled.” Her eyes darted to the Demon on the ground, and she took a step forward. The air began to stir.
“Enough.” Then the phenomenon ceased, and Eraekryst’s gaze had frozen over as he watched them.
Neriene looked at her mother in mild surprise when her spell was stopped.
“’Twas not what I asked of you,” the Ilangien said, his voice solid with frost.
“This is none of your concern,” Maevia said. “And was it not you who supported the choice of his transformation?”
“I have come to change my opinion,” Eraekryst glanced back at the Demon, “for I know what he has endured at your hands.” His stare returned to the Larini. “The knife, please.”
“We did not conceal the risks involved,” Neriene said. “He will come to appreciate his new life, or he can embrace his misery. It matters not to us.”
“You fail to listen to me.” Eraekryst lifted his chin, and the obsidian knife in Maevia’s hand leapt into the air above her head. She gave a cry, thin, black blood drizzling from her hand. The knife sailed across the room, past the Ilangien, and to the Demon, its handle stopping inches before him.
The Demon stared at it, breathless, then snatched it from the air as though it was the most precious treasure in all of Secramore. Miria helped him to his feet; her eyes remained upon the Larini.
“I marvel that you are still able to bleed,” Eraekryst said.
“You should be more concerned for yourself,” Neriene returned darkly. She lifted her arms and began her spell, her voice resonating through the chamber like drawn-out thunder. The walls trembled, and the archway to the stairwell cracked and crumbled, sealing their only exit.
Eraekryst did not so much as turn around. He shook his head. “You wasted the one gift that could have made you remarkable. You have squandered your life and the beauty of it for this false immortality. Your minds have rotted on this poison, and you lust for what you cannot claim.”
“Do you not understand?” Maevia cried. “We will get what we want. It is for the taking. We would have allowed your friends their freedom, but now you have condemned them with yourself.” The witches advanced upon them.
“You have gotten what you wanted for too long, perhaps,” Eraekryst said, standing his ground. He turned toward the black tree and waded through the illuminated pool to reach it.
The Larini stopped.
Eraekryst touched the bark with his fingertips. “Yes, for too long,” he murmured, as though speaking to someone else. Then his sharp eyes connected with the witches’.
“No!” Neriene shouted, and she bolted at him. As soon as she reached the pool, she collapsed as though she had run into an invisible wall.
Eraekryst laid the flat of his hands upon the trunk and closed his eyes. The tree quivered, and its leaves started to droop and wither. They began to fall, raining down around the Ilangien like black feathers from a wounded crow.
Maevia shrieked. “Stop! Stop!” She clawed frantically at the unseen barrier, her voice high, broken, and terrible as she watched the tree die.
Neriene wa
iled and writhed on the floor, tearing at her hair. “You’re killing us!”
Eraekryst opened his eyes. “You have chosen your own demise,” he said, his clear voice as hard as stone. He gracefully stepped away from the tree and rejoined Miria and the Demon, who had turned away from the witches’ agony.
“We can’t escape,” Miria said, her eyes upon the debris blocking their exit. Then the stones began to move, rolling away to clear them a path. “How—?”
“Lady Miria, I will need your assistance,” Eraekryst said, calling her attention to the Demon. “Mind the knife, please.”
They shouldered the Demon and picked their way to the stairwell. Only Miria glanced back for fear of pursuit, but the witches, consumed by their grief, had thrown themselves at the base of the tree. All she could hear were their tormented shrieks as they left the Cantalereum.
No sooner were they outside when they were confronted by the Larinis’ familiar, Garmult. The dark and ominous figure was barely distinguishable from the night; he stood waiting at the altar. “No!” Miria gasped. “He’ll take us back to them.”
“Nay, he is our escape,” Eraekryst said. He addressed the specter. “You will soon be free of what I expect to be a very long term of servitude. Let this be your final task. Help us leave this place, and you will not be bound to return.”
Garmult stood rigid, and just when it seemed he would ignore the Ilangien’s plea, he turned and headed out of sight.
“He’s letting us go?” Miria asked.
“We are to follow him,” Eraekryst said. Sure enough, the specter would stop every so often to ensure the trio was tailing him. They followed him around a thick and thorny shrub to find the carriage waiting there. Garmult was already in the driver’s seat, and the door was open, inviting them inside. Once they were situated, the carriage began to roll away.
Miria touched the Demon’s shoulder, unable to see his face beneath the hood of the robe. “Hawkshadow, are you all right?”
The Demon did not respond; his head remained propped against the seat and the wall.
Miria searched for his hand and held it, heartened when his bony fingers slightly grasped hers. She turned to find the Ilangien watching them. She noticed that his glow was considerably dimmer than it had been. “Are you all right?”