by Colt, K. J.
A strange sound escaped the mage but nothing more.
The gloved hand lifted Arythan’s head by the hair, tilting his face so that their gazes met. “Do not be difficult. I hate to be a villain, but you are the one who has been stealing from me.”
“I don’t even know y’,” Arythan said through clenched teeth.
The man regarded him in surprise. “Really?” He dropped the mage’s head to wriggle his gloved red fingers before Arythan’s face. “This doesn’t help you at all?”
“No,” came the deliberate response.
“Hm. Well, that’s disappointing, though you are a foreigner. I am Andreas the Red-Handed. I am guildmaster of the thieves in this territory. All of the thieves work for me.” He motioned to an unseen attendant in the room, and a stool was brought for him to sit upon. “But you, boy, you are new here. I can forgive your errors once you are part of my grand family. I will overlook what you have taken from me.”
“I never took anyth—”
“Shh,” the Red-Handed said, raising his gloved hand. “Just to clarify, anything stolen in these parts is rightfully the guild’s. Every coin, every piece of jewelry, each trinket—even, well, bread.” He looked at Arythan and smiled. “All these items contribute to the guild and its fund. It is returned, in a way, to its members. Take Jodann, for example. She has worked hard for the guild, and she has earned her way through the ranks. She has a place to sleep, basic meals every day… Doesn’t that sound nice?”
“What do y’ want?” Arythan asked, impatient.
“I had thought you intelligent enough to see my motive. A caster would be an asset to the guild. Join us, er…whatever your name is.”
Arythan stared at him incredulously. “Y’ ‘ad me followed, tricked by a kid, an’ beaten just to ask if I’d join y’?”
“Yes…and no. Truly, there is no choice in it. If you wish to steal, you will join us.” The Red-Handed gave an irritated sigh. “Jodann should have explained this to you already.”
“I’m pretty sure I gave a clear answer,” Arythan said.
The Red-Handed stood and began to pace, continuing as though the mage had not spoken. “Jodann will be your shadow for your trial period. She will accompany you on all your ventures to ensure your honesty. I run this guild fairly, but you must understand that to keep everyone in their rightful place requires strict discipline. Discretion, honesty, and loyalty: honoring these will promise you success. We don’t make scenes; as far as the common folk know, we do not exist. What you earn in your ventures will be given to the guild, and that means everything you take. Should you be caught, you are expected to maintain silence. The guild is your family; you would never betray your family.”
“Y’ don’t know—-”
The Red-Handed ceased his speech, his heated stare upon the mage. In one swift motion, he swung his leg and smashed the heel of his foot into the side of Arythan’s face. The mage’s head bounced up from the stone floor, and Arythan responded with a tense gasp, the pain almost enough to make him black out. He rolled onto his back, pressed his eyes shut, and ground his teeth. The ringing did not subside so quickly, and blood ran freely from his ear and a swelling wound near his brow.
The hearth flared to life, snaring the Red-Handed’s interest. He waited a moment, his gaze alternating between the mage and the hearth. He gave a quick smile. “Sorry for that interruption. As I was saying, there are consequences for breaking our rules. A thief’s best tools are his hands. You may notice some of our more boisterous members are lacking a few digits.”
Arythan had caught his breath, though the only relief from his misery was the distraction of a different emotion—one that consumed him like a fresh-stoked fire. Had his hearing not been muffled, the registration of the Red-Handed’s words would still have been lost to him. Arythan’s senses were tainted by hatred, hatred of a man he had just met, a man he was ready to incinerate from the inside out. His glare said more than words, though just as the mage decided to act, he saw the Red-Handed produce something from his vest pocket.
The firelight glinted off its glassy surface, and Arythan forgot to breathe.
“…was all you had on your person,” the Red-Handed said, studying the obsidian knife. “Most curious. And I suspect for as cold as it feels, it has some form of enchantment upon it.” He looked at Arythan and stopped pacing. “Oh. Oh, if looks could tell a story,” he mused. He watched the mage’s eyes follow the blade wherever he waved it. “More than a pocket tool,” he said, “and I think I will have to hold onto this.” He returned it to his pocket and refocused upon Arythan. “Maybe you can earn it back one day.”
The guildmaster approached the mage and bent over his face, so close that Arythan could feel his every breath. The Red-Handed gripped Arythan’s jaw tightly with his red-gloved hand, causing the mage’s eyes to water. “You never feel the glove or the hand that moves you, but you know I am there, exerting the pressure.” The implication was clear. “Will you accept it or fight it? Survive or die? I await your answer.”
No one ever came so close to him, let alone touched him. The guildmaster’s audacity was like liquid fire beneath Arythan’s skin, yet he could do nothing now but agree to the Red-Handed’s terms. The man had his knife. Nigqor-slet, Arythan thought, though his crushed mouth relayed a different message. “Fine,” he gritted, “I’ll join y’r bloody guild.”
The Red-Handed released his hold and withdrew. “Excellent! I look forward to discussing how your abilities might benefit my guild. Until then, no public displays.” He smiled at Arythan. “Jodann will take you to your quarters for the night. She will be your shadow tomorrow, show you the routine.” He glanced at the fire. “Oh, I nearly forgot!” He strode to the hearth and withdrew a long, metal rod.
A powerful set of hands clamped down on Arythan’s shoulders, and another brute anchored his feet. Before the mage knew what was happening, the Red-Handed was standing over him, and the glowing end of the rod was being seared into his skin between his neck and shoulder. Arythan gave a cry and writhed upon the floor, but the guildmaster’s henchmen held him fast. Poor as his nose was, he could smell his own burning flesh as he was branded to become property of the thieves’ guild. He was hardly aware when the deed was done or when the Red-Handed had dismissed him. The face of the dark-eyed, petite woman appeared beside him.
“Jodann, take him to the Roost. See that you get his name at some point,” the Red-Handed said with a casual wave of his gloved hand.
Arythan was dragged outside the room and into a dingy hall, whereupon the great door was shut between him and his new employer.
“You look terrible,” Jodann said with her rotten smile. “Didn’t I tell you not to make him mad?” She offered her hand to help him stand.
Arythan ignored her and rose painfully on his own. Too bad no one warned him, he thought and weakly followed his “shadow” to the Roost.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
LIKE MINDS
“THOU ART FLEET-footed, perhaps the swiftest of thy kind. Wilt thou not bear me to the edge of Veloria? To thee there would be no consequence, for this venture I make of mine own volition. Thou art ignorant of mine intentions, and so it would remain.”
The unicorn lifted its head, intelligent eyes regarding the one who had called it there. Its delicate nostrils flared in the slight breeze, and its attention shifted to one approaching from the depths of the forest.
I knew you would come. Will you chastise me? Or are you here to pry at the tale you yearn to know? Without turning, Eraekryst greeted the intruder in a cool voice. “Ah, Chierond, thou hast felt the need to mind me. I recall this moment from days long past, when my youth dictated such professional doting.”
“Thou wert ne’er so unkind in thy youth,” Chierond said, the vegetation parting from his intended path. “We were once friends.”
Eraekryst murmured to the unicorn, and it daintily trotted away, leaving the two Ilangiel in each other’s company. Chierond motioned for the prince to sit, and
Eraekryst complied, reclining casually against a tree.
“Thy kindred are celebrating thy return in thine absence. Wouldst thou not be so gracious as to be present for thine own homecoming?” the elder asked.
Chastisement, then. Eraekryst said nothing but turned to gaze into the treetops. I am not in the mood to celebrate, Chierond. They can do so without me.
“What is this silence?” Chierond demanded, his words sharpening.
The silence. I cannot stand the silence. “’Tis worse than the screams of the dying,” Eraekryst whispered. He closed his eyes. “Thou hast come to coax me back to the gathering.”
“Is thy place not amongst thy people?”
“Ah, that is the question,” Eraekryst said. “Perhaps I am no longer capable of what thou expects of me.”
“I wonder why that should be true.”
Eraekryst opened his eyes to stare at the elder. Do you? Do you truly want to know what I have endured? Are you responsible for it? He answered his friend with all seriousness. “I am broken.”
“Broken? Perhaps thou wouldst explain thyself.”
“I am changed.” Eraekryst lowered a finger before a charging caterpillar, watching as it continued its course onto his hand. “I no longer possess the qualities necessary to lead our people.”
“Thou—thou who wert so adamant to forge a new direction for our kind. Thou who wert determined to integrate our people amongst the mortals. Thou who wert so certain that our destiny had yet to be realized in the form of a new role. The Eraekryst I had known had no intention of abandoning his kindred.”
Chierond’s last remark was a challenge, and Eraekryst knew Chierond had guessed at his intentions to leave Veloria. “I respectfully decline the position of emperor. Atrion will rule in my stead, for as I have stated, I am changed.”
“What hath changed thee?” Chierond demanded, his voice rising. “Do not string me in circles, Eraekryst! Do not mock my concern for thee. Tell me what hath happened.”
Eraekryst lifted the caterpillar, watching as it reared its head in confusion. “Come and see, if thou wilt.”
Chierond hesitated. “Wilt thou not simply tell me—” He stopped short when Eraekryst looked up to glare at him. He frowned. “As thou wishest.”
The elder Ilangien rose and approached the prince. “What wouldst thou have me—”
Eraekryst grabbed his hand, and Chierond was immersed in his world.
The woman in the tattered white robes stared at him with bulging eyes. “Please, don’t do this,” she begged. “Don’t hurt me. Please don’t hurt me.”
Eraekryst could not respond. His body was no longer his to control, though he was very much aware of what was transpiring. I do not want to hurt you, he thought, dread chilling his heart. Run away. Run! Why do you not run? His thoughts grew more frantic, though beneath them was the logic that she could not run. She had nowhere to go.
Her heart was beating so fiercely; she was terrified. She wanted to live. Forgive me, Eraekryst thought, watching his own hands reach for hers. He took them, and she sobbed in her helplessness. She drew a sharp breath as he entered her mind.
Like pages in a book, his fingers peeled back memories. He saw her as a child, running through a field barefoot. He felt the sharp pain in her arm; this was the first time she had been stung by a bee. Her parents came rushing toward her—
His fingers tore the page from the book, and it dissolved into the air, a memory destroyed. He tore page after page, and the book grew thinner. In another vision, she was older, gazing into the eyes of a man to whom she had given her heart. Then it was gone. He cast it away. There would be nothing left of her when he had finished. Tearing, ripping, shredding. The book was an empty shell, and still the desired vision was left undiscovered.
They made a mistake. There is nothing here for them, Eraekryst thought, and he knew it was a sick waste. Sure enough, he felt himself being pulled back, wrenched back into his own body.
The woman was on the floor. Blood and brain had run out her ears and nose, a testament to his presence. She would be discarded like the rest of them, except that part of her remained…the part of her that would be forever present in his own mind.
“Don’t hurt me,” her words echoed. She did not know she was dead. Some of them never learned the truth.
Chierond drew a deep breath and pulled away, stunned to silence.
Eraekryst watched him without expression. He looked at his hand and found the caterpillar had curled up and died. He let it fall to the ground and closed his eyes.
At last the elder found his voice. “How many, Eraekryst? How many?”
“Doth it matter? One is too many,” Eraekryst said softly. “Why did she have to die?” His silver-blue eyes opened and turned to Chierond. “Why was I inside the mountain, and how did I come there? The Durangiel delivered me. They knew where and when to find me. They knew what I was. How?”
“I cannot say—”
“No?” Like splinters of ice, Eraekryst’s eyes slid beneath Chierond’s skin. He tried to work his way inside his mind. Tell me the truth! Did you betray me?
Chierond’s breathing quickened, and his brow furrowed. Then his expression tightened. The door to his thoughts was slammed shut, and Eraekryst was sent reeling away as though he had been struck by a club.
Eraekryst blinked and caught his breath. “How—”
“Didst thou think thou wert the only one so gifted?” Chierond moved over him like a thunderhead. “There is nothing to justify a misuse of talent. Thy power corrupts thy mind to move thee to such a transgression. Thou shouldst never employ thy gift! Hide it, forget it, or be lost to it.”
“Is that what thou hast done with thyself? Thou fearest what thou art,” Eraekryst said. “And perhaps thou fearest something more.”
Chierond looked upon him in disgust and disbelief. “Perhaps thou art right in thine own assessment. Thou art broken, and I fear for thee.”
Eraekryst frowned and stood. “Do not waste thy concerns,” he said coldly. “For I will not linger to trouble thee anymore.” He stalked away, his heart empty and longing, but he had already cast his lot. Veloria was no longer his home.
Night trickled through the forest canopy like a dark and gentle rain, dripping from leaves and soaking into the forest floor as a vast and varied shadow. Veloria, however, never knew complete darkness. Luminescent petals unfurled in shades of rose, azure, and white. Sprites flitted about like candle flames detached, flickering as they went about their business. The Ilangiel, too, were like scattered shards of moonlight, solitary figures in a shrouded and timeless world. The celebration was over, and only the quiet remained.
Eraekryst had disappeared completely from the scene, choosing to circle the conflicts of his mind in solitude. He had crossed the boundary where all within were kept safe, unafraid of the Wild and the creatures that roamed as they pleased: the hunters and the chaotically enchanted that heeded not even Ilangien law. He was willing to risk himself to guarantee that he would not be found by his kindred.
Now he sat beside a stream, his bare feet beneath the cool and flowing water. Instead of finding solace in the surrounding wilderness, he found only the anxiety of doubt over his likely betrayal. You never did answer, Eraekryst thought of the elder Ilangien. Was it your intention not to tell me, to avoid lying? Did you betray me, and if not you, then who? My parents? My brother?
No, not Atrion, he amended. He would not. Eraekryst spied a branch on the opposite side of the creek and willed it toward him. It floated to his waiting hand, and he prodded at the stones beneath the water, looking for fish. Chierond’s anger betrayed him. Seldom has he raised his voice to me.
Though perhaps my rebuke was deserved. He is my teacher, my mentor, once my closest friend. He taught me the bow, showed me how to placate angry spirits, schooled me in the common tongue. When Atrion was born, he dispelled my jealousy and challenged me to guide my brother’s footsteps. He told me stories of the Humans, the Cataclysm, and the ending o
f the War of Light and Shadow. He was there when I first discovered I could move objects through my thoughts.
Eraekryst studied his stick and cast it aside. With a casual twist of his hand, several rocks flipped over, and tiny, luminous fish darted to a new hiding place. Was he truly my friend, or did he seek to gain my trust so that he could guide me down the path he had chosen? And when I failed to share his ideals in leadership, did he believe I would jeopardize our people with my plans? Did he fear the power within me like he fears the power within himself?
Eraekryst closed his eyes and sighed. What if I am wrong? I would be grateful if I were….
He lifted his head as a sound reached his ears. Distant but also distinct, the source was not a creature of the Wild. It was a melody, a flute, and the tune was unfamiliar but enticing all the same. What was more, he knew the musician. He stood and followed the notes through the night air, around the trees, and over the rocks and streams. The forest shifted in his favor, and his journey back to the safe perimeter of the haven was a shorter one. He came upon the golden glow of the figure just beyond a clearing, at the foot of an ancient oak.
The flutist’s dark golden hair was unbound, obscuring part of his face as he played. But when Eraekryst stepped into the clearing, the melody ceased, and the musician lifted his head to reveal a pair of bright, blue-green eyes. “This is thy song. I created it for thee, hoping that one day thou wouldst return as I played it. Now thou art here, as I always imagined it.”
“’Tis a placid melody, Atrion,” Eraekryst said. “I would think something more erratic to be appropriate to my disposition.” He approached his brother with a smile to show he was jesting.
Atrion ran his slender fingers along the flute. “’Twas created in thine absence, and any livelier melody would have been a gross misinterpretation of my loss.”