Alexa Drey- the Gates of Striker Bay

by Ember Lane

  “Then why are we going there?”

  “Because that’s where he gets his power from. It’s his base, his roots. We cut him off, leave him stranded—wherever he is—and force him to make a choice.”

  I rested my chin on my hand, suddenly tired, suddenly exhausted by the never-ending problems. “So, his ships, where are they?”

  “Hiding. Waiting. Lurking in his shadows. He’s lost Vengeance. He knows we’re getting closer. Perhaps he needs it…”

  “You think he’s set us a trap?”

  Pog stared up at me, his deep-blue eyes suddenly deadly serious. “He didn’t put up much of a fight here. Best guess, he’s enjoyed us being distracted.”

  It was what I felt too.

  Where were the hordes of black-clad soldiers?

  We took the steps down. I feared for Lincoln now but knew if any could weather the storm Pog thought was coming Mandrake’s way, it would be him. He had good people too—Shylan, Cronis, Petroo, and his apachalants. He had Marista Fenwalker and Flip, and that was without those he’d massed around him. Greman? What of him?

  Suddenly I longed to be home—home, for that was what Mandrake was. Shylan’s Vale and Zybandian’s castle—even the Petreyer of Callisto Jack and the others, I felt affinity for all of them. Somehow, this place was cold to me, distant.

  “Thing is,” Pog said, ripping me from my melancholy as he walked through a little restaurant’s door, “we have no idea who ShadowDancer is.”

  “You mean player or not?”

  Pog scoffed, taking a seat at a window table. “He’s a player all right. Trouble is, he appears to have been playing much longer than everyone else. If nothing else, perhaps Ruse will solve that conundrum.”

  I mulled on that, remembering that fleeting feeling I’d had once, all the way back in Castle Zybond—that odd sensation that he was somehow familiar.

  We’d only just ordered when a puffed-out wizard burst through the doors. “Curmeyder needs you. We’re at an impasse, but we think we might have cracked it. Curious, really, seeing as the two don’t go together.”

  We forgot our food and followed him back, the day now at an end—the sun finally setting, and we returned to the half-packed lecture hall. Curmeyder sat on the edge of the stage, hands clasped in front, the wizards and witches packed tightly into a semicircle before him.

  “Ah, Alexa, we’re stuck. So sorry to interrupt you, but this problem is uniquely yours. Try as we might, we can’t appear to find any shadowmana anywhere. It eludes us.”

  “I even looked between Shivall’s ears,” a witch piped up. “You won’t find a darker, emptier place than her head—but nothing—not a speck of the stuff.”

  A little titter of laughter rang around.

  Curmeyder waved it all away. “The point,” he said. “is that we can’t do it, and that is the only conclusion we can all agree on.”

  My shoulders slumped.

  “So—” Curmeyder jumped up—“change of tack. What we’re now wondering is if we can set a path where you’ll be able to do it. To that end, we’d like to ask you to perform an experiment.”

  “Experiment?”

  Curmeyder swept his hands around. “Earlier, you blew up a thousand-mana bottle in an attempt to make it two thousand, so it's reasonable to assume there’s a bunch of mana saturating the air around here.” He tossed me a vial. “I want you to harvest it, but instead of focusing your mind on increasing your own mana, I want to see if you can store it there: divert it, if you will.”

  “In this vial?”

  “Why not? It’s just a different receptacle.”

  “Because I’ve never done it before.”

  Curmeyder scoffed, “Of course you haven’t because we can create vials of mana through magic and alchemy. The question is not 'can we store mana,' it’s 'can you harvest it like this,' because if you can…”

  “I should be able to do it with shadowmana.” I suddenly twigged.

  Curmeyder clicked his fingers. “Exactly.”

  He held his hand out and pulled me onto the stage. I caught sight of all the upturned, expectant faces but tried to block them out, to ignore them. I sat cross-legged and brought the vial close and sank into myself, but I felt every single pair of eyes on me. Concentration, let alone meditation, was impossible. I tried again, tried to hide in myself, tried to delve deep into my loins and start my meditations going.

  It was impossible.

  “Have… Can we empty this place for a minute?”

  “No,” Curmeyder said. “It’s important that all see it succeed or fail. But I can bring you some peace.” He muttered some spell I didn’t recognize, and a shroud, an invisible curtain suddenly surrounded me. The auditorium fell silent, all the expectant faces blurred, became unimportant to me as if an invisible wall now separated us. I could see them, Pog’s blue eyes gazing at me, Curmeyder’s dark eyes willing me on, but they no longer mattered. They were insignificant. All that mattered was the task at hand.

  I focused again, this time diving deep into my loins, settling there for a moment, feeling at one with my manas, and then slowly driving my meditations around the channels within me. They almost yawned, like adolescent children roused from a long night’s sleep, nudging each other to move forward first until some sort of flow began. I began to look outside myself, looking for waifs and strays to coax home, to draw within me.

  Holding the vial close, I willed it to fill, to draw in mana from the air around it, but it refused, filling me instead, and no matter how much I shunned it, how much I tried to direct it to the vial, it ducked away, slid around or under and into me. And I understood why. The vial was a cold place, not hot and vibrant like my body. Given the choice, the mana chose me.

  Clamping my eyes shut, squeezing my consciousness, I tried to force it into the vial, but it wouldn’t go, wouldn’t take any notice of me. I tried coaxing, cajoling it, lying, telling it the vial was a nice place, but it just ducked around it and sank into me, circulating fast through me and hiding alongside the other mana.

  Just as I was about to give up, a new path came to me, an idea, and I allowed the mana in, allowed it to mix in my body, but then I diverted it, sending it to my hands, my sweating palms, and holding the vial close, I encouraged it in, to overflow from me and into the pool waiting in my grasp. I imagined it as an oasis, a respite for the mana—somewhere it could be held, be safe, wait, lurk until I needed it, and I made it a promise, that it would always be with me, no matter what.

  It flowed from me, filling the bottle, and sweet relief flowed through me as I became lost in its distillation.

  Curmeyder tapped me on my shoulder, snapping me from my peace.

  “It is done,” he whispered.

  I looked at the vial, full of the deepest, greenest mana. “I have a way,” I said, my voice tired, my mind exhausted.

  “Can you do it with the other?”

  “Not here,” I replied. “I need a place where it hides. A knotty forest, a catacomb, an old house.”

  Curmeyder made to take the vial, but I snatched it away. “I made a promise.”

  He appeared to understand. “Come,” he said. “I know a place where the dark mana may lurk,” and he pulled me up. Pog darted to my side, and the three of us left, walking out onto the blue road, down past the shimmering entrance and toward the darkening night of Valkyrie.

  “What you have achieved is quite remarkable,” Curmeyder said as we walked. “The understanding you have with your mana is precious. I pray that we can replicate it.”

  He branched toward the west, and a sudden dread feeling filled me as I guessed at his destination. “The tower?” I asked, seeing it looming close.

  “What better place? Isn’t that where you sent your reserves? Isn’t shadowmana the crutch of Ruse? If you can think of a better place…”

  “No, no, it’s fine, just a bit of a shock is all.”

  The ruined tower stood beaten, the deepest black against the darkening sky. Shock was an understatement.
Fear was the word I searched for—fear of bearing witness to my own slaughter—fear of what I was capable of. We came to it all too soon, the plaza it rose from littered with its rubble, with twisted iron and shattered tiles.

  We picked our way through and up to its gaping door, swinging open on one hinge. Its inside was as dark as night, just the odd shaft of moonlight falling from above. Pog brought out his long stick, testing, triggering a few traps that still remained primed. We made our way to the scree-strewn steps, climbing slowly up their spirals, taking an age, a chunk of night, to come to the true devastation.

  Curmeyder brought out his staff, a swirling ball of blue atop it, and he let its comforting light spread over us. We came to the final steps, the straight flight that led to the cauldron, but that cauldron was no more, and the steps led up to nothing, a crumbling stairway to the sky, and as if by design, the moon sat at its end.

  “I’ll go alone,” I said.

  Curmeyder pushed an empty vial into my hand. “We will keep watch from here.”

  Pressing the vial to my breast, I climbed the ruined steps. The tower’s crown was partly gone, a half saucer left but no remnants of the cauldron, nor the roof—no signs of the ruined priests. The carrion must have picked their charred flesh clean.

  The night had a chill upon it, the breeze steady, clearing the foreboding that had settled around me. Each step took an age, my knees trembling, losing their strength. I could smell the char of my destruction, feel the blood, and hear the stunned screams, the priest’s final cries. I reached the top before I was truly ready, though I doubt that time would have come any time soon.

  I sat on a pile of scorched rubble, the devastation thick around me, not a single speck of normality left. Below me, the lights of Striker Bay flickered in animated celebration. All had forgotten about this place, its dominance replaced by insignificance, just a wasted monument to a religion that once suppressed. The bay’s motherly water was still, the gates still darker than all. My revulsion ebbed as acceptance dawned. This place had sprayed its evil around, but no more, and that should have been enough for me.

  Delving into myself, I began my meditations, sitting atop a dark tower and framed against a star-studded sky. My chin jutted upward like a baying wolf as I drank in the moon’s power before delving back, past my heart, my gut, and into my source. Coaxing my eager mana aside, letting it sleep, I assured it its time would come again. I sought out its darker twin, hiding deep within my flesh, clinging to my channels like a child’s fingertips to their mother’s smile.

  It woke slowly, moving with a creak and a groan like a great tide turning, and I reached out with my consciousness and sought out its cowering vagrants as they hid under the scree and rubble of the devastation around me. Curmeyder was right. My magic lurked here, spent, exhausted, and confused. It was like it had done my bidding, and yet I hadn’t come for it, hadn’t gathered it back in, just abandoned it to shadowy whims of others.

  It came to me, its mistrust soon evaporating as it thirsted for the familiar. I drew it in, sucking it toward me, feeling its rush, its eagerness as it hurried home. Clinging to the vial, I let it spill in, let it hide from the cold, from the stark outside. I brought it back to my bosom, thanking it for a job well done.

  I closed my eyes. Confidence brimmed within me now, the shadowmana eager, under my control, but more a symbiosis, an understanding that we both needed each other, and now our partnership was secure. It came from all around me, and I needed to see it, to accept it, so I opened my eyes, wanting to welcome my mana home but could see nothing more than a luminous black rushing toward me—that conundrum again, the impossible. A dark shine lit all around me, and I held up my vial, letting it fill to the brim and then overflow to inside me.

  I stood, defiant against all, higher than all, and I let it come. Then I felt another presence. I felt Pog, and he reached around me, and he helped me back, away from my bliss, the air around me drained now, and with it, me too. Strength fled my legs, but Pog held me upright, and we climbed back down the tower, walked up the hill, and onto the winding blue cobbles. At some point, Curmeyder lifted me, carrying my exhausted body, and a bell rang, and a bed folded around me, and I slept, hugging that vial, my knuckles white against its black.

  Chapter Nineteen

  A Double Helix Maze

  I woke, still clutching my vial, and my first instinct was to hold it up to the filtered light of the room’s curtained window, but it resisted, calling for darkness, letting me know it was uncomfortable with the day. So I snuck beneath the sheets, unable to resist a peek. The mana glistened, its blackness shining like tar. It pulled me into it, swallowing my thoughts until a knock on my door pulled me away.

  Pog’s head stretched around the opening door. “Our clothes are ready. Are you coming downstairs? Curmeyder has brought some bread and cheese too. Hurry up, they’re fussing.” He hovered for a second, clearly unsure what to do next, before he snapped his head back like a terrified turtle and shut the door behind him.

  Swinging my legs out of bed, I realized I was fully dressed, barring my boots. I slotted the vial in my inner breast pocket, against my beating heart, and slipped my boots on.

  Stepping down a narrow set of creaking, wooden stairs, I heard the exclamations of a proud tailor, the gruff grunts of a overbearing observer, and the yelps of an impatient child. I emerged to see that exact scene. Pog was dressed all in black, and currently attempting to stash all of his knives in varying new pockets that were, according to him, not quite exactly where he wanted them.

  “Do you really need so many?” Curmeyder asked, a hint of exasperation coloring his tone.

  “I do. What do you know? You’re a wizard, worse than an archer—always attacking from miles away.”

  “Ah, youthful impudence. Farther away is better. Ranged attack, be it arrow or magical bolt, is the wise man’s choice. You’ll rarely find a scholar in a melee battering someone over the head with an oversized hammer.”

  “So,” Pog said, hands on hips, “can we agree you have no idea how many knives I need?” He spied me standing on the last step. “Alexa, tell them!”

  Curmeyder stepped back as did Thalbear, both facing me and waiting for an answer.

  “Pog has saved my neck on more than one occasion. He is in charge of his equipment. I would trust his observations. If he needs more knife slots, he gets more knife slots.”

  Pog folded his arms, a satisfied smirk displayed. “Precisely. One more slot, top right shoulder blade, hilt just here.” He reached over, showing Thalbear what he needed.

  “Fine,” said Thalbear, helping Pog out of his jacket. “Another slot.”

  “Does that mean?” Pog asked.

  Thalbear sighed, defeated and now submitting. “Yes, the extra fabric will allow another two percent.”

  “Deadly throw, please.”

  Thalbear sighed. “Deadly throw it is.”

  Pog bolted toward me. “Your turn.” He pointed at a black set of garments resting on a chair. They just looked bad, but in a good way—kick ass—but every time I got a new set I thought the same thing then ruined them. Pog raced over to the pile. “I told him black so we match. I gave you all attack boosts on your jacket and pants, defense on your boots and shirt, and health on your gloves—they also double as gauntlets. Grieves—I asked for health there too, but stayed with a stealth boost on your cloak. I had a defense boost woven into your helmet, but I know you don’t like them, so I made them stitch a small holding pocket inside your cloak, so you can stash it and still get the boost. Did I get it right?”

  I widened my eyes, blinking to try and assimilate all he’d just told me. Then I chose not to worry about it, slipping out of my clothes and jumping into my new gear. It fit me like a second skin, but as I discarded my old stuff, my vial of shadowmana called to me, and I quickly bent and retrieved it, holding it close, hiding it from the light. Pog immediately understood.

  “Belt,” he said, nodding emphatically and disappearing out back in
search of Thalbear where a heated conversation filtered back to us.

  “A remarkable, young boy,” Curmeyder said. “Remarkable. Such a shame one so young has to be defined by his ability to kill.”

  His words were true, to a degree, but also way too shallow. “Killing doesn’t define Pog. He only does it when he has no other choice. That guilt lies with this land, not him. No, Pog is defined by his ambition and the way he plays. He is masterful. His wit and craft are without parallel.”

  “Qualities I can sense but have never seen.”

  “Oh, you can see them all right, if you choose to look. You just witnessed how he looks after me because he knows this clothing is not a specialty of mine. He knows I’ll accept what I’m given, whereas he will demand it’s perfect for me.”

  Curmeyder pursed his lips. “Indeed, and his gold seems without limit.”

  “Well,” I replied, with a shrug. “First and foremost, he is a thief.”

  Curmeyder lent me a lingering look. “He’s very lucky to have you.”

  I didn’t reply. I couldn’t. He didn’t know the half of it.

  Pog returned. “He’s making the belt now. I’m all done.”

  “So what stats have you got?” I asked.

  Cocking his head, he screwed up his face. “Mind your business. Just know, if I were to throw a knife at you, I’m fifty-two percent more deadly than I was.”

  “So you’re never going to miss: is that what you’re telling me?”

  “Never, and look at my cloak.” He swirled around, vanishing. I felt a tap on my shoulder and spun around to see his face beaming up. “Uses ninety percent less spell power, which means I can stay invisible for much longer.”

  “Cool. What about my stats?”

  “We’ve doubled your magic attack, much the same with your defense, and fifty percent more health. Only one problem, I’m down to my last million in gold.” Pog winked at me and laughed.

  Curmeyder gulped.

  Thalbear cursed under his breath, returning with the belt. “If you have so much, why bargain so hard?” He knelt, fastening the belt around my midriff. “Now, I’ve made it as required; all vials will be stored on the inside, though I can make slight alterations depending on what design Aldus and his gang of severely drunk magicians come up with.”