by Giles Carwyn
If it hadn’t been for that little golden ball, Ossamyr would probably have died on that mountain. She’d deliriously risen to her feet moments after Arefaine had fled with the corrupted Carriers in pursuit. She’d followed them in a daze, feeling no pain. Her mind was fixated on saving Brophy and killing Arefaine, but she only got a hundred paces before collapsing in the mud, unable to think, unable to move. She didn’t know how long she lay there in the rain, but she awoke when the little golden light touched her lips.
Its touch seemed to draw her out of the fog. She examined her wound for the first time. It went all the way through her body, entering just to the left of her navel and exiting alongside her spine. Her lower body was soaked with blood, and she instantly thought of that night in Physendria when Brophy held her through her miscarriage.
It was a fatal wound, she knew it the moment she saw it, but she couldn’t leave Brophy up there with that demon child and her corrupted henchmen. Her task still wasn’t finished. She had to see the job through. The golden light seemed to sense her conviction and lent her strength. She gathered her ani and sent it to bind her wound. The chip of light emmeria throbbed within her belly, aiding her efforts, lending her reserves of strength she never would have had.
After a few minutes she was strong enough to stand and continue up the mountain. She hadn’t gone far before pausing at a curve in the trail. The roar of the waterfall was ahead. She peered through some ferns and saw the destroyed bridge. The wooden planks were warped and splintered and the near side of the mountain was blighted. The vegetation for fifty feet in every direction had been disintegrated. The rocks and earth had been scorched and little mud slides of black ooze had pooled on the trail.
The mountain was still green on the far side of the bridge, and Ossamyr nearly overlooked the naked figure huddled beneath the ferns. Arefaine lay in the mud with her arms clutching a filthy dress to her chest. Her shoulder was a bloody mess. For a brief moment, Ossamyr thought the girl was dead, but peering closer, she realized the girl was crying. Silent sobs rippled through her body.
Ossamyr drew her dagger from its blood-stained sheath and looked for a way to get around the destroyed bridge. The sides of the rain-soaked slope were nearly vertical. Even at her best, she probably couldn’t make that climb, and she certainly couldn’t do it with stealth. She briefly considered charging the shattered bridge and jumping across the gap. But she didn’t have the strength.
She looked again at Arefaine Morgeon huddled in the rain. Had the girl finally looked in a mirror and seen her true self? Had she actually been surprised when that fountain of black emmeria came flooding out of her? And where was Brophy? Where were her guards? Had she killed them when she destroyed the bridge? Were they waiting for her at the bottom of the waterfall?
Ossamyr set aside her questions when she felt a trickle of fresh blood warm on her hip. She’d let her concentration waver. Wincing, she refocused on her wound, squeezing it together.
With a sigh, she let go of hope. Any chance of killing the sorcerer was lost. Ossamyr had lost the element of surprise. Her prey was beyond her, in distance and in power, and Ossamyr would soon die on this rain-soaked mountain without sanctuary or mourning. Her mission had failed. Morgeon’s daughter would have to be stopped by another’s hand.
Ossamyr imagined the sea battle that would follow. How many thousands would lose their lives to stop that one woman? She looked back at the gap in the bridge. It was more than twenty feet across. She squeezed her dagger and took a deep breath. She would have to try.
The moment she made her decision, the golden soul light began to spin around her head. She could feel its feathery touch upon her mind, trying to dissuade her. She pushed it away in annoyance and continued to gather her power. A sudden series of images came to her mind: Brophy fighting the corrupted. Brophy clinging to the broken bridge, his skin turning black. Brophy falling, disappearing into the mists.
She shook the images from her mind, fighting the emotions that swept through her. Was it a trick? Was the light in league with Arefaine? Could that black-hearted creature have created anything of such tenderness and beauty?
She looked at the light, hovering before her. It had saved her life earlier, she was sure. Another image came to mind. This one showed her in a boat, cradling Brophy’s head in her lap.
“Do you know where he is?” she asked the little light.
It spun in a little circle, and she felt the warm glow of affirmation.
“You want me to help him?”
The same glow.
She looked at Arefaine one last time. The girl would have to wait.
Ossamyr opened her eyes, returning to the present. Her thoughts of the past had nearly lulled her to sleep. She had to keep moving or she would never make it.
She followed the light farther into the tunnel, one cautious step at a time.
She was nearly to the other side when a voice called from out of the shadows. “Who’s there?”
She froze, concentrating on her breathing, ensuring that her glamour was still in place before she said, “It’s all right. It’s me.”
“Who is me?” the voice asked, calm and unbending. It was a man’s voice with an Ohohhim accent, and it seemed to be coming from above her.
Ossamyr drew her knife. Was her glamour slipping? She couldn’t tell. Reaching out with her awareness, she tried to probe the darkness, but all she could see was a vague fog.
“The light brought me,” she admitted.
“Shara-lani?”
A chill ran up her spine. “No. Ossamyr-lani.”
“Who?”
She shuffled closer, wincing with every step, and peered into the darkness above her. The light zipped away from her and hovered before a jagged opening in the wall, illuminating a middle-aged man with a powdered face and rough-spun robes.
“Who are you?” Ossamyr asked.
“Just a moment,” the man said, and disappeared.
A few seconds later, stone scraped on stone and a door swung inward a few feet from her. Flickering torchlight filled the dim tunnel, and the man from the broken window emerged. He was small, several inches shorter than Ossamyr, and she sensed nothing threatening from him. His silhouette showed no weapons at his waist, and he seemed relieved to see her.
“Who are you?” she asked again.
“I am Father Dewland, a humble priest of Oh. I sent the soul light looking for help. I didn’t expect it to return so quickly, and I didn’t expect it to bring you.”
“You expected Shara? Where is she?”
The priest came closer, and the light followed him, hovering above his shoulder. He looked at her carefully. “You love him. That is why it brought you.”
“I love who?”
“Come,” he said. “I will show you.”
Turning, he led her through the concealed doorway. Hesitating a moment, she followed, scanning the darkness with her eyes as well as her magic. No guards leapt out to grab her, but her heart pounded in her chest, waiting for a trap.
Dewland ascended a series of narrow, musty stairs. She struggled after him, one painful step at a time. She kept one hand on her belly and one on the wall to steady herself. The climb seemed interminable, and she envisioned the stairway opening into the grand ballroom of the palace. She would appear covered with blood and slime to find Arefaine on a high throne smiling her wicked smile. She would point a finger at Ossamyr, and black fire would erupt from her finger, searing her, as the laughter reverberated through the—
“Are you ill?” the priest asked, placing his hand on her shoulder.
Ossamyr shook her head. She’d slumped against the wall, nearly falling asleep.
“I’m injured,” she said.
The soul light flew closer to her belly, and Dewland saw her shiny, blood-soaked skirt.
“Oh, dear,” he said. “I didn’t see…How bad is it?”
“It should have been fatal. It still might be.”
“What happened?”
&nb
sp; She brushed aside his question with her hand. “Is Brophy up there? I can’t make these steps if he’s not.”
“He is up there, but—“
“She infected him?”
He paused before nodding. “She is the only one who could.”
Ossamyr clenched her fists. “She did the same thing to her guardsmen. I was there.”
Dewland was silent.
“Her own men tried to kill her,” she said. “They failed.”
Dewland let out a breath. “Do you know if she harmed them intentionally?”
“Does it matter?”
“Of course it matters. Very much.”
Ossamyr’s mouth set in a line. “Just bring me to Brophy.”
He bowed to her and offered his arm to help her up the steps, but she didn’t accept it.
After a short time they reached a gaping hole in the middle of the staircase. A pulley hung from an iron loop embedded in the ceiling and a length of rope lay coiled at the edge of the pit. Ossamyr heard a rumbling hiss from below.
“Is he in there?”
“He is.”
She peered over the edge but saw only darkness.
“Is he dead?”
“No, he is dreaming.”
“Dreaming?”
“I believe so. When I first found him, he was completely corrupted, a mindless beast. He flew into a frenzy when he first fell in the pit, but after time, he seemed to calm himself and fell asleep. I believe he returned to the dreams that held him for so many years. He knows how to fight the corruption there. That is where he knows how to survive. I cannot imagine the act of will it took for him to do that.”
“Can I see him?”
Dewland touched his torch to an unlit brand sitting in the wall sconce. When it caught fire, he dropped his torch into the pit. It flickered on the way down, nearly going out, but it surged back to life after hitting the sand at the bottom of the pit.
Brophy lay sleeping on his side, curled up like a child. His clothes were in tatters. As she watched, a black stripe slithered across his cheek to the edge of his mouth and disappeared. Another spot darkened on his shoulder, then faded.
“What do you want me to do?” Ossamyr asked.
“I want you help him, get him to someplace safe and draw the emmeria out of him.”
Ossamyr nodded. Her strength was almost at an end. She couldn’t even heal herself, let alone draw this darkness out of Brophy. Shara was the one with the knowledge and strength for this task. But Shara was an ocean away and there was no one else.
“I can help him,” she said, hoping it was true. “But not here. I have friends waiting for me offshore.” She imagined Reef finding her with Brophy’s head in her lap and forced the thought from her mind. “They can help him.”
“No,” Dewland said. “You have to help him here. He must not leave the city.”
“I can’t help him here.”
Dewland paused. Finally he spoke in a quiet voice. “I remember now who you are. I have heard your name before. You are the Physendrian queen who became a Zelani.”
Ossamyr said nothing.
“The sea witch, they call you. The mother of storms. You have been seeking a way around the Silver Islanders, trying to reach Efften.”
She nodded.
“What did you seek there?”
“Containment stones to pull the black emmeria out of Brophy and end his slumber.”
“That is all you sought?”
“Yes. I have no interest in horrors buried in Efften.”
“Yet you came here to kill the Awakened Child.”
“I thought you wanted me to help Brophy.”
“I do. But you cannot take him from us. He must guide Arefaine through these difficult moments. She is our salvation.”
Ossamyr shook her head. “I know what evil whispers into that woman’s ears. I have looked into its eyes and seen what it wants. I came here to prevent another Nightmare Battle. To prevent one a hundred times worse.”
“But Arefaine is the key—”
“She is the key that will unlock that silver tower!” she exclaimed, wincing at the pain in her belly.
“True. She could release the traitor. But she is also the only one who could cage him forever.”
She laughed, short and sharp. “And what are the chances of that? Your ‘salvation’ nearly killed Brophy,” she said, pointing into the pit. “A man she was trying to make love to ten minutes before.”
Dewland sighed. “She is impulsive.”
“She’s not impulsive, she is evil.”
“She is the only chance we have,” he said solemnly.
She looked away and her bedraggled hair fell across her cheek in tangled ropes. “Will you help me get him to my friends or not?” she said in a low voice. “The only other person who can help him is your precious empress, and she will kill him.”
Ossamyr thought of Arefaine crying in the rain somewhere up on the mountain. How long would it take her to recover? How long until she found them?
Dewland bowed his head. At first, she thought he was struggling with his temper, but then she realized he was praying. When he looked up at her, his gaze was serene. “Oh has foreseen the parts that Arefaine and Brophy must play,” he said softly. “He knows they must face this test together.” He gave her a sad smile. “And yet he has also led the two of us to this time, this place, this decision. We cannot abandon the divine path simply because we cannot see where it leads.”
They stared at each other. The only sound to be heard was the distant hiss of Brophy’s labored breathing.
“Wait here,” Dewland said. “I will arrange for a boat.”
The golden soul light circled Ossamyr’s head twice and then disappeared down the dark stairs.
Chapter 13
Arefaine slowly stopped crying and started shivering.
The rain spattered the bare skin of her shoulders and back, and she curled into a tighter ball, rocking herself back and forth. A creeping numbness seeped into her bones and she welcomed it. She liked feeling nothing, she longed for it.
Keeping her eyes closed, she concentrated on the slow steady swaying of her body. She could smell the rain, the damp earth, and the saltiness of her own tears in the back of her throat. As a child, she had rocked like this on many long nights while listening to the rain. She would take a blanket from her bed and curl up on the bench beneath her open window. She was always alone at night. Her attendants would bathe her and dress her for bed before leaving without a word. She’d learned to stop sleeping while very young and spent the long dark hours rocking herself and listening to the rain, dreaming of a place she’d never been.
Her earliest memories were of being alone in the darkness. Anguished voices swirled all around her, and she’d curled up tight to get away from them. Three hundred years she’d spent alone in the endless night, longing for a touch of warmth, a familiar voice.
And what did the Ohohhim do when she was finally released? They left her alone. Always alone. In the dark. In the rain. With screaming voices all around.
She felt a slight warmth on her cheek and opened her eyes. Lewlem’s golden soul light hovered in front of her, pushing at her with his false hopes. He had come back to her. After leaving her alone for hours, he had finally come back to her.
A pain seeped into her belly to match the crushing ache in her chest, and the insistent throbbing of her shoulder. Reaching up, she cupped the little light in her palm. It trembled in her hand and she squeezed, imaging her fist turning black, blotting out the glow within. The pain in her stomach grew, creeping up her body, filling her chest, her arms, her head.
Lewlem fluttered in her hand, trying to escape. She wrapped the darkness around him. She hated him. He was part of their plan, the conspiracy to crush her with solitude, to make her into a gaping, needy child, starved for a kind word or tender touch.
They had nearly done it. They had nearly destroyed her with white powder, black robes, and golden curls.
&nbs
p; The dark fire surged within her, and she sat up, clutching the treacherous light in both fists. She gritted her teeth and stoked the flames, hurling blackness against the light. The soul within fought frantically, desperate to escape her grip.
“You did this to me,” she whispered. The golden glow grew weaker, slowly fading to nothing. She took a shuddering breath and looked at her palms. A faint gray vapor rose from her skin. It mixed with the swirling rain and disappeared.
She felt a sudden loss as if a steady pressure had been removed from her shoulders. She would never again be manipulated by that meddling spirit. Lewlem was gone.
“Well done, my daughter. The last of your chains are breaking.”
Arefaine turned toward the calm and reassuring voice. A man crouched next to her in a green sarong that whipped in the wind. His chest was bare, and the rain fell through him. A trim goatee came to a point just below his chin.
“Father? Is that you?” She reached out, and her hand passed through the image.
“Not yet, child,” her father said with a sad smile. “You see nothing more than a phantom, an empty shade. But this is the closest we have ever been. Our time is near.”
“But why now? Why did you wait so long?”
He gestured toward her hands. “Your companion stood between us. He kept me at bay all these years; otherwise I would have been with you every moment.”
“Lewlem? Why would they keep us apart?”
Her father brushed his insubstantial hand across her face. The slight warmth made her realize how cold she was. “You know their plans for you. They wish to douse the sacred flames. They want us and our kind gone forever.”
Arefaine nodded, remembering Brophy’s words.
A sob caught in her throat at the thought of him in the cave, standing naked before her, his face contorted with rage.
She had tried not to think of him, tried not to feel the weight of his betrayal. She told herself she didn’t care whether he lived or died, but she had to know. One way or the other, she had to know.
Taking a deep breath, she gathered her power.
“Hush,” her father told her. “Rest. The Ohndarien boy is dead. He died in the fall.”