by Luke Tarzian
5
Presage
“Are we there yet?” Cailean said. He gave his black shaghound a pat on the neck and the giant dog barked its approval. Keepers, but these beasts were beautiful. Nothing like riding a hound the size of a bear into battle to make a man piss himself with excitement.
“You asked me the same thing an hour ago,” Theailys said. “What do you think?”
Cailean scanned the vast plains, tall grass bent beneath the will of the rain. “I think,” he said, “I can hardly feel my ass. My pants are soaked through and last night was the hardest fuck I’ve had in a while. Imagine trying to fit a tree trunk—”
“I really don’t want to,” Theailys interjected.
Cailean chuckled. “I also think my flask is dryer than the desert lands of Nevithal.”
Theailys rolled his eyes, reached into his coat, and produced a wineskin that had quite clearly been shown love over the years. Cailean grinned and yanked it from his hand. He uncorked it and took a meaningful sip, letting the liquid set fire to his bones in the best way it could.
“So. Where’s your shield?” Theailys asked.
Cailean’s left eye twitched. “Elsewhere.” He took another swig from the skin, hoping it would dispel the perpetual itch the crystalline barrier’s absence invoked. “Why?”
Theailys shrugged. “Just curious. You are a Warden, after all.”
“Hmm. How ‘bout that,” Cailean mused wryly. “I s’pose I am.”
Theailys frowned. “Fine. Sorry I asked.”
Cailean drank the rest of the wine but it was of little use. The memories scratched for release like a bitch at the door. So much light. So much blood. And the screams…well. Those were something else entirely, like a newborn child flayed alive then cooked in a pot (and fuck all if that wasn’t the most horrific thing he had seen in his life). He eyed Theailys, cursed with demon smoke, and felt envy. Confined to the Hall and subject to blackouts—this prick had it easy compared to those who had fought on the front. Cailean gnashed his teeth. What I wouldn’t give for some fucking amnesia and a second dead eye.
Or a quick end to this miserable life after war. A blade through the heart. An axe to the neck. A mace to the skull. Whatever it took to move on.
Whatever it took to forget.
* * *
Avar smelled of fresh rain and apple pie, of wet stone and dirt. Cailean let the myriad perfumes consume him as he brushed off memories of war and dreams of blood. The click-clack of horseshoes and the buzzing din of people bustling to and fro quelled screams and snapping bones, shaghound barks the cackling of demons. Keepers, how he’d missed this place.
He drank alone at the tavern bar, Theailys elsewhere, arguing with demons of his own. Least that boy has company, Cailean thought as liquid fire warmed his flesh. He paused to reconsider his impression of Theailys, then shrugged. At this point a silhouette that whispered murder seemed a better corollary of war than did the nightmare memories it evoked. And I’ll bet the conversation’s interesting too.
He drank deep, inebriation stimulating further speculation. Was the voice, the shadow Theailys whined about, his demon smoke made manifest or was it wrought by phrenzka? The two men were less friends than they were acquaintances, so conversation on the topics of mirkúr and mental illness rarely came up, if ever. Searyn had mentioned her brother being subject to this thing since childhood but that shed little light on Cailean’s curiosity.
Maybe one’s a product of the other. He snorted into his mug. Shit, but I sound smarter when I’m drunk. His thoughts drifted to Harbanan, a city on the other side of the world, and an old life where one’s strength was relative to the potency of the whiskey they drank. An odd, nightmarish epoch, that. “Bar…” he half whispered, half slurred. “Once marked, always marked…” Another drink, and a memory surfaced with the force of a breaching whale.
* * *
A dusty purple and orange dusk provided light as they departed Avar and rode for Ulm. Cailean’s head ached something wretched as they rode, but then again it usually did. He ignored the feeling as best he could and snuck a glance Theailys’ way. “How you feeling?”
“Well enough,” Theailys said. “Rough morning. Thoughts were, are occupied by…you know.” He heaved a ragged sigh. “Do you think there’s a modicum of truth to any of it? To Searyn…” Cailean heard him swallow his nausea. “To Searyn…”
“Desecrating the deceased? Profaning Anayela’s corpse with demon smoke?” Cailean scratched his cheek. “Dunno.” Bar flashed across his mind. “Maybe.” He squeezed his eyes shut tight until the monster vanished from his thoughts. Then, he opened them and let the pastel dusk tattoo itself to memory. “One thing I’ve learned in all my years? Nothing is ever as it seems.” He swallowed the lump in his throat. “You guard your heart and guard it well, my friend. Once you let the devil in there ain’t no letting go. Once marked, always marked.”
* * *
Cailean sat in the tavern at Ulm, predictably of course. Unpredictably, he hadn’t had a single drink, though the night was young enough that things could change. Keepers, why am I even here? He snuck a glance at the bar, at the woman tending to the myriad inebriated fucks. She’d grown older in the eyes; she appeared stretched thin as some might say, though her hair was as beautiful as ever, like deep red fire. She looked angrier as well, though that could have been because the woman two stools to the left had just retched rum and wine.
Fuck it. Cailean stood and strode across the room. He took up the lone remaining stool and rested his elbows on the bar. “Doing all right, Leyandra?”
She paused in her attempt to clean the vomit. “Five years,” she hissed. “Five years without a word, and you have the audacity to ask if I’m all right?” She wiped away the rest of the muck and tossed the rag at Cailean’s face. “Fuck off.”
Cailean ducked and it smacked the floor behind him. He sighed, resting his cheek against his fist. “I deserved that.” Leyandra crossed her arms and glared. “Deserve that look as well.”
“Truthfully, you one-eyed shit: why’re you here?”
“Here specifically, or…?” Leyandra’s glare persisted. Cailean grinned. “Heading south to freeze my sack off on phantaxian turf and fuck their king. Got a war to end and what not.”
Leyandra raised an eyebrow. “And the key to doing so is, what…a rectal climax?”
They stared at one another for a moment. Then Cailean winked and Leyandra sighed, unable to subdue her smirk. “You have a one-track mind, you stubbled bastard.” She leaned over the bar and kissed his cheek. “I’ve missed you. Not a soul here besides me who’s danced with Galska Nuul. Drank myself to sleep too many times to count while trying to make the memories disappear.”
Cailean nodded, wincing at the mention of that bastard fallen angel. “Yeah, me too. They’re a bitch.”
“You find what you were looking for?” Leyandra asked. “In the shit, against Te Mirkvahíl?”
“Just more of the same. Entropy, death…” He glanced at his mangled arm. “Failure.”
Leyandra produced a bottle of wine from under the bar. Already uncorked, she took a generous sip then passed it off to Cailean, who sucked down half before he set the bottle to the side. She gave his good hand a gentle squeeze. “Sorry to hear.”
“You look miserable.” Theailys took perch on the empty stool to Cailean’s left, his eyes bloodshot, a stupid grin stretched across his face.
“Who are you?” Leyandra asked. “And what the hell have you been smoking?”
“Horse shit by the smell,” said Cailean, wrinkling his nose. “Ley, this idiot here’s Theailys An. He’s coming with me to fuck the phantaxian king.”
“For argentium!” Theailys added with an interjecting index finger. “To make a weapon.”
“Perdition…” Cailean sighed, “how much did you smoke?”
“Probably a bit too much,” Theailys said. He tilted his head, mouth agape. “…Why is there a dragon in the doorway?”
Ok
ay, Leyandra mouthed. She followed his gaze, then turned and took his hand. “Love. That’s a tabby.” To Cailean, “You should see this one to sleep. He clearly needs some rest.” Her eyes narrowed—she was lingering on a thought.
“Dawn,” Cailean said. “In case you were wondering.
Leyandra nodded. “I’m coming too. For old time’s sake.”
Theailys giggled, then stumbled backward over his feet and onto the floor.
“All right.” Cailean stood from his stool and hoisted the younger man up. “Come on you miserable sack. Let’s get you in a bed before you do something stupid.” He looked back, giving Leyandra a knowing wink. “See you tomorrow.”
6
Yssa
“I’ve always liked cliffs, especially these,” Fiel said as they sat and watched the clouds. Below them spanned the whole of the Frostlands, rocks, trees, and rivers mere dots and lines from this far up. “Makes me feel bigger than the world when I need to be. Gives me perspective when my ego runs amok.”
Serece smiled. “I agree.” She closed her eyes, basking in the chill breeze, letting it ease her mind, allowing her body to relax. “Mother always hated them.” Artemae had hated many things. “Do you think she will ever forgive me for what I did?”
Fiel wrapped an arm around her niece’s shoulders. “Hard to say.” Her eyes narrowed slightly, a small smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. “She wasn’t always so…—she was different once. Years before you came to be. Before Rejya, even. I suppose her character now is the consequence of past failures. A free-flowing river turned to ice.”
Serece tilted her head. “What do you mean?”
“Before your mother loved Undrensil she loved another,” Fiel said. “Phantaxis.”
Serece felt numb. She had an inkling as to where this conversation was headed and she did not like it, not one bit. “Sorin called me the royal bastard the other day.” Fiel’s grip tightened on her shoulders. Serece inhaled, then sighed shakily. “Phantaxis was my father, wasn’t he?”
Fiel nodded. “By blood, yes. But Undrensil is the man who raised you, the man who loved you unconditionally even after Artemae betrayed his faith. Phantaxis…” Her body tensed. “Phantaxis betrayed us all.”
“Is that why she hates me?” Serece asked. “Because I remind her of him?”
“I suppose,” Fiel said. “But Artemae is the only one who can say for sure.”
Serece gazed out at the world below, chest tight, tears at bay, anger nonexistent. She felt only sorrow—for her mother. Logic screamed she feel otherwise but she could not bring herself to do so. There was no point. Dwelling in misery would accomplish nothing and anger would only feed Yssa. Instead Serece focused on Undrensil and her memories of the man who’d been there for her every step of the way, even after she’d gone berserk and killed both Rejya and Taür. Keep doing that, she told herself. When everything feels dark, focus on the light.
“Where are we going?” she asked of her aunt. They’d been traveling half a day.
“To commune with Yssa,” Fiel said. “To see if we can’t soothe her soul.”
Serece cocked an eyebrow. “Her soul? I thought Yssa was just energy.”
Fiel stood and pulled Serece to her feet. “Our people are ignorant of much. If you could all understand her, know her as I have come to over the years, there might be hope for some change.”
Change would be welcome. The very mention of it, the way her aunt suggested the possibility of it made Serece swear she could almost feel the warmth the plague had deprived the phantaxians of so long ago.
“Lead the way.”
* * *
The temple sat atop a plateau a couple hours’ climb from the cliff Serece and Fiel had rested at. It stood at the other side of a bridge, built into the rock and ice. From its roof ascended the effigy of a woman, perhaps two or three hundred feet in height. Instinct suggested to Serece that this was Yssa, or at least one of her many manifestations.
Fiel strode toward and across the bridge with certainty and purpose, but Serece found herself hesitant now that they were finally here. There seemed a strange aura to this place, perhaps because Serece had only just learned of its existence. How long had it stood? When had it been built, and by whom? It wasn’t mentioned at all in the phantaxian archives, not as far as she was aware, nor had her father ever spoken of it. If he was ignorant of its existence Serece was sure the rest of her people were.
Serece hurried after her aunt, the wind whipping snow and ice. She pulled her hood a bit further past her face and crossed her arms to her chest as if the cold were, for once, not welcome. “What do you know of this temple’s history?”
“Little,” Fiel said. “Only as much as Yssa relays.”
“Who built it? When?”
“Not the phantaxians,” Fiel said. “A race called the Reshapers, and several thousand years ago. To what end I haven’t a clue.”
Serece had never heard of the Reshapers, but the fact these mountains had at one time been occupied by a race other than the phantaxians was certainly intriguing and perhaps explained the existence of Te Vétur Thae, which her people had stumbled upon and occupied even before their exile from Ariath.
The temple interior smelled of wet wind and rock. Illuminated wisps swam lazily through the air, casting pale yellow light about the anteroom. It was homely, welcoming in a way Serece had never thought a temple could be. The floor bore the inlay of a giant bird, its feathers fluctuating black to white to blue beneath the wispy light.
“Their god, I think,” Fiel said. “The Reshapers, I mean. I’ve seen this inlay in another temple elsewhere in the mountains.” She led Serece further in, down a hallway that fell into a descending, corkscrew stairway. The bottom leveled out into a dome-ceilinged room lit also by the wisps, at the far end of which stood a life-sized effigy of a woman, on whose shoulder perched a bird and beside whom stood a wolf. The rest of the room was decorated by a variety of childlike statues in motion, running through trees carved of stone. “This is where we first spoke.”
Serece approached the effigy, her steps measured as she gazed curiously about the sanctum. To think such a place as this existed within the rock and ice… She stopped a foot or two before Yssa’s statue, completely white save her eyes, which had been painted the color of spring. Keepers, who are you? It was an odd feeling to believe this was the source of bestial fury.
Serece twitched at a sudden tingling in the center of her mind, like something sifting through her thoughts. She looked back at Fiel, who smiled and gestured she kneel. Serece did so, instinctively closing her eyes so she might somehow look upon whatever or whomever had entered her mind. All she saw though was the blackness of closed lids. She sensed her aunt kneeling beside her, felt her take her hand, and relaxed a bit.
NOT WANT TO HURT, said a voice in Serece’s mind, soft and loud all at once. NOT WANT TO HURT. BUT NO MORE I CAN DO. NO MORE I CAN DO. NOT WANT TO HURT. Frantic, almost childish in a way.
Are…are you Yssa? Serece asked.
NOT WANT TO HURT, came the reply. NO MORE I CAN DO.
Serece tensed her jaw. Did you hurt someone? Did someone or something hurt you?
The sound of crying filled her mind. Sobbing, like that of a woman who’d just lost her child. Serece gritted her teeth; Fiel gripped her hand tighter and gave it a couple of reassuring squeezes.
NOT…WANT. NOT…I do NOT… The sobbing faded to sniffling. No more. No…more. A face manifested: the spring-eyed woman depicted in the effigy. I am sorry. I am sorry. I… She closed her eyes, tears squeezing between her lids and down her white cheeks. I hate when they hurt, for their hate makes me hurt. You— She reached out to Serece, and Serece started at the sensation of a soft hand caressing her cheek. Dear child of Phantaxis, I have hurt you so. Her expression darkened and she glanced away from Serece.
Serece swallowed. She imagined herself reaching out to this…spirit? Yssa. The woman responded to the name, wet eyes fixed on Serece, mouth slightly agape. Yssa, it h
urts me to see you so sad. Is there something I can do? Is there a way I can help you?
Fiel manifested in Serece’s mind. Yssa looked at her, then back at Serece. Fiel said you were kind, that you would offer me aid. Yssa approached, eyes wide, desperate. Please. You have to come. You have to free me from this awful place lest I destroy you and your people. Please!
Serece breathed shakily, adrenaline racing. She took Yssa’s trembling hands. All right. But…where? Free you from where?
Lea Mort, Yssa replied, her corporeality waning. The In Between. Please! Before it’s too late! She shrieked and Serece tumbled from the darkness of her own mind.
Serece looked to Fiel, the two back in the chamber they’d started in. “What just happened? What in Perdition is Lea Mort and The In Between?”
“The realm from which Yssa comes,” Fiel said. “A place of memories and spirits.”
Serece gawked at her aunt. “And you expect us to get there how, exactly?”
Fiel grimaced and pulled a dagger from her belt. “You aren’t going to like it.”
* * *
Varésh—Vare as he preferred these days—sighed. It was a pain in the ass being trapped here in The In Between and having to constantly masquerade as Yssa was beginning to take its toll, though he supposed he deserved it. All the blubbering and screaming, his accidental massacring of nearly half the phantaxian people—that woman Serece would not be remotely pleased when she learned his attempts to communicate had made her gut her sisters like swine—…it made him ache for a drink in the way a eunuch ached for his—
“You think I can’t smell you?”
Shit. Vare stumbled through the murk of this cave in Lea Mort. If he could flee this awful place and make it to the door at the lake, he might just be able to evade Phantaxis’ abominable spirit. Why did I ever think taking a nap this long would be a good idea, let alone in such a forsaken place as this? Lea Mort, The In Between land of the dead. There was already a middle ground somewhere in the Phantaxis Mountains, so why did The In Between need one of its own?