by Lana Nielsen
“The stars…” Arithel repeated dreamily, and although her mind eagerly embraced the wonder and mystery of such a notion, she couldn’t forget that it was Fallon she was talking to. He had never been entirely trustworthy, even when he was a cripple and especially not since his sudden reappearance as a changed, healed man.
“Well, how did it get here—or there, I should say—in Paden?” she asked.
“Morden says it was probably forged from the ore of a meteor. They used to hit Linnea with great regularity in ancient times. There are craters all over Paden which give credence to that. Imagine—an entire civilization evolving around rocks falling from the sky.”
“An interesting thing to consider. I’d like to see this city of ruins for myself one day,” Arithel said.
“You will.”
“Does it work? What does it do? Or is it too old to work?”
“You know, Arithel, I can hear the scorn in your voice. You’re very bad at hiding it. Just watch.” He gently pushed a button on the back end of the metallic cylinder, then pulled in a tiny lever that protruded from the underside of the handle. He aimed the device like a crossbow at a nearby tree; a brilliant cobalt flame erupted soundlessly from its tube and engulfed the entire trunk with a wreath of fire. Within seconds, the fire vanished into smoke, revealing a hole about the size of a closed fist, bored clean through the trunk to the other side.
“Dear Agron,” Arithel remarked breathlessly. With a laugh, she admitted, “That certainly wasn’t imported from Nureen.”
“Do you believe me now?” he demanded.
“Aye, it’s incredible. Where does the fire start? Is the supply endless? You didn’t even have to stuff any powder in the barrel. And it burns blue—such an unnatural color!”
“So far, that seems to be the case,” Fallon acknowledged. He pulled his hand out from under the fitted protective covering of the device’s handle.
The weapon may as well have been magic. To Arithel, it was confirmation of mysterious forces at work in the world, confirmation that she hadn’t been entirely out of her mind when she encountered the spectral changeling woman with her soulless, lidless black gaze.
“Could I try it out?” Arithel asked.
Fallon looked surprised she had asked. He handed it over and warned her to be careful. Arithel wrapped her hand around the grip, which had a texture like mother-of-pearl. The device was lighter than it looked, probably less than two pounds. A kind of heat emanated from its core, its energy coursing from the metal to her fingertips and shooting throughout her body. Her vision became clearer, her hand steadier. She felt a slight shock as she pressed the lever and the blue stream of fire gushed from the narrow opening of the tube, just as before, immersing the poor tree in a brilliant inferno of light. It was a truly remarkable sight to behold, and in that brief moment before the smoke appeared in the fire’s wake, she felt invincible, unconquerable, like some pagan goddess of old, the device merely an extension of her will. It was truly awesome to consider the effect the weapon might have on a man. She pictured the big raider’s heart liquefying as blue-white heat cooked him from the inside out. She shuddered, and fired the weapon several more times with little consideration for aim.
“Easy, Ari…” Fallon laughed. She hesitantly surrendered it back to him.
“Do you realize what we could do with this?” she said, her eyes glittering excitedly. “No one could stand in our way. We could kill ten men before they’d even have the chance to strike at all.”
“It’s possible, but it’s a device of special purpose and last resort. If word got out of this, half the continent would be hounding us day and night to steal it. As wondrous as it is, I don’t think that it could fend off the inevitable hordes of seasoned mercenaries.”
“We could find a way to use it in stealth. Just once, against the men who took Anoria,” Arithel suggested.
“That’s supposing you can find them at all.”
“Right,” Arithel muttered, disheartened.
Fallon wrapped the device again and Arithel sat against a tree. Her mind was racing.
“Fallon,” Arithel said.
“Yeah?” He sat down beside her.
“Do you know anything else about this—well, it sounds silly to say it—magic? Have you ever seen sorcery expressed someplace else? I know there are claims that Tiresias is a sorcerer, but I never believed it. I always figured it was just a rumor made up to explain how he came to power.”
Fallon sat beside her. “No, I’ve never seen it expressed otherwise. I also am not sure if the claims about Tiresias are true. Morden once served Tiresias—he was one of his chief physicians and advisors, just as he is now to the Padenite King. But he won’t discuss Tiresias more than he has to and he doesn’t like to talk of his life in Nureen. I suppose I’m not important enough to know one way or another.”
“You’re out running his errands; he gave you a rare and wondrous artifact from a pile of ruins. You’re obviously important enough for your employer to trust you a great deal,” Arithel said.
“I hope so,” Fallon smiled. He placed his hand over her forearm gently, only to turn it into an awkward sort of thankful pat. She sighed. “Ari, why do you ask all these questions about sorcery? Do you have some anecdote to share?” he asked, almost accusingly.
Arithel laughed. “What do you mean by that? Of course, I don’t.”
“Are you sure?” he said smugly, his eyes drifting to the stone which hung about her neck. She stuffed it further beneath her smock.
“Well, I’ll tell you the truth.” She desperately wanted to confess about the accidental killing of the changeling woman and how she had dumped the body into the river, and of course, the entire prolonged case of bad luck that had struck afterward. Though Fallon was her friend and would probably be understanding enough about the matter, she was wary. After all, the woman had probably been someone significant, perhaps even one of his own noble relatives, judging by her jewels and dress. “Something strange, to say the least, did occur back in Aelfelm, in the forest just outside Darren’s village.”
“Do tell.”
Arithel recounted the whole situation, in as vivid of detail as possible—the stone disc, the runes rising from the rocks to coil about her legs, the beautiful, veiled woman and her warning.
Fallon lifted his brows. “I don’t know if I’d call that sorcery, but it’s certainly intriguing. What did the woman say to you?”
“She called out my full name twice and said, ‘You must listen to me, for only you can see. I am not Tifalla. Don’t let him out of your sight—seek the light at the edge of the world,’” Arithel answered, staring at the ground with slight discomfort as she repeated the story.
“Hmm. Sounds too vague to mean anything. Darren’s mother was likely a hedgewitch, one of those wayward women who master the arts of illusion and maleficence but little else. It’s not true sorcery. There was probably some residual charm left over the altar,” Fallon said in a most nonchalant manner. His response suggested that he was more familiar with magic than he let on.
“Aye, that possibility crossed my mind. Darren said the authorities were afraid to go near the place. They thought it was cursed.”
Fallon nodded, and gazed upon Arithel almost ominously.
“What?” she said.
“Has anything else like that happened before, anything at all?”
“Nothing comes to mind.” Arithel swallowed a lump in her throat. Why couldn’t she just tell him? It wasn’t like any consequences existed three years after the fact—she hoped. “What are you?” she laughed. “The inquisitor out for my confession?”
Fallon didn’t appreciate the joke. “What was Ronan like?” he asked suddenly.
Arithel’s jaw dropped. He knew—he had to know! That fool, Ronan, had probably admitted what happened to the entire Veselte clan long before his wedding. They had surely interrogated him before deeming him a suitable match for Corinne. No doubt Arithel was portrayed as the scheming villainess
who goaded him into the terrible deed. “Er… why exactly would you ask that?”
“I was just thinking of Corinne,” Fallon said in a faraway tone. “I wonder how her life is going. I probably should have stayed longer after the wedding, given her the proper send-off.”
“Oh,” Arithel murmured. This was surprising. She had to stop jumping to the worst of conclusions. “There isn’t much to say. Ronan is and always has been a coward and a fool.”
Fallon clasped his hands together. “I’d venture that a coward wouldn’t have risen from the rank of assistant pig-keeper to favorite of General Arderon.”
Arithel sighed deeply and scratched at her neck. “Oh hell, you’re right. I just haven’t forgiven him—for breaking our betrothal,” she clarified. “I suppose he was destined for greater things than me all along. He was brave, kind, and hard-working—if a bit thick in the head. Not to mention strong—a great shot, a superb fencer.”
“I don’t like him either, you know, never did,” Fallon said.
“I know.”
***
The following day they continued walking, once again expecting to reach the other side of the forest by mid-afternoon. However, nightfall arrived and the scenery remained the same. Fallon continuously checked his compass with a worried look. Arithel twice glanced over his shoulder and noticed the pointer spinning about wildly. Each time, he hastily stuffed the instrument back in his bag.
Arithel supposed he was reluctant to admit it was broken.
She suggested they retrace their steps and return to the road. They tried this strategy, but were unable to follow their trail longer than a hundred yards before their footprints vanished into the mud.
“We’ve probably been ensnared by some fell spirits,” Darren remarked in a worried voice.
“We’re fine. Fallon’s navigation skills were just a little off. We’ll make it through soon,” Arithel said.
She looked about to ensure that Fallon was sufficiently out of earshot. “I will say, though, it feels like we are too far east. What are we, halfway to Ialori?”
“The steppes must be near… we’ll get rounded up by horsemen and thrown on their fire god’s pyres…” Darren moaned.
“We’re not going east,” Fallon spoke up, his eyes flashing angrily at the two of them. “We just took a wrong turn. I think we’re going in circles. The terrain is all quite similar; it’s not hard to do.”
“You’re saying we’re hopelessly lost?” Darren sighed.
“You were looking for adventure, weren’t you?” Fallon replied sharply.
“This isn’t what I had in mind, necessarily,” Darren admitted.
“Of course. It’s always the same old story with you rustic types, isn’t it? Tell me, Darren, what did you expect?” Fallon walked towards him confrontationally.
“I don’t know, I just wanted to help Arithel find her sister,” he answered deferentially, glancing about with uncertainty. “You know, to do some good in this world, to fight for what’s right...” His voice was barely audible by the time he finished.
Arithel cringed.
The third day in Wilderwood was marked by yet more monotonous trekking. All hope for a way out had faded. Fallon was visibly panicked, his pale complexion tinted green with worry. Arithel silently assumed lead position as he started blabbering about how foolish his decision to take the short-cut was. He apologized repetitively to both of them and waxed on about how they were probably doomed, because all of his plans were failures from the start. This whining, self-pitying Fallon was the one she had known so well in her youth.
The height of their misfortune was the realization that their canteens were empty. Only Arithel had enough water to hear it sloshing around. She shared a little of what remained. To her great annoyance Fallon attempted to take more than his fair share, gulping the water greedily.
“You should stop smoking until we find our way out. It’ll just make you thirsty,” Arithel snapped as she snatched her flagon from his parched lips. A few drops spilled on the ground.
“I would if I could,” he said, evading her gaze.
“What is that supposed to mean?” she scoffed.
“I get the shakes if I don’t do it every so often, and I feel ill.”
Arithel pitied him. She knew the cause of his habit. He had been dying. But he couldn’t take all the water.
“It does not matter. You will have to make do until we get through this, understand?”
Fallon nodded. He pushed the hair from his face. His shoulders were hunched and he stayed close to Madroste. He petted the animal, leaning into her while he walked. He kept muttering about how useless he was, how he wasn’t worthy of the Veselte name nor his master Morden’s trust.
Darren caught up to Arithel and whispered, “Is he going to be all right? It’s like he’s a different man.”
“He’ll manage. You’ll have to come to expect this sort of behavior. He was sickly as a child; he still hasn’t gotten over that.” She realized her explanation probably sounded like an excuse.
“I don’t know if it’s that. Nobles and rich folk act like this the world over. They pitch fits, they take whatever they want, say whatever they want, and are more than happy to make everyone else around them miserable. Thank Agron the Nureenians have put a few in their place,” Darren whispered.
Arithel sighed. There was some truth to what he was saying, but Fallon had never been a typical nobleman. His parents hadn’t indulged him as a child; they had neglected him, leaving him alone in his room with nurses and tutors. Faldros had little patience for his son or his illness—he was far kinder to Corinne, Arithel, or even his attendants’ children than he was to Fallon. When Arithel asked Lord Veselte a question, she was answered with an easy smile and long, rambling stories, often referencing old myths and fairy tales. Fallon’s inquiries were met with tight-lipped, curt replies. Lady Laranthiel was worse; she subjected Fallon to the tortures of quacks and regularly berated the boy, blaming his “bad air” for the sudden deaths of the five boys she had borne after Corinne. Only when it became clear that the Veseltes would not have another son did they send Fallon to the west for proper treatment of his condition.
“Be quiet—he’ll hear you,” was all Arithel said to Darren.
Around noon the travelers came upon a small creek. With great relief, Arithel and Darren refilled their canteens.
“I don’t think there’s any point. The water will make us sick. It’s too still, too murky,” Fallon said.
“We have little other choice—we can boil it. It’ll hold us over until we get out of the wood,” Arithel said.
Within three hours, both Arithel and Darren were puking in the bushes. They had to stop walking. Fallon sat in the hollows of a rotting stump and smoked. “This is it for us. There’s no way we’ll get out alive. We’re probably already dead and this is limbo,” he said, his voice muffled by the corner of the pipe in his mouth.
“Would you stop?” Arithel groaned as she wiped her mouth. Nausea overcame her and she barfed again. She cursed the stench. “Start boiling more water. We’ll add a little of your whiskey to it this time,” she ordered weakly, and Fallon complied.
“Do you hear that?” Darren asked Arithel.
“What?”
“Bells. I hear bells. Dear Agron, it’s a miracle!” Darren laughed maniacally. Despite his nausea, he leapt to his feet and kicked out his legs in what appeared to be some peasant jig.
Sure enough, within seconds Arithel heard bells too, ringing merrily through the open spaces of the forest. The sound drew closer.
“Over here!” Darren cupped his hands over his mouth and hollered. “Right here! Help us! Please! We’re by the big oak tree!” Arithel collapsed onto her knees in a combination of relief, exhaustion, and lingering uncertainty.
Fallon whacked Darren on the side of the head with his notebook.
“We don’t know who or what is out there,” he hissed.
“Does it matter? Whoever is there can deli
ver us from this wasteland!” Darren said. Fallon pressed his hand over Darren’s mouth as the boy prepared to shout again.
“Just wait a second. I’m going to go take a look. The two of you stay here,” Fallon ordered, his self-pitying demeanor vanishing.
Darren huffed and Arithel nodded for him to agree with Fallon.
Fallon crept forward through the undergrowth, gingerly pushing aside hanging plants. His sword was drawn, the blade glinting brightly in the shadows. Arithel held Madroste’s reins and tried her best to quell the horse’s pathetic whinnying. She and Darren waited under the cover of a willow tree.
Arithel heard a distant rustling, the sound of approaching footsteps. Fallon reappeared from beyond a copse of trees, with a hunched old woman by his side. She had only one eye; a leather patch covered the other. She held a cane in one hand and a long rope in the other. At the end of the rope was a skinny white cow with four brass bells jingling around its collar.
“This is Elspeth,” Fallon said, introducing the crone. “She lives nearby. She promises food and shelter for a night if we assist with a few chores in the morn. Her house is at the edge of the wood, thank Agron.”
Arithel sighed with relief.
“Hellooo,” the woman said in a gravelly, wavering voice. She handed her calf’s rope to Fallon and extended a wrinkled, trembling hand towards Arithel. She stepped forward and shook it gently, not wanting to tear the woman’s thin mottled skin, which was stretched like wax paper over the fine bones of her hands and fingers. The sight of such decay made Arithel shudder.
“Nice to meet you, Elspeth. I’m Arithel. I can’t thank you enough for taking us in. Wilderwood was driving us mad.”
“It often has that effect,” Elspeth cackled and stretched her hand towards Darren. He only stared in response. Arithel nudged him with her elbow and he reluctantly accepted the lady’s hand.
“D… dar... Darren,” he stuttered. When Elspeth let go of his hand, he noticeably recoiled and edged towards Madroste. Arithel wasn’t sure what his issue was—pious folk like himself were typically quite obliging of the pitiful and decrepit. Anoria always had been.