by E E Rawls
Draethvyle was Mother’s home. She wished she could ask her if she’d been happy growing up here, what life had been like, and why she later chose to leave...
“Is this where I belong?” she asked the air.
“Well, how do you feel?” Master Nephryte turned the question around. She kept forgetting how sharp vempar hearing was.
“I feel...” Cyrus wondered. “I don’t know how I should feel.”
The Master raised his head to the dawn as sunlight breathed across the cemetery. “Well, ultimately we belong with our Creator.” He winked. “But while we’re stuck on Eartha, where your family is, is where your home is. And I’d say you have a good-sized family here.”
She looked back at him, then up at the clouds. Harlow had stood up for her when no one else had. They wanted what was best for her, and weren’t afraid of being honest. That’s what family was, wasn’t it?
“Harlow is a nice home,” she said.
She recalled Cherish’s words. “I may not be able to become the same kind of Draev as everybody else in the future—but I won’t let that stop me. Instead, I look for the things I can do, and the different kind of Draev I can become.”
A different kind of Draev, that’s what Cyrus would have to be. And after winning the Duel, that finally seemed more possible.
Epilogue
The young human ran, her feet dodging littered branches and jutting rocks strewn across the woods. Trix didn’t know what monster was chasing her, only that she couldn’t trip or it would all be over for her.
She hurried in the direction of Elvenstone, legs pumping, desperately trying to move faster. Twigs snagged at her billowing shirt.
She scolded herself for coming out here alone, all for a basket of mushrooms that she’d had to cast aside in her haste to run.
The monster hissed at her back, and out the corner of her eye she could see tatters of black fabric, the glint of metal claws, and a bone face beneath a hood.
Her heart seized in fear, and her foot caught on a root.
She fell, slamming her knees in the ground, and scrambled to rise, before a clawed hand gripped the back of her neck. She tried to scream.
“Easy, now. Don’t kill her just yet, my Hound Corpsed.”
Footsteps approached, and Trix tried in vain to shift and see. Who had the power to control a Corpsed? She didn’t have long to think or panic before her vision went dark...
The air was cool, with the dampness of an underground cave. Trix trembled as she walked—a hand and knife point at her back steering her. A cloth around her head blinded her; wherever this was, it wasn’t the woods or anywhere familiar, and by the sound of it, many others were walking with her.
The hand gripped Trix, making her halt in place, and her knees shook in fear. The blindfold yanked off.
It took many blinks to adjust to the green fungus light ringing the walls of the cavern. She was standing in a line of other girls, their hands bound like hers, but the similarities didn’t end there: All of them had red hair, and all of them were human.
She tried to get a look back at the darkly garbed figures behind them, who held them captive, but the cloaks and hoods kept their faces concealed.
A stone platform jutted from the cave wall like a stage before the gathering, and a willowy figure soon strode across and took a seat in the large chair at the center.
“The Impure Nights greet you, Leader,” spoke the cloaked persons in unison.
The willowy vempar popped his wrists and cracked each of his fingers. “This is all you could find this week?” he said. His deep voice scratched like sand rolling in the wind.
“Forgive us, Leader,” spoke the cloaked figure behind Trix. “The new Corpsed haven’t been able to sniff out the Pure Light, just yet. But they are finding female humans of red hair. If the Swan Princess is somehow cloaking her power, we still have a chance at finding her this way. The girls need only be tested, one by one.”
“Very well, Deidreem.” The vempar on the throne, who they called Leader, let his long hand fall forward before flicking it with a pop. “Proceed.”
The first girl in line was dragged forward. Tears streaked her face as she begged for mercy and was made to kneel before the man. His fingers shot forward, gripping her neck, nails digging in as she screamed. The skin under his palm glowed for one painful moment, and then he released the girl with a shove. “The Pure Light is not in this one. Next.”
They went down the line, and when it was Trix’s turn and he grabbed her by the throat, she lost all control of her body and almost passed out. She barely felt the pain when her head hit the floor as he shoved her away.
“None passed the test—none of these are the Swan.” Leader growled. “Take them away, and put them to use in the experimental chambers.”
“Yes, Leader,” said Deidreem. “Don’t worry, we’ll find her. And when we do, the Vemparic Empire of old will rise again.”
Trix tried to sit up. “N-no...” she tried to say, tried to cry, as a dark cloak swept forward, and gray hands dragged her into the underground tunnels.
CYRUS LOOKED DOWN ONE of the meandering paths leading out of the large cemetery. The Master had left to pick up some iced lattes at a nearby café, and told her she could take her time in the meanwhile.
She stayed there before Mother’s grave, until she could gather her emotions and get her head back into gear, sending a prayer to Lord God before she left. It was a quiet walk, the air still, as if the eartha had taken a breath and now held it in. Too quiet.
K—krnch, k—krnch.
Cyrus stilled. What sounded like footsteps were dragging from somewhere ahead of her—a slow, uneven drag.
Just as she was about to hurry down a different way, a young figure dragged itself onto the path. Its head turned, and the ragged state of the body made her think it was an animal at first, until she recognized red hair and human ears.
A girl, no older than herself, stared back at her, and the whites of her eyes grew. With a stumble she came at Cyrus, mangled hands reaching out.
Cyrus backed away, fear jolting through her. But the girl limped forward, reaching.
“Red hair...female...human...”
Words that were barely audible spilled through the girl’s bleeding lips, her damaged fingers reaching. Chains dragged behind her ankles, as if she’d broken free from someplace.
“They’re looking for...looking for...”
The girl collapsed.
Cyrus cautiously approached her side. “What do you mean? Who’s looking for what? Here, I’ll help you.”
“Hide. Don’t tell anyone. Don’t let them...find you...”
“Who?” Cyrus persisted.
“...Impure Nights...”
The girl’s eyes glazed over, and Cyrus realized there was nothing she could do. She was dead.
Trembling, Cyrus rose and hurried down the path to find Master Nephryte.
There came another dragging sound through the underbrush of the cemetery, and she turned back, fearing to see what else might have come. But when she did, the girl’s body was gone.
“Don’t let them find you...”
Cyrus hurried away as fast as she could. That girl had looked so much like her; it was unnerving.
Looking for who? For her? Who were the Impure Nights? And...what would they, or anybody, want with her?
“YOU CALLED?”
It was late evening when Nephryte let Mamoru inside his dorm flat, and indicated the living room table where tea had been set. “Please, have a seat.”
As they each took a spot on opposite settees, Nephryte filled the cups with floral grey tea. “I need to speak with you about Cyrus,” he said. He began by recounting what Dr. Zushil had discovered in the half-human. “What could this great force of energy be that’s inside her? Lord Mamoru, you’re the oldest in the kingdom; surely you have some idea of what this could be?”
Mamoru took a sip from one of the fluted tea cups, his expression careful. “Some things are be
st left in the dark, Master Nephryte. Take care of Cyrus as your student, but do not pry any further.”
Nephryte took out a piece of old parchment and slid it across the table. “This prophecy, The Song Of The End, is a warning of the future:
ARISE, THREE GHOSTS of distant past
Save us with the Pure Light vast,
War has begun, the dice are cast
The Swan must live, or none will last.
IS THE PURE LIGHT REAL? Have you seen it? Could this power be what’s inside Cyrus?”
Mamoru narrowed his eyes at the table. “I strongly urge you to keep this to yourself, Master, and not ask any further questions.”
Nephryte carefully folded the parchment back into its secure place within his journal. “I understand your caution,” he said, “though, I do hope you remember that I’m the one who found and freed you.”
Mamoru perched his elbows on the low table. “And I am ever grateful that you did. I trust you more than anyone else here. But there are things that no one should know—not even you—if it can be helped.”
“...Very well,” Nephryte finally acquiesced.
“Let’s switch topics to the other matter,” said Mamoru, and he swirled the tea cup in his hand. “Do you believe it’s true that Aken’s parents were murderers?”
Nephryte regarded the curious scar down the lord’s cheek. “Several murders have been linked to the couple. Though only a select few in the kingdom know of it,” he replied.
“Then they could be the ones who killed Cyrus’s mother?”
Nephryte gave a regrettable nod. “The king gave the order for their execution. We were to eliminate them under the cover of a human terrorist attack—which was one of the hardest things I’ve ever had to do.”
It had taken a surprise attack, and every ounce of his Ability and other Draevs, to take down the Pureblood couple—the explosion was the last thing to finish and conceal the job. But it was the emotional scar it left behind that now ached.
“Aken-Shou has a good heart. I know he won’t become like them; that’s why I pleaded for his life to be spared,” Nephryte said, staring down at his reflection in the brown tea.
“I wanted him spared, too,” said Mamoru. “But you must keep in mind that Purebloods are easily tainted; and Aken-Shou could become very powerful.”
Nephryte’s fingers clenched the cup.
Mamoru finished his tea and rose to leave. “Let’s be vigilant,” he said, turning. “And be prepared.”
Extra Bites
Mamoru’s Scar
Cyrus approached the mysterious puppeteer. “Mamoru?” He turned from his work on a long-nosed puppet, and motioned for her to join him.
“What’s on your mind?” he inquired as she took a stool.
“Well...I’ve been meaning to ask, how did you get that scar? I mean, if it’s okay to talk about,” she added hastily.
“This?” His finger trailed down the vicious vertical red slash down his right cheek, just beneath the eye, black fringing the edges as if burned. He considered the question, then flashed a secretive smile. “It was many years ago. Back when I stumbled upon the creature.”
“Creature?”
“An angry dragon with razor claws. It was camouflaged so well in the woods, I didn’t know it was there until it was too late. I had climbed onto its head, thinking it a giant boulder, and then it moved. I tried to jump off and get out of the way, but that’s when a nasty claw swiped me and— I had to run for my life.”
Mamoru looked up, as if reliving the horror. “My poor companions, though...they weren’t so lucky. Chuck has to go about on stilts for legs, now, and sad Luck has to drink his meals through a straw.”
Cyrus gasped, hands over her mouth. “That’s terrible! I had no idea dragons could be so fierce, and camouflage themselves so well. But why didn’t your injuries Heal?”
“Yes, poor Luck.” Mamoru stared up at the ceiling, eyebrows drooped. “Or maybe...” His forehead creased, and he tapped his chin. “Maybe I got it wrong, and it was a knife-throwing accident? Or maybe that time I tried peeling potatoes?”
Cyrus blinked.
“I’m quite fond of potatoes. I bet that’s when it happened. My knife slipped.”
She stared up at him flatly, realizing she’d been duped. “Luck and Chuck, my foot. You’re not planning on telling me the real story, are you?”
Nephryte’s Pin
“HEY, NEPHRYTE! WHAT’S your Master indentity pin-thingie supposed to be?” Aken came near for a closer look, narrowing his eyes and analyzing the pin on the vempar’s tunic.
“A cloud with moving air currents,” replied Mentor Nephryte. “It represents my Ability with air.”
“It looks like the cloud is farting,” Aken stated.
“You brat, it does not!” Nephryte covered the identity pin with his hand and stalked away.
Later that day...
Nephryte stared silently at the pin and its wind representation, solemn and long-faced. “I can’t look at this pin the same way, anymore.”
Master Seren-Rose touched his shoulder, offering small comfort, while Master Eletor fell on his side laughing his head off: “It does—bahahaa!—it does look like that!”
“No, it doesn’t!” Nephryte snapped.
A Need To Be Remade
AKEN-SHOU FINISHED the final touches to one of his clay masterpieces: a hawk proudly perched upon a branch, its head held high as though it ruled the world.
He gave a proud nod at his hard work before yawning and rubbing tired eyelids. “It turned out perfect! Mmm, but now it’s bedtime... I’ll leave it in the study room, for now.”
He trundled off to bed.
Morning came. Aken rose to check on the statue, thinking of a good spot to display it, when he noticed something was wrong. “NO! My lovely hawk!”
The clay’s paintwork was flaking, slivers of color peeling off as if it were shedding. He’d accidentally used the wrong kind of paint and created a nasty chemical reaction.
Aken eyed the statue with a disappointed glower, hands on hips. He heard the door open and recognized Mentor Nephryte’s gait without having to look.
Nephryte came up beside him and tilted his head at the peeling paint. “I guess the created thing cannot be long-lasting and perfect like its Creator. It will always fall short.”
Aken let his hands fall from his hips with a groan. “You always have to make a life lesson out of everything, don’t you?”
Nephryte shrugged as if he didn’t know what he meant. “It is merely an observation that happens to be true and pertain to life.”
Aken stared sidelong at him. “You do it on purpose. Admit it.”
“Are you going to fix that poor bird or not? As the Creator, you can easily help what you have created.”
“Ugh, there you go again!” Aken grabbed some new paint bottles, appropriate for clay, while the Mentor stood aside watching.
“The Creator can refurbish and renew his creation, remaking it so that it will no longer flake or fall apart. A wonderful depiction of how we need our Creator in our lives.”
Aken grumbled. After an hour of careful work, the statue was fixed, and its glory shown brighter than before. “There!” Aken folded his arms with a satisfied grin, “Now my creation is truly perfect.” He regretted it the moment he said it, though, as Nephryte applauded.
“That’s exactly right, Aken-Shou! I’m so proud of you. We are not perfect, and make many mistakes in life. Our paint work peels and flakes away. But if we let our Creator into our lives, He can remake us. For only the One who made you can cleanse and rebuild you.”
Aken evaded a hug. “Enough, enough!”
Genetic Disorders
“DR. ZUSHIL?” CYRUS inquired during a brief doctor visit. “Why do you need glasses? Can’t Healing make your vision perfect?”
“Kids these days really are ignorant, aren’t they?” Zushil sniffed. “Vempars can be born with genetic disorders and defects, same as any race, though it
isn’t as common. A disorder is different from an injury. Healing only kicks in to heal something that has been damaged. It does not fix something you were born with.”
Cyrus listened, working her brain to follow along.
“An arm that does not fully develop into an arm, while inside a mother’s womb, is not an injury, and so will not Heal. The same goes for many genetic disorders. I was born with distorted vision, and therefore require glasses.”
The doctor made a show of placing his damaged glasses—the ones she’d ruined—in a case, before taking out a new pair he’d just received in the mail.
“I trust that your control over metal is improving?” he asked, and his palms cupped the new glasses rather protectively.
Cyrus swallowed. “I’m working on it.”
Why Aken Only Makes Birds
“HEY, AKEN!” BAKOA TROTTED up. “Can you make other animals and stuff with clay?”
“Hm, sure. As long as the clay is good enough,” said Aken.
“I don’t think I’ve ever seen anything else but birds from you, and rarely a snake.”
“Birds are easy. I have a knack for them, since they’re special to me. But here, take a look at this horse!” Aken pulled out a clay shape and set it on the table.
“Oh wow! It’s...it’s...” Bakoa squinted. “Are you sure it’s a horse?”
“Obviously.”
“But...it has an elephant trunk.”
“That’s a raised leg.”
“Oh...where’s the head?”
“In the front, duh.”
“That’s a head?”
Aken glared.
Bakoa shrugged. “It sure is a fat horse.”
Aken threw the clay at him. “That’s why I only make birds.”
Cousins