by Helen Savore
Moralynn’s deep sigh was as good as a nod.
She had said as much earlier, but the shock of seeing the body confused Alexandrea. She left the silence linger—sometimes it was in these most pensive of moods that her master shared more.
“I hoped I was mistaken. The self fades away so quickly from the children of Annwn. But I could not risk being right, so I came… though not fast enough.”
Alexandrea ran a finger along the edge of the table. “Why is he still here?”
Moralynn smiled sadly. “I thought you would like to bury him together.”
A tear trailed along her eye, but she returned the smile. “Of course.”
They stood on the overlook, the one that looked into the valley towards town. The smell of earth filled the air, though the ground appeared undisturbed. This was something simple to accomplish.
“It seems wrong to put nothing here.”
Moralynn came behind her and snaked one arm across her back, on her shoulder. The other, over her heart. “This is where Boderien resides. Our memories of him, our feelings, in our hearts. That is the true testament of life in the fae.” Moralynn flashed her a wry grin. “It is not as if we do not know where he rests.”
“That’s true.” Alexandrea took both hands in her own. Moralynn was her mentor, but Boderien was the one who had remained all the time. He was the monster in the closest that became so much more. He should have outlived her, been imaginary fiend to her descendants, but now he was gone.
It wasn’t just his life that was gone, though.
Standing out here, looking out to the horizon, with Moralynn beside her, she had to face the facts. Without a Life Smith, there would be no Grail, no ritual to summon the Phoenix.
“Moralynn, what now?”
Moralynn squeezed her hands, then withdrew. “A new smith. Procuring replacement fire foci would be a start.” Moralynn’s hand hesitated where the pommel should have been for the blade. “But not just that. Unlike life shaping, fae can smith life, although it is a rare few. Perhaps some more have developed the talent since Raebyn tracked the rest down.”
Alexandrea dropped her head. Boderien, had been experimenting for she wasn’t sure how long, to create the Grail. Finding a life smith in hiding, if any really did still exist, that could take several human lifetimes.
It would not be her.
She was useless.
Alexandrea gritted her teeth and looked back to Moralynn. “So, how do we find a friendly Smith?”
“The Trials.” Moralynn nodded. “Raebyn already called me out. I will meet him there. And perhaps beat him as well.”
14
Jamie forgot much when in the throes of a game or any intense physical activity. The more his muscles strained, the calmer he became. The world shrank until it was nothing but him and the sport. Right now it was running. Jamie played mid, which meant he had the longest range on the field.
Each step propelled his lean frame across the field. He sensed, more than saw, the opposing team. His eyes seldom left the ball; they didn’t have to, since he trusted his body to navigate any obstacle. This was a killer skill, gaining him the ball more often and allowing him to make more attempts on goal.
“I’m open!” He waved at Rhys, who sent him the ball across the field.
Jamie ducked around the guy guarding him and trapped the pass, taking control of the ball.
His defender still lurked.
Instead of burning upfield, he led the defender in a merry dance, juggling the ball, always keeping it a clip ahead of his opponent. Jamie broke free and continued the drive, getting close to the goal. Before the brute squad could descend, he circled and punched the ball to Bobby.
He continued the turn to confirm contact and caught Drea’s eye in the stands. A small beat of relief filled him. He was still a little afraid, even days after seeing her surrounded by the wreckage of her store, that the phantom would come to collect. He’d gone looking for her and found a wispy ink-black phantom hovering nearby and he didn’t even think, he almost tackled her to the ground.
Nothing had happened yet, but it whispered to him this time.
“I shall wait.”
That put him into a whole new tailspin. Could he have an impact on these? Was it not a done deal? Could he do something? He couldn’t trust to this new hope yet; thus far the phantoms always took their targets, so he kept seeking Drea out to make sure she was okay.
Luckily, she had agreed to come to some of his games.
He turned and dashed the last bit, jumping in front of the defenders trying to block Bobby’s high shot. Or was it?
The defenders were slow to react. Based on the angle, they probably thought the ball would miss too far to the left. Their goalie had lined up just in case, so he was in the wrong corner when Jamie intercepted the kicked ball and head-butted it into the net.
The goalie dove for it, but the ball had changed direction too fast.
“Gooooooooooooooooal!” Jamie threw his arms in the air along with his body. He reveled in that small moment when the jump felt more like flying.
Then he fell flat on his back.
Jamie lost some air from the force of the fall, but he sat up and breathed quickly enough.
Rhys offered him a hand. “When you going to stop doing that?”
“The grass never cushions as much as I hope,” Jamie spat out as he took the help.
“I can see her eye-rolling from here.”
Jamie spun and slicked a hand through his hair. “Who?”
Drea. She was on her toes, clapping and shaking her head. It was strange but sweet. Seeing her there made him feel like a kid again, when their mums would take them to each other's activities. Actually, it was better. Ever since he’d started keeping an eye on her, they were catching up. He couldn’t imagine why he’d worried earlier. They were friends, and unexpected turns wouldn’t come between them. Although perhaps the loss of her store made her a bit more open, but he didn’t mind. He must have misunderstood the brush-off from years ago. Or maybe she was ready to move on, too.
Rhys slapped his back. “You sure there’s nothing there?”
“Just a friend, Rhys.” Which was more than he could have said a few weeks ago, so he was happy with that.
Rhys put a hand to his ear from half a field away. “What? Can’t hear you. Ready for kick-off?”
Both teams lined up, and Jamie focused on the game, pushing the thought away.
His mind fell back into a rhythm guided by his heartbeat and footfalls. Minutes later, Jamie regained the ball and began his way down the field.
The running, I am the running. The dribbling, the ball follows my footing. The ball is my foot, and the foot is my ball.
A defender came up on his left.
Jamie fooled most opponents, following their lead when they tried to push him out. If they reached him, he could footwork his way out of it. He tapped the ball back, then broke to the side. He dipped to help with his balance for the twist top.
Something crashed into the back of his legs.
Jamie spun in the air. There was no time to protect against the fall. All he could do was hope the grass was kinder from this awkward angle.
It wasn’t.
Jamie snapped to awareness.
He heaved and threw his eyes wide open.
That was a mistake.
The moment his lids lifted, his head plunged into vertigo and his body spun. He moaned and tried to be still. It was one of the hardest things he’d ever done in his life. He focused on relaxing his muscles and ignoring his senses. What was going on?
Coolness brushed over his forehead, and his eyes fluttered from the momentary relief.
Soft syllables fell on his ears. “Who treats the medic round here?”
“Drea?” His body throbbed. His head was too big for his skull, and jolts ran up from his legs. He should be grateful, if he could feel, he had damaged no nerves. But it hurt like hell.
“Jamie?”
The
cool sensation went beyond his forehead, seeming to permeate his whole skull. With the pain draining from his head, the tear in his leg flared.
“Where’s the med kit?”
The spinning slowed until his internal equilibrium settled.
“These idiots don’t know where.”
“Found it,” someone chimed in.
Jamie dared to open one eye. When he squinted through his lashes and the ground stayed still, he opened them both further. “My head,” he said, careful not pull his face into wide expressions. “What happened?”
His eyes rested on Drea. Though it hurt much less, his vision was still blurry. She looked strange hovering above him, like a mirage. He figured there must be others, but Drea filled his vision.
“Your leg looks worse than your head. That guy wrenched it.”
He groaned. The slide must have hit him hard.
“You said head? If you’re waking up so fast, maybe you aren’t concussed.” Drea ran a hand over his forehead, then moved into his hairline.
“No, immobilize me,” he said.
Drea’s hand brushed his face. “You’re talking better than any head victim I’ve ever seen.”
“Drea, no, how do you know?”
He tried to push her away, but she reached his neck first.
It twisted.
“Stop it!”
“Sorry, Jamie, just trying to elevate—”
“Drea, don’t,” he whimpered. “My head.” He paused between ragged breaths. “Keep me still.”
“Okay, I’m just going to set you back—”
Something loud cracked and Jamie didn’t hear the rest.
He shot up, his eyes flew open, and his whole body convulsed.
His head cleared. Not a thing wrong with it.
Why did I even think there was?
He chuckled between sighs of relief. His leg contracted, and he yelped again. Could be his head wasn’t as bad off as he thought. Except for a ringing—no, something more akin to hushed cymbals.
“Sorry, Jamie.” Drea came into focus. Both hands were in front of her. “You’re the expert. Now tell me what to do.”
With a final sigh, Jamie recited how to handle his own injuries. When they lifted him, he couldn’t resist a look back to where he had lain. His head clearing felt too strange. He was grateful, though, since he wasn’t sure what the jostling would have done to him otherwise. But there it was, he saw the wicked rock jutting out of the ground. He felt for the gash he knew must be there.
But his head was perfectly whole.
“Drea,” Jamie croaked. They were alone in her car as she drove him to the hospital. Funny that no one had responded, but why else would he be in her car?
“Drea, I hit my head.”
“Yeah, you fell hard,” she said, her eyes never leaving the road.
“I’m not bleeding, in my head.”
Drea inclined her head. “Well, you’ve certainly proved it’s as hard as you act, still…”
Jamie reached out, ignoring her driving a moment. “What about the rock?”
“There was no rock there.”
“Where was there no rock?”
“There was no rock anywhere.”
The dizzy buzz filled Jamie’s head again. While Drea wasn’t acknowledging it, maybe the return of symptoms was a good thing.
“Drea, you don’t get it—”
A hand shot out towards him. “You’re still hurt, you need rest.”
The cool feeling from earlier flooded and soothed Jamie’s brain.
Then there was nothing.
15
Moralynn had not attempted the Trials in decades. She was a frequent visitor to the Tower, to shepherd newborn fae souls to Titania’s loom for judgment, but that was far above the central facility. It had been quite some time since she had lingered in the core, approaching either Throne Room or the Courts.
She was not sure if Raebyn meant she should attend or fight during the trials, but if she had to come, she had no intention of simply watching. Especially since she so desperately needed a boon.
The prize of the trials had changed over the centuries, a boon from the GodKing Oberon, often rendered as a god-forged foci, but sometimes the employment of a herald. As the master craftsman Oberon often elevated the best Smiths as his heralds, that was precisely what Moralynn needed. Not just any Smith, but a talented one; they would be the most likely hiding any life capabilities.
The Trial’s origin had been lost to the centuries, but following the Massacre of Camlann it became a blatant reminder of her family’s death. At the turn of the seasons Oberon opened his Tower to all the realms, for a time, to find the worthy to aid in the search for his missing son, Arthur.
The searches had died off, the cause not necessarily lost, but the realms had been scoured thrice over. That left them with Merlin’s final words. And the sword he thrust into the risers of Oberon’s throne. Nearly six thousand Trials later, and not one worthy winner could draw the blade. In exchange for withstanding its bite they were granted a boon. And so the tradition continued.
Still, she would have to be careful. Oberon had not banned her, but it was crystal clear she was not welcome. She could disguise herself easily enough, as long as she left behind her more iconic foci and avoided any Life Shaping.
The only trouble was at the entrance. Heralds flanked the door, though they checked no credentials or questioned any people. Nor did they announce. Fae, singular or family lay their hand on the great doors and their sigil blossomed along the metal surface. This was mirrored on a corresponding column inside. They never appeared the same way or in the same place, morphing the imagery into pictures, telling stories. Still, a sigil was similar enough and could generally identify a fae, especially when combined with their appearance and personality. Most bore them proudly; the fae were clannish by nature.
Moralynn concentrated when her turn approached, clouding her mind to blur her sigil of phoenix and flame. Birds were a common and safe theme. Many fae liked to view the world from above, and leaping into the air reduced the chance for interaction with the other elements. Leave the earth, and leave the fire. The rain cannot bind you here. Fly away, fly hard and far.
A crack brought her back to reality to see a generic falcon formed in the relief. It flew above the mountains with a cascading river that fell into a clutch of swords. The pattern reminded her of Merlin’s final words, his parting shot to Oberon when he killed himself and the Phoenix.
When the tamed waters break free,
When the proud mountains are brought low,
When the broken makes itself whole,
When the bright sword reaps,
And the dark sword weeps,
When in regalia rejoined,
Arthur shall return and save humankind.
Why must he always haunt her?
She did not want Merlin’s quest to fail. She was certain if Arthur returned he would not do as Oberon bid. He would not be the Phoenix, but he would make things better, she knew it. If she could break down that verse and bring him back, she would. Early in her time on Annwn she had even fruitlessly searched among the children. Though human, as son of Oberon perhaps something fae survived and had come there as a chimera. But the children were nothing of their former selves, so how could she tell? By now, there were no children left from that time. Century after century and he did not return from other means or places, so she stopped hoping. She remained, so she continued on with the path laid before her, alone.
If it could even be called a path. No Life Smith, no Grail, therefore the Phoenix would never fly again. She had reassured Alexandrea, but she could not fool herself. No, it was not impossible, but the chance was slim. And it would take time. The journey here gave her the opportunity to ponder if she did indeed have the time.
She was slipping. They were her earliest memories, luckily, but that would change with time. She may have proved her body would survive, but without one’s memories, were you still yourself? Fea
r had driven her to give more of herself to Alexandrea after her birth, but without a Life Smith, could she recall that part of her? Or would her wonder die with Alexandrea, never to return? And without that, could she continue?
She did not know yet, so she must move forward.
Moralynn proceeded towards the dais, weaving her way between the fae crowds and awkwardly spaced columns. They did not stand in neat rows, but more in overlapping arcs, creating uneven spaces and strange obstacles. Different lights poured down from each, a mixture of fire and contained lightning, casting a variety of shadows onto the stone tiles and folk below.
Moralynn noted it enough to pass through until she reached the challenger’s rack. It evinced the diversity of the fae cultures with not just swords but tridents, mauls, maces, and polearms of all types. While magicians wore an array of foci, their primary weapon represented their offensive might. The stances one took with their foci weapon directed their elemental shaping. Masters worked beyond these physical limitations, but Moralynn was intimately aware of how young many of the fae were. For centuries the families had allowed themselves to be drawn into boundary disputes, faster fueling the cycle of reincarnation.
Additional torches blazed, creating a provoking glint along the rack, hinting at the beauty, not just the brutality, of these weapons. The fae valued different metals since humans had forgotten the power of foci. Some still included the precious metals of Earth, glimmering silver and gold, but Moralynn suspected these were alloys, hiding their elemental properties. Steel dominated, the malleable alloy that could incorporate any of the critical elements. The greatest variety came in the inclusion of gemstones. They provided a purer source of power, but made clear the primary element someone utilized.
It was intriguing, the places a talented Smith managed to incorporate or hide gemstones.
Moralynn rubbed the sapphire pommel of the metamorphic mineral sword Boderien crafted for her centuries ago. What would a Smith make of this collection?
Her eyes drifted along the sinuous rack, where it wound its way to a dark mottled sword. It was a handsome Damascus-style blade, blended with meteoritic iron, half-buried in the stone at the foot of Oberon’s throne.