She Who Rises

by Rachael Arsenault

  I got up from the step and headed back to the living room, hoping by some miracle I would fall asleep this time. But a sudden light through the window of the front door stopped me in my tracks. I squinted out the window from where I stood, nervous of moving closer.

  A car had pulled up.

  Chapter Eight

  I ran into the living room. “Guys! Wake up! Get up! Now! Hurry!”

  Thankfully, they woke easily. Farida blinked blearily at me as she mumbled, “What’s going on?”

  “Someone’s here! There’s a car outside.”

  Wordlessly, Masika reached for my hand. I helped her up. Once she was on her feet again, she said, “Follow me. Quietly.”

  I grabbed my backpack as Farida dragged herself out of her makeshift bed. Masika led us across the hall into the kitchen, then into the cramped little pantry.

  “Your phone has a flashlight, correct?”

  I nodded.

  “Close the door and turn on your light.”

  I did as I was told. The pantry was small enough that the little beam of light from my phone lit practically all of it. Masika pointed to a slightly raised portion of the floor that I hadn’t noticed before and instructed Farida to lift it. The hinges squealed in protest as she did so. I shone my light into the hole; there was a ladder leading down into a cement-floored basement.

  The front door creaked open.

  Wordlessly, we climbed down the ladder. I went first so I could hold the flashlight, then Masika so I could catch her if she fumbled, then Farida, closing the hatch behind us. The ceiling was low, so we had to hunch over to avoid scraping our heads against it.

  Footsteps stamped heavily overhead. Voices argued loudly above us.

  “You’re sure this is where they’re supposed to be?”

  “Yes, I’m sure!” a woman’s voice snapped. “When has my scrying ever been wrong, Patrick? Now bring out your damn dog and help me find them.”

  A few seconds later, there were claws scratching against the floor, along with barking and growling. Farida hissed an unfamiliar word that was definitely a swear.

  “Follow me,” Masika whispered.

  She guided us through the dark basement, which seemed mostly empty from what little I could see with the light from my phone. There was a wooden door on the back wall with a simple hook lock. Masika opened it to reveal a room with a dirt floor, one step down from the main part of the basement.

  “An old root cellar,” Masika said, leading on.

  The room wasn’t especially big, so it didn’t take long to cross it and reach the rickety wooden steps leading up to the cellar door. After listening to make sure no one was outside, we eased the doors open. The disused hinges shrieked.

  Cool night air greeted me as I stepped out. The dark sky was overcast now, blotting out the moon. The two cars in the gravel driveway gleamed in the dim light. Across the street, the dark shape of the woods loomed, swaying in the breeze.

  “Should we run for the car?” I whispered. I switched off the flashlight on my phone. The battery was getting ridiculously low.

  “No,” Farida said, “they’d be right behind us. We don’t want them following us to the next squat.” She paused, expression thoughtful, before saying, “I think I have an idea.”

  We slipped back into the dark cellar while she explained, and both Masika and I agreed that her plan was probably the best option we had. Farida moved to stand directly beneath the cellar door, illuminated in dimmed moonlight. It glinted off the beads of her necklace and the green-blue stone that she pressed her fingers to. There was an increasingly familiar flare of light, and then the flame-wreathed heron was standing outside the cellar door. It stared at Farida for a moment, but she must have given it silent orders or something because it soon took flight and vanished from sight.

  The crunch of denting metal echoed through the night, followed by squawking. The footsteps overhead scrambled toward the door. They were shouting now. The man let out a slew of curse words about us wrecking his car. That wolf they had with them was barking up a storm.

  Farida had already crept up the stairs and slipped outside. Her dark skin glowed in a flash of orange-red light.

  “Forget the car!” the woman yelled.

  “But Tara, look what they—”

  “You know Arman’s orders!”

  I felt Masika stiffen beside me. Before I could ask, Farida was beckoning us to get out of the cellar.

  I stepped outside just in time to see three figures disappearing into the woods: a dark-haired woman, a hugely muscular man, and an enormous wolf. Definitely the same ones we had dealt with earlier. They chased a flaming bird gliding overhead.

  “Let’s go,” Farida hissed. “We don’t have much time.”

  We hurried to the car. I was infinitely grateful we hadn’t bothered to unpack and didn’t have to worry about leaving anything behind. Once we were all in the car, Farida slammed the gas and we squealed out onto the road, rumbling over potholes as the well-abused car struggled to gain speed. Behind us, the distant shape of the flaming heron vanished in a flash of light.

  “Why did you call him back?” I asked from the backseat.

  “I didn’t. He automatically returns to his stone if he gets too far away from me. But I think that bought us enough time.”

  She was right. There was still no sign of them as we rounded a turn in the curving road and that section of forest disappeared from sight. We came to a crossroads shortly after.

  But I worried it wouldn’t help. After all, they had found us in the squat and they definitely hadn’t followed us there.

  “Masika,” I said, “who’s Arman?”

  I couldn’t see much of her face from where I sat behind the driver’s seat, but I could tell her dark skin had grown ashen. In a soft voice barely audible above the rattling car, she said, “He is from my time.”

  “So there is someone else alive from back then.”

  “You never told me about that,” Farida said. I watched her reflection in the side mirror as she furrowed her brow.

  “There was no need to. As far as I knew, he was dead. When the ritual of absorbing lifeforce was conceived, no one knew except me and my group of magicians, the Ivory Circle.”

  “Do you think someone betrayed the group?” I asked.

  “I can’t imagine anyone who would. We were all dedicated to the cause of ridding our world of magic to the fullest extent possible. Arman was exactly the sort of person we didn’t want wielding this power.”

  “Who is he, exactly?” Farida glanced over at her grandmother. I got the sense that she wasn’t used to being kept out of the loop.

  “Arman was a general of the Persian army. We—”

  “Hang on,” I cut in. “You mean there was a powerful Persian general who used literal magic in battle — and no one knows about it?”

  She turned her head just enough for me to see her scowl. “The Ivory Circle took care to ensure all mentions of magic were erased from whatever documentation we could get our hands on. It would be fruitless to seize all the stones and hide them away if the world would never truly forget their power.”

  “Oh. I guess that makes sense.”

  “Hm. As I was saying: We had to act especially carefully with him, because Arman wielded more than one stone and was surrounded by powerful allies. We had a spy, Behnam, who infiltrated the Persian army and got close to Arman so that we would learn his vulnerabilities and the opportune moment to strike.”

  “You had someone infiltrate an army?” Farida said with a note of awe in her voice. It was obvious that her grandmother’s stories enraptured her.

  “Yes, though it’s not quite as impressive as it sounds. Behnam was Persian himself and his father had served under a satrap for many years. In any case, he was a valuable asset against a high priority, difficult target. As I said, Arman used multiple stones. Not only did that make him more formidable, but I believe it corrupted him. It blackened his heart and drove him to seek more power and
bloodshed.”

  “How does he know you specifically?” Farida asked. “I thought you dealt in information and protection rather than being a major fighter?”

  “You’re correct. When the other magicians successfully seized his stones, they brought them to me for safekeeping. But Arman wasn’t finished. He tracked us down and tried to reclaim one of the stones. He was a military man and powerful even without magic, and, as the protector, I was his target. But he underestimated me and I defeated him. I would have buried him to ensure he was gone for good, but he fled — and I foolishly did not follow. I expected him to die of his wounds.”

  “Great,” I moaned, sinking back in my seat. I suddenly wished we weren’t driving so fast; I felt nauseas. “So there’s another magician who is somehow immortal and he has a murderous vendetta against you. And us, by extension.”

  Always the optimist, Masika said, “It is far worse than that. The girl said she can scry.”

  “Yeah, I heard that,” Farida said, glancing at her grandmother again. “What is scrying? Why didn’t you ever tell me about it?”

  “It is a type of magic that allows one to spy on another person by briefly seeing the world through their eyes. I never taught you about it because the stones we use don’t grant us that kind of magic, and I never thought…” she paused, lips pressing together as she shook her head slightly. “I never imagined anyone else would be able to use the stones again. But if that girl can scry, it easily explains how they keep finding us without actually following us.”

  “So they could be scrying on us right now?”

  “Yes.”

  “Is that common?” I asked.

  “No. All magic is particular to a magician’s creature and the type of stone it is sealed in. I knew only one scryer during the Age of Magic: Khu. He helped us track down prominent figures who held stones and, through careful research and useful allies, lesser known individuals in possession of the stones.”

  “You said, back during the Stone Age—”

  “The Age of Magic,” Masika snapped.

  Ignoring her, Farida continued, “You had to have someone close to Arman to spy on him. Why didn’t you just have Khu scry on him from afar?”

  “Scrying is more complicated than that, though we did also use Khu’s abilities once we had our spy in place and began gathering information.”

  “Is that woman — Tara — is she using Khu’s stone?” Farida asked.

  “No. That she-drake was not his creature.”

  None of us spoke for a long moment. The dark road curved gently ahead of us, looming and leaning trees making it hard to see what came next. Eventually, with a sigh, Farida said, “Well, at least we know what we’re trying to protect ourselves against.”

  Chapter Nine

  The next squat was worlds better than the last, though it wasn’t a dream home by any standard. Wallpaper peeled off the walls like the petals of a wilting flower and a thick layer of dust coated everything. The water that ran from the tap was “hard” according to Farida, but there were plenty of other useable amenities, including a wood burning stove that, by some miracle, didn’t have a clogged flue. Between that and the solar panels on the roof, we could have hot food and at least hope for electricity. It almost seemed too good to be true. But then Farida pointed out the Rorschach blots of black mould climbing about an inch up from the baseboards on the main level, the warped sections of flooring, and the fact that we were on a flood plane. Serious water damage had forced the owners out.

  There was very little furniture left aside from a hideous sofa in orange and brown floral upholstery and a set of baby furniture in one of the bedrooms upstairs. I sincerely hoped the baby stuff had only been left behind because the child outgrew it and the family couldn’t sell it before they moved. I didn’t really want to think about the other possibility.

  Before we could appreciate the relative luxury of this house compared to the last, however, we needed to sort out the car. Nothing could be done for the dents or the chips in the paint, but we couldn’t leave the smashed passenger side window uncovered. It left us too vulnerable to wind and rain, plus it meant animals could get into our car while we were in the house. The only reason we hadn’t tried patching it when we got to the previous squat was because we had been too dead tired. Now, though, we knew we needed to cover it in spite of our persisting exhaustion.

  Farida got a big blue tarp out of the trunk and cut a large square from it, then used a copious amount of duct tape to stick it in place. I thought it looked horrendous, but, then again, looks weren’t really the priority in this sort of lifestyle. Keeping out bugs and rain was all that mattered.

  Then, finally, it was time for food. Among the supplies that Farida and Masika kept stocked in their car was a mess kit, including a small aluminum pot, so preparing canned soup on the wood stove was easy enough. We gathered on the couch in the living room to eat. We were silent at first; the only noise to fill the room was the clinking of our spoons and Masika’s slurping. I was surprised at how quickly I ate, especially since the soup wasn’t that good — it was way too salty and the vegetables were mushy. But extreme hunger apparently took precedent over taste.

  “So, you said there was a way to protect ourselves from scrying?” I asked. It wasn’t the most graceful segue in to the subject, but I couldn’t wait any longer. The idea that Tara could be seeing the world through our eyes at any moment was horrifying.

  Masika hummed thoughtfully before setting her bowl of soup on the floor and sitting back with her hands folded in her lap. “There are some ways…” Her expression grew distant as she stared at nothing in particular. “When Khu would try to scry, occasionally he encountered eyes he could not see through. Shielded minds. We had to find ways around this so we could track down all the stones, but he also took inspiration from it. It meant it was possible to protect ourselves should anyone else try to scry on us.

  “There are three forms of protection, at least in theory. We knew some of our targets were protected by the stones they carried. They had no knowledge of our attempts to scry on them and made no conscious effort to protect themselves. It was simply a property of the stone. As far as we know, it didn’t even drain them the way using magic typically does.”

  “What kind of stones did that?” Farida asked.

  “The ones we found were garnet and hematite. There are probably many others, but I don’t know. We didn’t test every stone we found — I secreted most of them away as soon as I had the chance.”

  “Well, obviously our stones don’t work like that since she’s already scryed on us,” I said. “What are our other options?”

  “Sometimes the creature in a stone has protective abilities. A magician would evoke that power and enjoy its benefits for some time before it wore off. But this was a slow, constant drain on magic that could leave them vulnerable.

  “The last method I know of is to meditate and pull up magic around your mind like a shield, but it’s hard to make effective. You must maintain constant concentration and it is very draining — mentally and magically. It can buy time if you know you’re being watched, but it’s not a long-term solution.”

  “Which means we’re shit out of luck,” I said, staring down at my empty bowl.

  “Not necessarily.” There was a hint of mischief in her voice that made me look up. Her lips had twitched up in the faintest of sly smiles. “Just because they can scry on us doesn’t mean they can see anything.”

  I glanced at Farida, but she looked just as confused as I felt. “What do you mean?”

  “We must simply close our eyes.”

  I had to stifle a snort because she very obviously wasn’t joking. “We can’t go anywhere or do anything if we constantly have our eyes closed.”

  Masika, however, was undeterred. “You will drive. Farida can alternate between covering her eyes and helping you navigate.”

  “Me? Why me?” I asked, feeling heat flood to my cheeks.

  “In order to scry, a mag
ician must have some knowledge of the person they are scrying on. Usually a face and a name are enough, even a nickname or a fake name. That woman has seen very little of you and might not know your name — scrying only shows images, not sound, as far as I understand, so she couldn’t have learned your name from scrying on us before. So it would be difficult to target you with scrying.”

  “But I’ve been all over the news. My face and name are everywhere.”

  “That is true. But these people aren’t after you — they might not even know who you are or why you’re with us. Yes, it is entirely possible for them to seek out information on you after the fact, especially if Arman requests it, but as of right now you’re the only one who has a chance of being unknown.”

  I stared down at my bowl again. The burning in my throat told me that the soup I had eaten was trying to make a reappearance. I took a deep breath and exhaled slowly before saying, “Okay… But before we leave here, I… I should learn some magic.”

  Masika’s lips pressed together in a frown, but she nodded. “Yes. That’s what I had planned.”

  ~

  Masika and I chose one of the empty bedrooms upstairs for my training. At her request, I forced open the old window, which screeched obnoxiously in protest. Cool, fresh air drifted into the room, clearing up some of the mustiness. She sat underneath it and instructed me to sit on the opposite side of the narrow room. The ever-present blue backpack was on the floor beside her.

  “Now, you already know something about where to begin,” she said. I was surprised; I had expected nothing but harsh words and glares. But her expression was soft and she sounded almost… kind.

  I clenched my fists in my lap. “Not really. I mean, I used magic, I guess, but it was a complete disaster.”

  “Because you tried to begin too quickly. Magic is powerful and destructive. It does not normally exist in our world, so it tries to tear it apart. Calling on too much magic at once will cause it to do the same to you.” She paused, then added, “More so than usual.”