Short Stories

The Fire Dances

by Martin Higareda

The weapon of the Beast is doubt...not fear, or horror, or even despair, for you can throw yourself onto battle just as easily as your sword, lamenting all the way.

I looked across the flames at Kezia, who looked away.

“If I'm to be damned for speaking the truth,” I said, “then I'll see you in Hell.”

Kezia only stared into the firedance, and her eyes flashed, but never moved. “Burn handsomely then,” said she, “so that I will know you.” And before I could curse and move away into the night, she performed this maneuver, with all the grace of parody.

In a dream she rose out of the waters and into the sunlight, gold and silver falling from her skin as if she outgrew them. Her eyes dripped too, and these false tears she wiped away. She moved to gather her garments, unhurried, and I could only watch as she stretched her smooth pale arms and breasts.

She did not dress.

I followed her as she left the lake, and into the trees. Perhaps she knew, and did not care, for she gave no warning or sign. The ground rose and was less mossy, the canopy of forest ceased and became a place of stone, broken and old. Higher still, until at last a tree, an ancient thing, with a hide that was all battlefield crag and ruin. She crept close and knelt, arranged her clothes like an offering, bowed her head and was still. A prayer? Then I felt foolish; she only waited.

When I stood near I thought she murmured my name, and I bent low.

“No,” she said, “not here.”

She rose and led me closer to the god that was a tree, and around, and I saw an opening, wide and tall as an alter, and deep. It was smooth, and would not cut. She went into it, while I burning watched. When she turned and sat facing me I came near, and knelt at her knee. She looked down at me with eyes like the sky, riven with storm. There was no word, but there came permission.

And then I parted her legs, and with my lips, also silently, I loved her.

In Nirakul they tell of a great firewitch, a thing of soot and slow burning eyes, who takes children from their homes in the thickest of night, leaving only stain and scorch. With every large fire, or pyre, they spit and curse him, and watch the billowing coil of smoke all the way into the sky, for some sign.

In Usha, it is said, he is a creature of earth and mud, and he buries the unwary and devours at his leisure, so sometimes they are found, his victims, intact and whole, but for one clean white limb. Or none.

I remember nanna's tales, of a mirror spirit, a lemure, who watches always, in pool or glass. When one is especially wicked the lemure will claim him, filaments of red sliding and reaching out into our world, ensnaring, and burning, and pulling him, tumbling and shrieking, within. Look close, closer still, and you may see a glowing eye.

Are they not, all of them, the same? Beware, they say, these simple tales of woe. There is something to fear.

***

What a wretched, useless dream is life, if we can never do as we must, or say as we wish. And why so vengefully mocked, those fey souls, who say and do as they mean?

I tried binding my arm with rough cord, but the blood poured over the leather in a shining fall of black; my life's river, reversed, freshly out into the world. And yet, I probably would not die, and this caused strange bitterness.

The demon had left off me, and now haunted Kezia, somewhere in the darkness. It was a cunning work of bones, dreadfully wrought, and full of a deep, low malice. From the darkness came the horrid scuttle of its dry white legs against wood and leaf, its unearthly hiss, not of flesh or mortal hate...unnatural.

Kezia only waited, listening, arms at the ready. She turned to follow its passage, a dance like ice, like the moon in the sky. Her sword was smaller than mine, not straight, and thin as dying breath. There was a racket hard by, to her right and behind, but she did not move. A howling came, a terrible sound, and it seemed the world shook, and was still, and the white evil came at her in the stillness, all cutting, ripping pain, but she was not there, had leapt the space of her body and turned, and her arms were soft moonlight, cutting it down. The howling ceased, and now was a soft clicking of bones, falling and rolling, a curious rain. I could not see her face then, only her hair, which was the only thing that moved. And then she came to me, and kneeled.

I did not know I had fallen.

That night I dreamt her coupling, renewed in want, her face unmasked in tender, exquisite joy. Her limbs shook gently with need, her lips came apart with a small noise before she bit them silent. It was the beautiful, perfect cry of one whose world is another's and nothing else, the man above her who thrust and gripped and spent. Her eyes opened, and ached, devouring him.

I was not seen.

***

What is a regret, but a haunting of one's soul? Or revenants, cold as death, quite without mercy, still mourning some memory? Are those that live, and love, unaware of their own blessing? What is forgiven? What is laid to rest?

There was a mist, and then a cold, insistent rain. Kezia into the tent had thus retired and I found I could not bear to share that haven, warm and sheltered, close and hard, so full of her politely near. At last I rose and pleaded no rest, but she was already asleep. The mist had returned when I went out, and gave me damp welcome.

I followed a stony, muddy path set back a little from whence we came. Down, the terrain was not difficult, I had no trouble but for my thoughts. There seemed to be some regular use, perhaps I'd find a village, but for the old ruin of a horse's cart I saw nothing. Another hour, I felt I could have walked til dawn, and then…her sudden little cry.

It came from behind some copse, yet further down from the road, across a broken field, farmwork left to wild and die. There was hazy moonlight now, and it revealed pale stones set among the trees, low and poor, roughly hewn. She lay upon on a mossy tablet, and it seemed she was paler still than these forgotten graves, and she shivered. Her sobbing was gentle, and quiet now as I drew near. I perceived her light gaze, and saw her eyes then, wet and sweet. Her age was impossible in her clinging white shift, twelve or twenty, but her hair was long and black and coiled like serpents down upon her neck.

“Let me assist,” I said, and made myself more clearly seen. She moved some hair away from her eyes but only watched. “Give me your name.”

“Tuwa,” with a voice like a bell. And an instinct made me pause, my hand on my blade, and look round, but there was only vast night, trees, the hills and camp in the heavy distance. She looked away without hope. I allowed another hesitation. But there was nothing.

“Are you, then, injured,” I said, and knelt close. She nodded, and made a heartbreaking sound, and seemed to clutch at the stone. I saw no stain upon her, no wound or dark bruise. I unwrapped my cloak and made it hers. In my mind I spoke to her, to see if she might walk, but when I met her eyes again the words would not come. There was a light in them, her eyes, softly brown and somehow known. If words had failed then surely hands, my arms, I could lift her up and--

She touched my face and brought it near.

The skin was cool and quickly warmed, there was a scent on her of earth, of wind and fresh fields. All was silent, breath was stolen, even the violent quickening that brought my mouth to hers, was not. We flowed together in that instant, hands pulling, yearning, fingers on her neck or mine, her hair, my face, her breast, and still we kissed. The dampness fled, replaced by other elements more bright. In this fire we moved, and fell. Presently I lifted away, to see her face, to know her truth, and she looked in return, and dared to almost smile. And then, shyly, her eyes sought my lips, and her mouth parted, and again.

She kissed my neck as I moved her close.

She tasted my skin as I found her warmth.

She bit my face as I glided roughly inside, and we were penetrated.

The stone woke me, colder yet.

Of her, there was no sign.

I stumbling returned, wet and dark with earth. Kezia found me, and we looked a long time.

“Brave Pallaton, who lies with ghosts,” said she.

“Then go and lie with a devil, and best my sin.”

“Directly,” Kezia, daughter of both, replied.


I did not sleep that night, nor for many more.

***

Between Eilis and Rashne there is another country, deep and wild and trackless, a forest that rolls thicker and darker all the way to the Citadels, where at last they too must break. It is known he came that way, the Beast, who was a lord then, a Dakan Prince, he said. And why not? Daku, land of iron and slaves, kohl-eyed girls and dark, spiced meat. Gems they found too, more fine than jaion, and craved by all. And so with riches and rumor he came to our land, and began to feast.

Children were all he took at first. But children, like cattle or memory, must ever away, what use to mourn the forgotten? Until they returned, some of them, crazed and half dead, eaten, cut upon, and always starved, feebly gnawing their own flesh.

It was a perfect nameless fear, back then. Who knew? Who could see?

Then they began to perceive, sometimes even in day, a waiting figure; alone, always, plain or hidden. There was no mistaking him, and when his arrival became a sign of anguish, then he was known. Then he was hunted.

Oh, who could have known?

A strong party was formed, the most hardened of men, some even from the halls of Raverne, the famous Pallaton knights. Twenty-seven there was, the holy number of three. And they marched on the Prince, who kept no retainers, nor conscripts, only slaves. They were beloved, these men. Most had families. It was certain, there were no tears. Their weapons were fine.

When, after a dreadful interval, they returned, silent and grim, they bore the marks of battle. They would not speak of it. And they loved their wives, as if anew…sometimes for days.

When their lust was brought to term, there was such a festival as none can remember before. Nineteen children. Nineteen boys. But all pale, and aware, with eyes like milk.

And instead of infant's cries, out poured darkness, and monsters, and things that flew; the vengeance of the Prince.

Nineteen cast off skins were burned, and so began the days of the Beast.

***

I dreamed a girl upon my knee. “Cause no rudeness or cruelty,” I told her, while she looked with studious eye. “There is only one direction it will go, and that is back to your heart. Be instead kind, for that may go many places, and see many things; your gift to the world. Be grateful too, in every hour for every thing, for that is noble...even a mewling babe can want.”

The darkness was poisoned. The darkness burned. I walked a space, and fought to breathe, and presently saw the passage I moved in. The brick and mortar ground and growled, scales of stones that breathed in turn. Finally there was a door, dim and stout, and then the bright and polished hall of Raverne.

“Enter, Calian, and be welcome,” said the king, frail and fragile even then. With him was his guard, his retinue, physickers, and his son Josak, upright and serious and all of eight, his mother the queen two years dead. But the king had been speaking to a young woman, her dress plain but suitable for war, well made, clean. And this woman looked also at me, and whatever she thought she kept to herself.

“Kezia, daughter of Amaia Queen of Sevelin,” (and he shaking held out his hand to me, and I was honored at this effort) “my Pallaton Calian.”

“My lord,” said she.

“Your grace,” I bowing said.

“Your fever is rampant,” she murmured, cocking her head. “You will not see dawn.”

And the room grew quite large, and the king and Kezia and all that stood with careful eye melted, drifted, and became as dream.

The first thing we fought was a natural beast, a river dweller of sharp hide and teeth. We had waded knee deep, clad in wet shifts, when it lifted itself from beneath the water and rumbled a warning; I could feel it in my chest. It was low and wide, and had three tails long and thick as a tree, yet they whipped with speed and one struck me, lifting me almost to the shore. There was a buzzing pain but I was not stunned. Kezia made a commotion and so drew it away, snapping and rolling its low rage.

Later she said: “Not every thing may move as a man,” and so she taught me a dance that day, and I fought shadows on a green hill, audienced by clouds.

The next thing was shadow, and evil, and in this I showed worth. It seemed a man, but was not, for night dripped from him as from a wound. I only saw because I could not sleep again. When I returned it was at the tent, peering within. I gave the man (I thought) a challenge, and he turned away, darkness billowing out. And the next thing was Kezia's blade springing out of him, quick and hard, and he fell. All this, in deathly silence.

After that we set a watch.

I tasted bitter, and retched. There was some blurry glow, but it hurt to bear.

“The fire is great,” I heard from far away, from a voice I thought was sad.

I had told her some truth. At this she scoffed. The days were hard, colder, with rain; the Citadels were nearer then. We were forced to shelter often, close and heavy with wet. Once she said, “Do not try,” and loosed her dress, her leggings, her thin damp shift. I might have looked away, but she feigned no modesty. And for an ageless moment, I saw. Then she shivered into her blanket and into sleep, while I ached and did not. With my eyes closed, still I could see her, smooth and white. Her breathing was a majesty. But I turned and fretted; I was too cold. Then I was warm. Too warm, and burned, and could not find peace. And too I burned, for her.

“It is Hell,” I cried. And so it was; the fever had me. The Beast, I raved, had won.

When the blessing came, I wept. When her soft hands removed my burning coat, I gave thanks. And when she lay upon me, wondrously cool, I embraced her, and kissed her…then felt her kiss in return. She moved against me as I quickened, and the fire became more wholesome; a slow, familiar furnace I knew only in dream. Soft hands again, and they met mine, and I gripped them hard as I thrust upwards, deeply into her, and I heard her gladness. I pulled her near, I said her name.

“Seraph,” said I. “Dear sister.”

“Sleep,” she said, but we did not.

I saw rafters. Sunbeams. There was no tent.

I remembered again: another battle, a bite or sting, the poison…Kezia had saved me and nursed me, half carried me, half dead, til she found a cottage, and a good warm barn; we had rented the loft. I remembered more. And looking down upon my arm I saw hers instead, the wonder of light in her pale hair, a glow upon her skin. She slept, and I marveled at her breath, her sweet lips, that proud and beautiful nose. She lay in my arms as if I belonged there.

When she stirred, I allowed her.

“My lord looks none the worse for wear.” And she smiled.

Later, as I lay still and weak, I could smell the brewing kava, heard soft female laughter from the cottage.

I closed my eyes and said a prayer; this small home. This reprieve. Kezia.

I said her name again, once or twice, and finally went down.

***

Were I to tell you there is something more terrible, beyond the horizon of your fears, would you be less afraid of the dark...or more?

I will not lie to you in this regard, and if you press me, I cannot assuage you. I do not fear death, nor shattering pain, but there is some truth in the night, in unholy dreams. There is a hungry knowledge that lurks and seeks and watches you sleep; you are not, if ever you were, truly safe.

Plainly put, it knows your name.

We kept close watch on the hag, who was not quite mad, although I might have rested better, if she were. She spoke to us in the tongue of the wild, which I made known to Kezia, who listened and made wise reply, asking a way finally to the Prince's lair, or at least Waruk. Also she spoke, the hag, in other dialects, laughing when we did not respond, a coarse jest. And while we traveled she took pains to gather and sample all the variations of leaf and root, and with them made discourse too.

She slept apart from us, as if distance gave her solace, not we. Once in my moonlit wandering I dared to spy, and beheld her waking eyes shining at me from blackness, round and still.

“Moon child,” she hoarsely said, “leave your mother be.”

“You, mother,” I asked, “or she?” Looking up; the other pale white eye.

And the hag laughed and laughed, and turned away.

Seven nights apart we were, Kezia and me.

I loved her twice more that day, there in the loft, warm and dry. The patient wood made little noise, but once our frenzy brought a helping cry from out the cottage; we blushed and laughed like children. And again in our little tent, no longer damp as North we made, but softer, and full of secrets.

Familiar, was Kezia now, more comforting than home. Had I not dreamt her enough, wandering the lonely spaces of my want? I did not tell her, how I'd first taken her inside that empyreal tree, rough and urgent and bitterly, guessing in some hidden wisdom that it was not she; only chimera, and pain. I was, somehow, shamed by this, as if I had been disloyal, craven, satisfied, by mere and base reflection. Less.

Her eyes strayed to me now, shy and bold, full of life and love and claim, and in this I was glad, and I told myself that nothing mattered. The veil drew back, or was drawn down, so that my days and nights were given to that singular hope, and joy, and idylls of the future.

And Kezia, her shining laugh so easily given, so briefly worshipped, she saw the hag first. The hag knew the way. We followed the hag.

And so the idyll ends.

Her mien we abided, but we were chary of her design, another nature. But the hag was true, she led us past harm and even warned of peril, although it was only a wild boar, which we ate. And seven nights we guarded us, but in the morning she was only away gathering, or worrying the fire, nodding as it spoke.

Then, finally: that small cry, light in the distance, and my blood was in my face, even as Kezia saw, but said nothing. I thought, it is day, what haunting could be seen? But the hag decided for us, crouched low and watchful and as stone, or some wild cat, moments from prey.

“There, now,” came her whisper, and we followed as she went, Kezia her weapon and me mine, and the hag like a snake or an arrow, off into the trees. We are not far, I thought, we could quit her and be off. I thought of Kezia, softened in sleep, I thought of her dance that was now mine, I thought of the cottage, and her quick, silken cries.

And Tuwa, I thought of her, too…for I knew this other cry.

As before, stones, and haggard token, the useless passage of industry and broken dreams, neglected now, forgotten even by heirs. And then I walked as in a dream, for there was the coil of black, the faded white gown.

But it was not Tuwa; some other, as lost and desolate and full of cold injustice, with tears as real as mine. The hag stopped, with a seeming of consideration. And Kezia, meanwhile, held back a space, and with a sharp look warned me also. The girl had lifted her head.

“Mercy—“ she began. Then she saw the hag, and screamed.

And the hag flew like a beast.

And the girl roared and leapt back. There was a moment, possibly less, enough time for her to change. Her slim arms withdrew, cracking and shivering, into her body and out again, not arms, but cloudy wings ripping from her back, and full of gore. And I saw her eyes again, black and fathomless as that cloud of flowing hair.

And then the hag was upon her, perfect feral death, and the roar was ripped from the girl-fiend's throat.

Kezia and I retreated, away from the shaking stones.

She held me quite tenderly, when I stopped to wrack and heave.

***

We fumbled our clothing loose, and trampled it, kissing all the while, our landscapes rediscovered. With the divine luck of the crazed or quickly wanton, we found a place of soft welcome, moss and shade, and Kezia kneeled. And I kneeled too. And when I entered her like that, slowly embraced while she deeply sighed, my hands hungered for her shape, her hips, her back, every divine meridian at once (I tried). She held herself against a tree, her fingers white against its flesh. I stared at her hands, so wonderful and small, full of love and supple death, and my hands traveled to meet them, and when our faces touched I spoke to her urgent things.

She reached one hand back and held my face tightly, and moaned reply, hot and wet with sudden tears.

The waterfall and hidden pool were found later, and by unspoken sign we decided to camp. The water ran clear and deep, and we bathed, while foxes came to spy.

Kezia stood in that clear torrent for a time, her wavering shape beguiling, then finally glided to me. Her hair she swept back from her eyes, and she blinked and licked the drops from her lips. Like some hastened effort of the drowsing sun, she smiled, then made her way to shore. I followed, feeling the moment slipping from me, streaming as I went.

“Tomorrow, then,” I said, as she dressed, not a dream.

“Attend what I taught you,” she said without turning. “And the lesson of breathing.”

Like the wisest of pupils, I gave no reply.

When at last we saw the keep, as the king's men also saw, I knew a strange thing, and perhaps something old: whatever I felt and made of its darkness, whatever words I'd speak to apprehend, or to etch into memory, it was only an ephemeral truth, lonely and hollow. With every telling it would wear away, fade and wither, and become a child's tale, its horror unmanned; a skipping stone on water, feebled, and finally no more.

We circled, and finding no guard, approached from the north.

And crept into Hell.

The training of the Pallaton is full of vigor, and ten long hard years. One is taught the way of many lands, their trade and tongues, and their intrigues, and also of Eilis. Some even sail, with traders, around the Citadels to the far side of Kamea, there to learn the ways of the distant West, the dry and arid kingdoms of red gems, waste, and sand. Some even return.

Glaive and bow and sword we know, and, too, ways of stealth. Learned spies, roughened lords, we oath to the king and in some ways, are his brothers. When armies marched on our new lands, one Pallaton first was there to show our strength; perhaps we fell, but at great cost, to give our enemies pause.

And with me, to the Prince, the name of the Beast, Kezia was sent. For Sevelin, our sister, she too would reckon, with shining blade, and the echoed face of her Queen. To fight.

Or die.

Kezia ruined me in excellence, for I fought well, and showed my worth, and battled back the hordes of gloom. I turned as she, and breathed as she, and we together became a creature of pitiless grace, ducking a sharpness, returning in kind. I lost my sense of time or place, and only knew, again and again, when my blade struck true, those intimate moments of death. And on, and again, and in this carnage I thought I began to smile, to shout, to voice exultation, beautiful, beautiful, beautiful, beautiful....

“Fall back,” cried Kezia, and would not press on. When I did not seem to hear, or perhaps to heed, she gripped my collar and drove me away, aroused in desperate rage.

“God's teeth,” she swore, with a terrible hiss, “fall back.”

And then I perceived, even as we ran, at last, the true guardian of the Prince.

***

The tale of the six is a thousand years old, and yet has no end, for no one knows what happened to the heroes (or blackguards, as some say) after the Aegis, when Kamea died, or (some say) was reborn. She who was Mystra created the Aegis, that grim spoke of ice and giver of life, and she who we call Severa, sister to Mystra, fell defending her. That is a grand and epic tale, and all agree upon it.

When the six first fought the Changing thing, they did not easily win, for the thing became what made them weak, shifting and rolling and tasting their fears; the worst kind of dark. Only in concert did they overcome, by great toil, and blood. One Changing demon only, and it was lucky they saw no other, at least for some time.

One day, imperiled, they came upon three.

That is the tale of Severa's fall.

“Turn away,” breathed Kezia, “for it will hear.”

I turned away. In my mind I saw the thing, snaking vapor and blasphemous hue, crouching at the broken mouth of the keep, and I turned from that, too.

“It was a myth,” said I. “Only a tale.” But even I knew that a lie.

“Real enough,” she confessed, and slumped down away from the rock which hid us, and stared into the sky. I watched her as she thought and drifted, bit her lip in some pensive notion.

“This keep has no fire,” she finally said, “alight in the smokeshafts.”

“It is so,” I agreed. Kezia rolled towards me, with fey regarding eye.

“What is the name of the Nirakul firefiend,” she asked, “the one made out of soot?”

She watched me comprehend, and grinned.

We moved slowly out of the fireplace, blacker than sin and twice as cunning. We looked as highwaymen, our mouths covered in cloth, but our cheeks shone pale in the dim light and so we dared not unmask. This room was small, angular, uncomfortable, and disused: we guessed it servant's quarters. Upstairs would be a dining hall, or a suite of chambers. The floor was stone and uncovered, and we crossed it as shadows. At the door; nothing from without. Softly, softly it opened, and a brighter light entered. Now into a hall, narrow steps leading down across the way, into unyielding dark, and a low murmur from further away, up a wider stair.

We undid our blades and stole towards the light.

I was a friend to Josak son of my king, and was glad of his company, for he was full of love and cheer, but tempered, and wise. When he asked me the ways of battle or war, I indulged him, and was not too grim. When he asked me ways to please his Grace, and make him proud, I asked him in turn, so that he alone would find some truth. And when I finally marched on the lands of the Beast, he asked me the way of this too.

“Why should you leave,” he carefully said, with no sign of tears.

“That is easily known,” was my reply. The lady of Sevelin was away at the gate, making some words with her company too. With reverent grace they unbound a sword, and she took it, and I looked away. Josak was saying,

“But should it be you—“

“No other,” I said, and I took his shoulder. “The best for the best. Isn't that so?” And he allowed a smile.

“But you will return?”

Josak was a friend to me. I kissed his palms and made my leave, before he could see the doubt.

The Beast was a man, not haggard, but hale. We came upon him at his table, the hall cold and untended. He glanced our way and continued to feast, and when we laid terms he threw a gobbet of flesh at our feet.

“That, for your terms,” he said.

It was the head of a babe, and in my mind I heard its cry.

There was no fury, no flurry of justice. No storm at all, save for the blue in Kezia's eye, a mariner's vast doom, the terrible weight of the sea. Where before, perhaps as she wakened, I thought I could quit the earth and fall away into that sky, this was slow drowning, icy and deep. And I, I knew a hate so clean, it was a singular evil.

We marched on him like that, black angels, cold fire, and patience.

It was quite simple. Like the men of the king, we fell.

***

What lies we tell ourselves, what deceptions. And yet, quietly, sometimes a voice: a warning, an instinct of reason; some inner vision. Do we heed the false, or do we scoff the truth? To which do we listen?

Do we not, then, need both?

There in the void, I knew hunger and thirst, as if starved and enlightened. Only this.

There was the memory of a memory, and then I knew want.

She was there, or always was, and softly came to me. Her milk white skin was sharply limned against my dark, a dance of unlike, so perfectly cast. Cool she was, and warmer now, so that I began to rise and flame in lust and sympathy. There, a round shoulder, I tasted her and I craved more. I moved my lips along that slope and gripped her hair, smelling it deeply, lost in its thick. Now she sought me, and her lips mine, and I gladly feasted until she withdrew, eyes lowered, bending, seeking; she knelt at my hip and I felt her mouth again, that sweet liquid burning, her nails in my flesh.

I lifted her, to kiss and taste her need, or perhaps to say her name. Yes, that is only right, that marvelous word of encompassing, she, Kezia, mistress, bride; Kezia, alive in my arms as easily as dream.

But I was not sleeping.

I thrust her away, as something that burned, and finally saw her eyes, and they were milk white, too. Her arms clutched and clawed, and I fought them. And then her skin sloughed off, and left a thing that crawled, hateful and black. And where a face might have been there was only sharp and glistening red, screaming like a trapped beast that rends its own limb.

And once again, I fell.

Awareness came and I spun and stumbled, shaking, as if ill. There was hard dry earth, and stricken trees all around, blasted and smooth, their ashen arms reaching, broken, blind: the pastoral elegance of defeat. And I was alone.

What a frenzied horror I knew then: lost and creeping, a nightmare slouching home. I roared at the sky, maddened...then, somehow, calmed. Perhaps there was time. Perhaps she yet lived.

I turned and turned, until I found my track; the landscape did not lightly yield. And neither did the trail, for it lay in the shape of something altogether not a man. But in this way, unsleeping, I hunted myself (whatever I was), and returned to the keep.

It took me three days.

For my companion, there was a passion. Sometimes it was fear, and anger too, but mostly it was doubt. There was a long time to consider. And like all passions, I left it behind, as a ghost or something failed, somewhere in the wake behind me. Still, I had track, and sword, and the comfort of now: I ate, I drank, I went on, vitally aware of all things, my step, the scent on the air, the animals and beasts around.

I ought to have felt grateful, or even less, alive.

To gain the keep again was hard. Fires now were lit and dark things crept around. These I grappled, once discovered; I did not mind the touch of them, now in hand, so intimate with their bane. I choked them, or pressed down upon their eyes, filled with clear madness, of right thinking murder. And then I crept in turn, a dread among fiends. Slowly, like stone, with blood on my face.

At first I yearned to see the Prince, to task him. But again, doubt. And then to Kezia -- what if she lived? But I turned from that thought too, and merely spied. Empty, mostly, was the keep, but for twice a pale horrid thing, some construct of flesh, the height of a child: hairless, featureless, its face smooth as cream. With arms like stalks it beckoned me, approaching, and I moved quickly away.

I found the hall again, and took the wide stair down, to the lower steps, so heavy with black; there, it must be there. It was.

It would have been better, perhaps, to chance upon the Changing thing.

They saw me, but did not cry out. Nor did they move, or entreat any succor. They merely lay like that, chained in the darkness, unwhole, possibly already dead. And glad of it, however slowly.

I opened door after door, false death, false hope, telling myself there were too many, I could not free all. Probably that was also false. Did I weep for them? Or because they were not Kezia?

She was gray and still when I found her; naked, covered with sweat. A thick collar of iron too high for her neck and a heavy chain bound her to the wall, and she was thin. I went to her, I flew, I knelt gently at her side. I put my ear upon her lips and then I kissed them. The collar, masterful, I left alone, but with a tool I pulled the chain and plate from the stone. When I tried to cover her I saw the blood, not mortal thick, but thin, and smeared.

With awful tenderness I lifted her, and saw the ribbons of harm.

***

I nursed Kezia for some hours. I served her wounds as best I could, fed her bread softened with water when she woke.

“I dreamed us,” she whispered, when she opened her eyes. “In Sevelin.” But she was weak, and shook.

“I dreamed us too,” I answered, but that was all. I held her. Again she slept. I dared not. In silence and stone, unmolested or forgotten, we passed two days. The Beast did not come.

She wore only my coat, but could stand, and walk assisted. She felt great pain but said nothing. Her back was a ruin, and I guessed at a torture, a wicked scourge, or else it was him, sampling, wondrous of her flesh. Once, while I thought she was sleeping, I wept a little, and wished he would appear.

Past the dead and the dying, he did not.

In the vast echoing hall, he did not.

Even at the entrance, torches were lit but there was no guard. And so we might have quit. As I paused or hesitated, Kezia leaned heavily.

“You cannot,” she breathed. I looked out and saw the shadowed treeline, not so far away.

I said, “He does not care. He will not stop you. We are as nothing.” I thought of my footsteps, the track of a thing. “And yet.”

She protested, even as I lay her down, away from the light. I gave her my knife. Her voice in the shape of my name I took with me.

Do you know the tales of the West, the desert lands, the kingdoms of Akkadin? Fables, I knew them as a boy. I could recite them even now, as I made my way through those passages to give my love to the Prince: Cyzarin to the South, where the Temujin rule (brutally, with their sports of blood), bound by the river Nirmit, crystalline and wide, where tall masts sail. North, ruled by the fabled Demothi Queen, are horizons of dunes and demons, winged chimalis and fierce anaru, red whirlwinds called Arezu, and sultry caravans. It is said that people farm the sea, and possess great white barges that fly even upon the air. And further still, the rocky lands of Usha and Kautuk, and rough tribes who trade in ore and furs.

I dreamed of days when I would travel there, and bring home such tales myself, and new.

Before my eyes ever fell upon Kezia, Princess of Sevelin, I knew I never would.

The chamber was empty, as were they all. What need did such a creature have, for comforts or ease? He stood at the window, looking down perhaps where we might have gone, his hands upon the sill. His hair and robes billowed: the wind took umbrage with his gaze, and tried to push it back. He did not turn, so I stepped in. Now he gestured.

“What think you, Eilis, of my estate?”

“Quite ill my lord, in need of certain remedy.”

“As your lady, perhaps.”

“She is well,” I lied, hissing through my teeth. “It is you I now attend.”

“Again?” he murmured, perhaps to himself, and then he stood away.

His arm crashed down upon my blade and I fell back, and twice again as I staggered, defending. I felt his other claw seeking my flesh, and smelled his bite when it came near. I twisted and cut, but he only shifted back and was upon me again. If the sword drew blood he gave no sign, but only brought more blows, quick thunder heavier than I. My breath came fast and ragged, my shoulders cracked and ached, and we had just begun.

“Such an army,” he said, and his calm numbed me. “Offer me terms.”

I said nothing. I spun and attacked, but the point he lightly pushed aside.

“TERMS, Eilis,” he roared. And with a blow that might have killed, he struck my face. I did fall, then, and stumbled upon the wall in rising.

“I am become terror,” he said, amused. “Will you not, then, look at me?” I would not. I knew that sleep, what waited for me there. And so with downward eyes I thrust again. And sensed his blows, and so survived. But his claw found me true, and lifted me away. Before I fell he caught another blow, and dashed me into a wall.

The room spun now, twisted by the wind. I tried to stand but my arm failed, broken. I brought my sword to the other, and gripped it as a cane, and lifted me up again.

I staggered, almost fell.

I could not defeat him.

I thought of Kezia, my king, all the lands to Imberam and beyond, drowning in doubt and gore. Who would be next? Could I not see Josak even now, spiritless and malignant, returned to Eilis full of dark and terrible lust? Children of the Beast gathered and mocked me, laughing from once sparkling halls, and their footsteps were my own.

“Cast off your skin, demon,” I said. “Show me your true darkness, the face of my enemy.” I tasted blood, and spat it. He was close then, and I could see his lips, and teeth, his faintly stubbled chin.

“There is no face, Eilis.” His voice was mild, even curious. “Only death.”

“Daku,” Kezia said from behind, even as I heard her chain.

The Beast spun and caught her in the neck as she sank her blade into his chest. She seemed carried by the wind, a twisting leaf, and then fell to the floor...and I thrust my weapon fully into the Prince's back.

***

As I gathered wood I came upon the body of a cat. It was a great cat, newly dead, from what manner I could not tell; I saw no wounds, nor violent sign. The harsh wind, colder now the Beast was gone, caressed its fur and made little furrows. I saw the tail curled round its feet, as if it only slept. Its eyes too were closed.

I knelt at its side and touched it, feeling the heavy muscle beneath the silk. A singular predator, and yet I mourned it. Here was a fine thing, only yesterday; now it would rot, unknown.

I took up the wood and returned to the keep.

When the pyre was ready I set a torch in it. It took a long time to burn, and gave off much smoke. It would bring others, I thought, and that was good. Three prisoners I found in the donjons of the Prince, two young boys and a girl of sixteen, who was called Himei; the rest had died. I had bound their wounds and provisioned them as best I could, and left clean water. They could not travel, and Himei would tend them now, until delivered. The boys slept, and she stroked their heads, nodding herself. I rose to leave.

“My lord,” she called.

I turned. “Your servant,” said I.

She spoke quietly, with grace. “May I beg you to tell me, how did he die?” And she looked at me, and her eyes were clear, and old. I thought she was strong, and brave too, and would grow up steady and fine.

“It was she who felled him, Kezia daughter of Amaia Queen of Sevelin. She pierced his heart. He burns even now.”

She nodded. “And my lord?”

“I,” and I think I smiled then, “I shall take her home.”

I went out again, and found her near the pyre. She sat wrapped in my cloak, her head resting against a walking staff, which I had fashioned. I came and stood near, and we listened to that music of destruction for a time, our faces warmed. In my hand I held the ruin of collar and chain, savaged by the Beast, the enslavement that saved her. Kezia glanced at it, then away.

“For the king,” I said without vigor. “So he will understand.”

“You think he does not?” Kezia replied, and her voice was cold.

A long time later, we took ourselves away.

I remember standing over the body of the Prince, an agony, relief, and a sudden vile anger that made me quite ill. And then I remember somehow lifting Kezia, and taking her out. I made it as far as the entrance hall before I could not stand. And I remember hearing echoes of something like screaming, perhaps it was my own. And that is how the evening fell, in the vast and lonely architecture of the damned.

The next thing I remember was Kezia asking if I had more food.

We kept us North and made for Waruk, but it was slow going, for Kezia was still weak. We took great pains to travel softly; between my arm and her wounding we had not the skill for war. We rested often, but no longer shared a tent; she did not ask, I did not answer. My nights were full of sleeping now, heavy and black, desolate of dreams. Kezia grew stronger and ate well, but now it was she who nightly walked, my sword in hand. Most dawns, as before, I would wake and find her gazing down, eyes dark and tired and red, from lack of sleep (I told myself).

I did not ask, she did not answer. We only looked a long time, before we went about the day.

We found the road to Waruk, and begged passage on a trader's cart to Chalavan not long after. Something in the gentle sway and tottering of the cart we found soothing, and we slept in that small reprieve.

I woke once, as she touched my face. The carter sang a traveling song. Kezia's face I also touched. From the canopy of trees above I heard singing in reply. And we pulled each other close, and she sighed, and kissed me, her breath so very warm and sweet, her small hand on my back a measureless joy. The cart rocked in sympathy, and I hardened against her. I ran my fingers along her thigh, across her hip, up that divine meridian to her breast, which I squeezed and gripped. She caught her breath, then moaned a little into my mouth. I found her ear with my lips, and kissed it. I told her that I loved her, and then I turned away. My answer.

All night I wanted for Kezia's, but it did not come.

We sat upon a grassy hill, overlooking the sea. I thought in the gray distance I could see merchant ships, late of Vallika. There would be a festival for market day. Kezia sucked a reed of milk, rolling it in her mouth. My sword lay between us.

“Tomorrow, the city.” She was quite calm, as if any other notion was beneath consideration.

“Then it must be tonight.”

“You know I cannot.” The calm lifted, began to float away.

“I cannot return.”

“You can,” she cried. “Perhaps…”

“They won’t,” I said. “I knew when I left. By your hand, or the gallows, the evil must end.”

Silence then. I felt her tears, rather than saw, because I could not bear to look on her.

“You said yourself, you broke the dream. Perhaps there is no evil.”

“Perhaps it only sleeps,” I said. “Do you love me so little?” And her voice began to quake.

“I love you enough,” I answered, and gave her my sword.

The sun had slipped and gave us deep shadows, and a brilliant golden warmth that made her eyes like jaion, flawless and pure. There was no storm in them now. I could feel my heart breaking even before she raised the blade. Below was the faint roar of the sea, and the flickering lights of the city, and I was surrounded by everything I had ever loved. This day I had long seen, but I never thought it would be so beautiful. Even so, I had a doubt. And this doubt was the ruin of everything I had ever known.

Or wanted.

“Calian,” she whispered, the tears fast and free, “what if you are truly damned?”

“Then I’ll burn handsomely,” I said, “so that you will know me.”

She pierced me quickly and hugged me tight, and suddenly all my warmth was hers, and I was glad. The pain infused my senses with awful immediacy, desperate with purpose, and time became a fiction. And I felt no want at all.

Then, slowly, too quickly, it grew cold and dark. I felt a strange sinking, a slow falling, a sort of lonely drowning in a sea of vast ice. And the last small mercy of my life was her fiery rain upon my face.

The world of Kamea


The Fire Dances
Night walk/Tuwa
The wild/Training
The days of the Beast
The fever/Kezia
The hag and the demon
The hordes of gloom/The guardian
The sleep walk
Return to the keep/Rescue
The Prince
The journey home
Calian's fall