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 |  A fantasy-adventure: King Sylvester and Tuette, a Cursed sorceress, must save Decennia! |
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The complete book is here. The latter chapters don't have their italics because that takes a long time to add. But I wanted to have the complete novel on the site. Enjoy! "In the world of Valent, Magik is accessible to all but held in check by a few. King Sylvester is the latest to be born with the kingstone, a birthright that decrees him to be the leader of Decennia. He was called at a young age and it has never worked for him, rendering him a poor king. Tuette is a roaming sorceress who must avoid Magik communities: she is Cursed and there are strong prejudices against such people, from all walks of life. Through something akin to fate, the king and sorceress’ paths will entwine as they aim to stop Count Roost from putting an absurdly devastating Curse on the nation of Decennia, a feat never before accomplished. Along the way, Sylvester will discover what it means to be a good leader and Tuette will realize that the most sincere acts are those that are wholly selfless." |
| Though it was the entire previous day that saw Tuette embrace a sense of aww-filled wonder in how quickly her precious Freezing Pote had been concocted, this morning she was filled with nothing but a dire sense of dread; the king was a frightful idiot. That much was evident from his actions alone, especially regarding the splint incident. And he was expected to play a major part in casting a much-needed Reverse! It was true that his lineage had been picked centuries before with the aide of Magik but the man that was chosen back then was not the same caliber of man that she was to travel with. This was clear by the lack of attention being paid to the country as a whole. In the manner he had exuded, it seemed as if he had expected Tuette to express a tone of deference to him, with a bow or curtsey, or probably just a small nod would have sufficed. But she had purposely provided none. She swore, long ago, that she would give no such degree of blind obedience or obsequiousness to a man who was not qualified to fill the title he publicly bore. And it’s with him that I’m supposed to help save the kingdom? She couldn’t forget about the incredulity of the notion. Her mind became almost unstable at the thought. To make matters seemingly worse, he had to travel with bodyguards of some type. As if anyone truly cared about the ineffective king and what his ancestors once represented. It was true that he held a title but it was doubtful that they would encounter anyone that knew the king by sight alone. Especially without his crown to denote the distinction! Thoughts boiled inside Tuette’s head. They revolved mostly around notions of abandoning the king and his entourage once the location of a chicken flock was discerned. This was a purely selfish thought though and she knew that, but couldn’t help it. The idea of being forced to travel with the king made her skin seemingly ripple. There was something peculiar about the third bodyguard though. Tuette had learned the names of none of the king’s forced followers but the third seemed to be of a smaller degree of importance or inflection. And, somehow, very familiar to Tuette personally. He was shorter than the average man and looked to be of the farming caste. Upon first spying him the night before, as lit by muted torchlight, she could have sworn it was her one-time partner, Dermy, but upon closer examination, she saw that the facial structure was inaccurate, the hair color different, and his entire composure just wrong. And his pattern of speech was the biggest difference. Tuette felt it was odd that everything else about the man brought up thoughts of Dermy but his vocalizations were similar to those of Craspone par Taali, the man that had inevitably drawn Dermy away from Tuette and towards Mount Reign. There was the off-chance that the third Guard was of relation to the deserting man or even Craspone himself. Tuette would find the time to pose questions to him later. It was not lost on her that Dermy left her to work for the king and now she was forcibly in company with the king. She couldn’t recall Craspone’s every feature but this Guard could be that man: speech was more difficult to ingrain in such a short amount of time. Desertion’s not really an option. The Curse that had been enacted by Roost was legitimate enough: she recalled Ta Speebie’s worn map weave and the burn over the representation of Boost Island. If Tuette broke away with her Freezing Pote and performed the Reverse, she was then subject to whatever the Curse was that the count had perpetrated. Plus, she was being trusted by some very promising Magikals. It was true that they were primarily using her Cursed status as a form of leverage but it was her Freezing Pote that had inspired her inclusion in the first place. Is it coincidence that King Whatever came to Zharinna? She had used her Potent Pote days ago, before the Curse had been cast and it was in very little time that the Reverse was discovered. Had Ta Speebie been able to deduce the required Reverse or was that knowledge divined by the crown? She rolled her eyes at the thought as the king could not have stumbled upon that information in the dark if he needed to. But someone working under him might have. Maybe even Dermy himself? The prospect lightened Tuette’s heart slightly as it was possible that Dermy had become more powerful with his abilities. Maybe he had even overcome his somewhat uncontrollable obsession with various plant life, though she hated to admit that she didn’t know exactly what it was that Dermy did for the king. Of course, it was his obsession to collect knowledge over many different types of plants that had made the Freezing Pote wholly possibly. For that Tuette had been grateful. But, again, she knew that desertion was not an option. If anything, Count Roost had to personally be stopped. Anyone who was crazy enough to attempt a kingdom-wide Curse was crazy enough to try even harder when the first attempt failed miserably. It was of no small consolation that the knowledge garnered from the quest, in the event that Roost was killed, could be used for Tuette’s personal gain. The simple fact was that Freezing a flock of chickens could only work to Reverse one Curse or another. If Tuette did it, she would have obtained her salvation but would then become victim to the larger Curse. If Sylvester did it, as he wasn’t Cursed and symbolically, if not foolishly, represented the entirety of Decennia, Roost’s Curse would be foiled before it had time to mature. Yes, in order to provide a future for herself, she was going to have to curb her traveling troupe to the south to help fend off Roost personally and permanently. At the very least, she could garner a location of the rare flock and convince the others to confront Roost while she worked to Reverse her own socially depreciating Curse. But what if the others fail in disabling the count? With proper direction, she could locate a flock and keep an eye on it until she was sure that the kingdom’s Curse was either complete or halted and then perform her own Reverse. But then she could find herself ostracized again. Whereas everyone would most likely be Cursed after such an outcome - she was talking about the king, anyway, and failure on his part was a likely option – she would be free to do whatever. There was no way to know if everyone was to be physically affected or if a more situational outcome was expected. Not all Curses caused a physical disability, as in her own case. Some caused a person to be predestined for bouts of terrible circumstance, like making a man constantly find himself in compromising situations or a woman being found attractive by only the most uncommon of wretches. Tuette was able to deduce that such a vast area designated to be affronted by the Curse meant it would most likely be of the physical nature. There would be no point in causing every citizen to endure lifetimes of embarrassing hardship: if everyone suffered the same circumstantial fate, it would be null. And if everyone was physically deformed in one manner or another, that would also unite them with a commonality, making the Curse that much more ineffective. Except for people who are currently Cursed. Their status would be readily recognized and if Tuette Reversed her own Curse after the larger one was finished, she couldn’t prove herself to be Cursed in any other manner. Once again, she would find herself as the individual hovering on the cusp of civilization whereas no one would accept her for being so unjustly immune. The thought of claiming another country of origin crossed her mind, but that wasn’t feasible: it was now nearly impossible to cross either ocean as any guidance beacon that might have once been used for such a voyage had been lost due to disuse during the times when Magik had been absent. That had been a time, centuries before, when communities closed in on themselves anyway but without beacon’s being powered with Magik, they, with many other artifacts from that era, had been misplaced and never seen again. Tuette never cared much to focus on such a time as it poorly represented the Magikal status she usually prided herself upon; the carelessness spoke ill of the craft. Lying about my birthplace will be no easier than lying about being Cursed. With a nation full of Cursed individuals, it would be easy for any one of them to cast a Curse of Truth on her anyway. And without her Curse of the Hood to ironically protect her in such a situation, she would be stuck. It occurred briefly that she could allow herself to remain protectively Cursed while everyone else was dissimilarly Cursed but that idea soured quickly in her head. Letting myself remain Cursed is simply not in the basket of boons! With her thoughts careening through the possible avenues that she might travel, she was drawn to the same conclusion: she would have to travel with the king and his bodyguards until the end. It would be easy enough to help convince them that killing Roost was the easier choice, despite the finality that was implied with murder. After that, she could Freeze her flock of chickens and be rid of the Curse and whatever company the king might provide. The latter was beginning to sound like a second Curse unto itself and if she had not experienced her own physical misgivings in the dawn’s early light – she had not required herself to remain in hiding over her status since the Zharinnians knew about her predicament – she would assume she was Cursed with the forced companionship of the monarch. Tuette’s present mindset was invaded upon by memories of her father devoting all of his energy to craft footwear solely for the king and his denizens on the mountain. They had monopolized his time because of his superiority concerning protective boots and the like. For Tuette, it felt like she had always been Cursed in one aspect for another. She had felt guilty a time or two for not being drawn to the family’s business the way her siblings had been. The mysteries of Magik and the power it promised drew her greatly, especially regarding the cave network southwest of her hometown, New Opal. They were said to be haunted with some type of specter or another. In any respect, odd things were said to happen in the caves and hearing such stories had only breathed life into the desire to learn more about any such happenings. These memories forced her to think about how physically close she was to New Opal presently. Just the other side of the mountain and I could be… But was it home? Did New Opal still count as her home? It had been nearly a decade since her departure and she didn’t doubt that her family still held strong influence within the township. Upon seeing the king’s boots, she knew they to be marked as her father’s signature style; he couldn’t go without including his crest upon every product. She literally had to shake these memories from her mind, distracting as they were. It did no good to lose sight of the current goal. Tuette gathered her composure and stepped through her front door, catching sight of the red doornail in her peripheral. Though it was a courtesy extended that she be granted access to her dwelling, she had no more eggs to Charm the home into departing. A midnight hunt for snake eggs could have resulted in such an escape had she not been exhausted from rushing through most of the previous day fashioning a Pote that had taken her and Dermy alone a whole week to construct, a couple years prior. But the deed was done. The Freezing Pote was primed for usage and had been tested on the king’s own splints. That part of the prior night’s events Tuette had witnessed from afar with much joy. Watching the king fall and seeing the taut fear contort his face with the notion of being crushed by the very creature he had ridden was especially pleasurable. It was necessary though because when the chickens were to be found, they would also probably be hopping about trying to escape. Tuette had been the one to suggest that the splints be disoriented with a localized Mind-Slip Spell and the end result had almost been worth her having to endure the entire pending journey. She sighed when she looked up the shore and saw the perryta approaching from the direction of the Freezer’s small shed. Though Fy’tay had meant well, Tuette felt she might never trust the woman, even if this was the last day she was to set eyes upon her. This woman is preferred over me by even the king! The thought brought mixed emotions to Tuette. On the one hand, she knew she was relieved to be physically out of favor with the king as that would make any kind of attachment that much more unlikely. She would also have gladly allowed Fy’tay to go in her place as she already knew she would find the bland-looking man undesirable company. On the other hand, she knew that she herself was not unattractive. Compared to the man in question, she would have considered herself well out of his arena. Though Fy’tay was a beautiful woman, Tuette felt that she herself was of a more enjoyable quality in regards to her physical nature. Plus, I alone am the prime person for the intended journey. Though Fy’tay was a perryta and Tuette, technically, a lowly apprentice, she had traveled for years and considered herself to be wise to the ways of even the Nementor Paths, decrepit as they were. For Tuette, the paths often represented how she felt about the position of the king: barely usable and therefore, barely perceived. As it was, she considered that she might even be able to embark on such a quest on her own. Except I have no inkling of where to find a chicken flock. Or a means of getting to the Seagulf Islands. Idly, Tuette wondered what made them Islands in the south and in the north rested the Fortright Isles. What’s the difference? Is it because one rested… But Fy’tay finally arrived, stopping the thought. Tuette had appeared lost in her mental mullings and feigned knowing that the perryta had been coming up the shore. It was a social ploy she liked to use to make someone come to you: ignore them until they practically demand your attention, as if they are not important until recognition is earned. The perryta likely knew of the ploy as she only held the gentlest of smiles. Tuette began to feel chagrinned because the woman was truly, in the end, doing what was best for the kingdom as a whole. Tuette was, in the end, only doing this for herself. And she knew it. So did Tuette. “I hope you slept well.” “I did.” She had not. Her mind had been swimming with the various nuances she had continued to focus on this morning. As a result, her bouts of sleep had been interrupted by waking fits. Often, a dream would wrench her back into reality. It was a dream like any other: she would find herself atop a cliff, looking down into a churning pool of black water. Shapes moved against the cliff’s wall but she couldn’t make them out when she looked directly at them. A flyer of some type would squawk and before she could turn around, someone or something would push her. As she plummets over the edge, the shapes – robed and rotting men – would attempt to reach for her and she was not sure if they were trying to save her or tear her apart. She would awaken before she hit the water and be left wondering what it all meant. Tuette knew that dreams were often more than simple meltings of the mind: they could often be prophetic, despite the paradox that might create. But to the perryta, she lied. It would do no good to tell her she had not slept well and if the way she felt was carried even minutely through her eyes, Fy’tay would know the truth anyway. And she would let it pass. That was the type of woman she was turning out to be: empathetically kind. “King Sylvester is awake too. He insisted, once again, that I accompany him on his quest.” Her smile brightened slightly. “It’s flattering, to say the least. But I’ve duties here, of course.” Tuette nodded in agreement but she couldn’t help but think that the king’s oafish remark seemed to create a spark of something inside Fy’tay. Was she actually attracted to the king? Or maybe to a man in such a position as... did she say his name was Celester? She didn’t want to ask, didn’t want to appear like she even cared. She decided she would wait until the king’s name was mentioned again. Still, the possibility that anyone might find the king to be a viable man in the name of procreation baffled Tuette. What was so alluring about his short beard and lengthy hair? Tuette didn’t keep tabs on current fashion trends but she found his to fall short of acceptable. Could he not grow a lengthier beard, at least? And he was scrawny for a man of power. He stood as if about to fall over in a stoop. He had been wearing light armor on the eve before but that should not have been too demanding of his musculature. Tuette nodded in agreement with the perryta’s statement regarding her local duties and wondered exactly how many were actually keeping her presently tied to Zharinna. The Freezers seemed to follow Ta Bep’toj and even Ta Speebie held an air of indifference towards the more elevated perryta. Perhaps the tas did not get along when left to their own devices? This was a common enough issue as each tended to consider their own brand of Magik knowledge to be unique in respect to others, despite the bare fact that it was all relatively the same arena of wielded power. The presence of a perryta might have been required to force cohesion amongst the varied tas, especially in a town like Zharinna that represented Magik well with their unique Talking Tree, however useless it truly was. She continued the conversation with only a moment’s pause to allow for the contemplation. “Do we have an idea of where we’re heading? Where the chicken flock might be? I’m to act like I already have this knowledge, am I not?” They had discussed the issues easily enough during the previous day’s duties: Tuette would guide the king to a rumored chicken flock sighting and, with his entourage protecting him from potential maladies of any type, he’d arrive safely to invoke the Freezing Pote and save the kingdom. Tuette wished to perform a deviation, of course, but that knowledge had to remain unvoiced. Fy’tay nodded. “There has been suggestions of a sighting south of here, outside a Jint village by the name of Scothil.” Tuette had heard of it and was relieved to know it was to the south, where she had intended to travel regardless. She was not so enthused to know that Scothil was adjacent to the Nementor Paths. Which meant they would have to travel the irreparable roadway. Sightings were not substantial proof though and flocks tended to move about; the birds feared humans, and with just cause. A problem occurred to Tuette then. What if we encounter a rumored flock before making it to the Seagulf Islands? The thought did not sit well with Tuette. Her Freezing Pote would be used entirely on the flock in the name of the kingdom and she would be left with nothing but a Cursed body. But rumors were rumors and the flock was likely long gone, meaning she would still have a chance, once they reached Scothil, to divert the troupe. It also occurred to her that Ta Speebie had shown her prowess with tracking and locating people or things with simple tufts of fig fur and a map weave. Was it this knowledge they were culling from now? Fig fur was certainly rare enough as the creatures shed very little and it seemed like the old ta would have used her reserves in discovering that Count Roost was the culprit behind the kingdom’s impending Curse. Since Fy’tay had used the term rumor, Tuette was inclined to consider that word-of-mouth was the means of conveyance in this manner. Why was a locating Spell not invoked when seeking the birds? Tuette asked Fy’tay. “It is impossible to use various types of Spells on chickens as their unique history as a species has caused them to evolve with certain immunities to invasive forms of Magik.” This answer made sense to Tuette as she knew that in order for eggs to be harvested so long ago and in the quantities they once were, Magik certainly had to be used in potentially questionable manners. This, of course, could only be a working theory as no one had been able to study a living chicken for many decades. And to find a dead one was rare, supplanting evidence that the birds ate their deceased, as unsettling as that seemed. Fy’tay led the way towards the town, traveling through the forest. Though Tuette had been offered a bed in Zharinna, she had insisted on being granted access to her home. It had saved time for her in the morning as she had wanted to gather more of her Potes and prepped stones. Tuette was not so distracted by the sights of the town this time as she was more familiar with the surroundings. They walked briskly down the main avenue with the Talking Tree standing like a pillar in the immediate distance. We’re heading for the town’s center, then. Ta Speebie’s shop was closed up and Fy’tay walked through the front door anyway, the two Gousheralls standing outside, trying to keep an eye on everything at once. Tuette wanted to suggest that they be given ReSeeing Stones but they probably would’ve declined, their abilities insulted. Inside, with Tuette’s eyes growing more accustomed to the dimness, she spied the older ta, the king, and the shorter Guard. The squat man that reminded Tuette of her former friend Dermy stood behind the king and she was under the impression that the man was trying to avoid eye contact with Tuette. Perhaps, being a possible family member, he felt uncomfortable around Tuette as he most likely knew the situation regarding the broken duet. Or Dermy had reported malicious activities on behalf of Tuette. This thought made her feel slightly balked as she had never realized that such a thing was possible. Without her present to contradict any lies Dermy might dictate, he could have said anything at all to explain why he had left her alone with only a swan and some reptile eggs. He could have made up any story to make himself into a great human being and turn her into a malevolent shrew! Tuette’s mind bounced at the possibility. Is this vertically disinclined man afraid of me because of something Dermy has said to him? If that was the case, did he have an alternative cause for being present? She didn’t know… but she knew she could find out. As she was not being treated as a prisoner but as a friend, she had freedom over her immediate actions and could do something so menial as dipping her hand into her satchel without drawing alarm. Moving towards the counter and standing at the end nearest an open flame, she set her bag down and reached both hands in. Ta Speebie looked immediately alarmed – She is so untrusting! – but relaxed when Tuette pulled out her left hand with a rarely-used personal mirror. Looking at her reflection as if trying to measure her self-perceived wrinkles, she slowly and subtly let her hand creep around in her bag, feeling for the known Potes inside. They were strapped against the satchel’s inner lining and she always put them in the same place. In a short time, she located a similarly rarely-used vial that she knew was her Truvis Pote. Designed to bring out a person’s intentions by making them reveal, in a direct manner, their true and immediate designs, the Pote also had the potential to break Magiked disguises, if one was being used. She hoped that one wasn’t being presently employed; if that was the case, then things were about to become a little more complicated. That didn’t seem possible because a disguise being worn this long required a large anchor and one wasn’t readily present, as far as she could tell. Tuette didn’t feel too bad about using the Pote either because if these people were being genuine with their speeches and pleas, then the Truvis Pote would be ineffective, causing nothing more than a cough. She resettled the vial inside her satchel so she could open it. Turning the tiny glass bottle over with her finger plugging the end, she managed to get a dab on her fingertip. She quickly set the bottle down and, without stopping to recap it, she withdrew her hand and flicked the water towards the candle. Score! The flame flickered at the dousing attempt but did not dissipate. Rather, it sputtered slightly and began to emit a thicker, more-revealing pattern of smoke. Just as Tuette had wanted. The movement of her finger seemed to draw Ta Speebie’s attention, but too late as she already had her hand back in the sack, resealing the vial and returning her tiny mirror. Resettling her satchel, she turned to pay attention to the group now as she had knowingly ignored them up until that point. Fy’tay had the king and the one Guard hunched over the map weave that Tuette had seen the day before. She motioned towards Tuette to join them and Tuette brought the informative flame to look like she intended to bring light to aid them all; after all, the grimy windows did little to let in acceptable means of light. They gave compliments and Tuette listened to what Fy’tay had to say, ever mindful that Ta Speebie had stayed behind the counter. Perhaps she was even doing something to Tuette’s satchel? That didn’t wholly matter. “Sir, could you please repeat the necessary course back to me? It’s important that you follow it without deviation.” Tuette heard the king sigh and she was reminded of a child who had, for the fifth time, been asked to recite some piece of meaningless drivel. Does he not take this seriously? Many facets of goodwill rest in the balance and he wants to behave like an overtaxed child? She felt like hitting the man— The short Guard began to hack and grab at his face. He stumbled away from the group and banged into the wall. His entire outline seemed to shimmer then, like he wasn’t really there, like his reality was being questioned. Tuette knew that, in a way, it just might’ve been. He was hazy, except his right arm: it remained solid in definition. Tuette understood that he was seemingly being reacquainted with reality as his true intentions were being revealed. And he’s wearing a disguise as well! The king looked alarmed. Fy’tay seemed more annoyed than anything. Tuette refocused her attention on the struggling man when she stopped hearing gagging noises from him and let shock and awe ripple up her spine. The man that reminded Tuette of Dermy was not a relative of the man in question or even a deformed Craspone per Taali: he was Dermitalus Tasciturn himself! “Dermy!” she shouted. “You know him?” asked the king as if he had been slapped. Dermy looked up from behind his raised left hand, his right arm dangling limp at his side as if it might even be broken, and a smile was resting inside only his cheeks. It seemed weak. “Yes, Tuette.” He slumped even further, which had seemed impossible until that point. He looked up at her once more and said “How’ve you been?” * ~ * ~ * It had been quite startling. She stood outside near the Talking Tree while the others remained inside, sorting out the details and trying to reinstate Dermy’s disguise. Apparently, Celester and Fy’tay were the only other ones who had known Dermy ‘s identity. And that it was part of a plan to help thwart any would-be spies. The logic was lost on Tuette but she accepted that it could be her present state of mind that made the logic so difficult to discover. Yes, it was a startling scene for them all. And a little funny. Before, she had only remembered Dermy and how much she might have missed him with only the occasional begrudgement over leaving her. Now, she was a little enraged that he had managed to deceive even her with his none-to-specialized disguise. She often forgot how easily Magikal ploys could slip by undetected. But it was Dermy. He was Dermy. He is Dermy because he’s not dead or even near the sort. He was wholly alive and disguised with Magik. She had not intended to reveal his truth but that was the thing about her Truvis Pote. At one time, Dermy had been the closest thing to a friend that she had gathered since being Cursed and he had left her… for someone else. For the king. It still hung heavily in Tuette’s mind as a type of betrayal. Even though there were no intimate relations between the pair, it still felt like Dermy had run off for fields more primed for planting. As it turned out, in a quite literal sense, he had. He was an agricultural specialist: a farmer. Under the king. For a handful of months – a time spent longer than with any other she had encountered before or since – Dermy had been a loyal friend and fellow Magikal. Then, with a scribbled script left behind, he had vanished into the night. Days prior to that departure, the swan-shaped structure had been discovered by the duo amongst the Grechy Pools. They had been guided there by Craspone per Taali and Tuette had expressed her desire to use Bring to Life Spells to harness the capabilities of the structure and she assumed that Dermy saw this as her chance to “make it” on her own. At least, the script had hinted as much. Tuette remembered harboring equal parts anger for being as recklessly abandoned as the swan home, sadness for losing a friend that had apparently pitied her undesirably Cursed circumstance, and accomplishment for being able to finally travel by her own means, without having to rely on another. True, since acquiring the fly-by-night dwelling, Tuette had fewer had fewer instances of making any real companions but she preferred it if the alternative meant being constantly abandoned. That’s why I’d rather not travel with a small troupe. Because however little or grandly I might come to depend on these four men, they’ll eventually leave me alone. Again. But I wouldn’t be Cursed! And that was going to be worth any journey she had to endeavor. Despite the required companions. * ~ * ~ * Tuette had little experience with splintback riding. The few splints that she had encountered in the past seemed of limited intelligence. She looked at the king’s splint – he had called it Eafa earlier – and wondered at the beast’s abilities. As the older Guard mounted his splint, she watched him settle his legs against the creature’s sides and grab at the raised notches just behind the ears. The animal still did not look all that promising to Tuette but she knew that they had been a trusted species for many years and that fact alone had to harbor a form of justification. Tuette tried leaping up and pulling herself onto her own appropriated splint. With the pull came a sense of freefalling and she felt the saddle slide over the side of the animal and onto Tuette. It was a heavier piece of equipment than she had anticipated and she was forced to the ground with a huff. One of the Guards came to assist by lifting the saddle from atop her. Tuette noticed that it smelled sour on the underside. The Guard finished his good deed and secured the strap that ran beneath the animal’s stomach. She felt embarrassed for herself but was thankful that the king hadn’t seen… She turned and saw the bearded man grinning at her, standing in the stable’s main entrance, as she stood and wiped dust from her backside. Heat began to surface above her cheeks and Tuette was now only thankful that a wind hadn’t moved a branch from above and let a stray sunbeam find its way to her head. Before such an unfortunate circumstance could blossom, she cinched up her hood, immediately feeling increased heat as the mass of hair rested against her neck in a hot and sweaty mess. The Reverse was so close at hand and yet she could only think how it wasn’t close enough. What woman should have to endure this? “That was rather, erm, graceful, milady.” Tuette only peered at him through hopefully-menacing eyes. His use of “milady” seemed like a smack in the face because he clearly didn’t care to have her along, his lack of genuine respect for her notwithstanding. She seethed silently and only nodded in the king’s direction. Turning to attempt another mounting, Tuette suddenly wished to find herself amongst a more selective form of government; one where a man such as Celester could not come into power unless chosen by an informed group of citizens. It seemed only just that an administrative body such as the state’s primary leader be selected by any means other than the present one! She imagined a village selecting, at random, their next leader and wondered what would happen if that leader turned out to be moronic. They most likely get rid of him – or her – and select a better choice. So why had no such action been taken with this man? He retained no qualities of a good leader, as was evidenced by his selfish motives regarding the quest and his lack of knowledge regarding even the landscape immediately adjacent to the mountain-based throne! With a grunt, she was atop her splint and noticed how her legs didn’t quite separate enough in order to make sitting somewhat comfortable. Her dress, extended as it was, kept her limited. She knew than that she would have to hitch up her hem and ride with the fabric bunched around her thighs—and with her bare legs exposed to the rays. Her bare and hairy legs. In other countries, she knew it was rumored that women didn’t worry about keeping their legs shorn free of hairs as it might be too cold to care or not a manner of their fashion. But in almost all of Decennia, men placed smooth-legged women on pedestals and would sooner leave someone like Tuette alone with a pack of feral figs. She was slightly hesitant to ride in this manner but knew she had no choice. She steeled herself with resolve to take any comments directed her way and either ignore them or rebound them with venom. She then settled her slippered soles into the splint’s stirrups. There were no guffaws of laughter from the king. Tuette had not expected the Guards to say anything and Dermy understood the situation clearly… but the crown made no response. As if he didn’t notice. Or care. Is he being a gentleman? Or has Dermy explained my status to the man while they had been fetching supplies? Maybe it really wasn’t a problem for the man? Tuette didn’t understand the lack of response but was thankful for the respite from the dimwitted man’s usual candor. Drawing on the lessons dispensed quickly by the younger Guard minutes before, Tuette easily guided her splint from beneath the shade and felt her leg hairs independently curl as only those of a uniquely Cursed person can. She passed Dermy mounting his splint and noted with a curiosity that his right arm wasn’t dangling or even appeared to be damaged. It had looked lifeless when the disguise had been balked. Tuette couldn’t explain it but the situation felt flighty, like she might grasp it soon enough if the notion would remain perched. Her mind wandered though and she let the notation flitter away. Tuette felt like pushing him off of his splint though, but that desire soon flittered away as well. Though she was feeling betrayed and enraged at the thought of Dermy purposefully attempting to hide himself from her, she couldn’t help but privately hold on to the quelled uneasiness at having a somewhat familiar face nearby. Still, where’s his disguise’s anchor? * ~ * ~ * Scothil, from Zharinna, was just under a day’s trek along the Nementor Path. Tuette was thankful that their current section of the path wasn’t in such a state of disrepair whereas large portions usually that lay in ruins or inside dangerous areas. Rather, larger stones that had been used to identify the pathway still remained mostly intact. Their faces, once carved to distinguish distances, had been shorn smooth by time. But mostly, it was a mundane trek. The area off the path was a mixture of open fields and encasing forestry. No bandits or wildlife disturbed them and Tuette silently hoped the rest of the journey went as smoothly. She had been informed by Fy’tay that sleeping arrangements had been made within the limits of Scothil and Tuette hoped hard that it was indoors; the night air could be as unforgiving as the rising sun. “Is Freezing hard?” Tuette was startled from her silent wishes and realized then that most of the day-long journey had been carried on in silence. She looked to her right and it was Celester that had asked the question. Wasn’t there a mute king once? Tuette seemed to remember learning that once. Or maybe she had recently wished that too. “What?” she returned with a little irritation festooning her voice. “Freezing. That hard?” She was confused. How should I know? “I don…” And then she remembered her fabricated story: that she was a Freezer from Zharinna. She looked at Dermy, following behind them at a short distance, his disguise newly enforced, and wondered why he was still wearing the thing. And why she had to continue lying about being a Freezer when everyone knew he was more than just some mountaintop farmer. Fy’tay had made the request though and she being a kinder, if not deceitful, woman, had her reasons. “Um, Freezing isn’t hard. Just drop the rods in the water, clean the contained area, and flash, you Freeze it.” “Clean it how?” Tuette looked at him again incredulously and saw, in her peripheral, Dermy birthing a broad smile. He knew she didn’t have much knowledge on Freezing other than the basics. So she reverted to the same answer that she had been given after asking for the first time. “That’s a Clan secret.” Dermy coughed and Tuette silently hoped he was choking on his spittle for not attempting to help field the king’s questions. Celester looked amused. “A secret?” he continued. “Even from the king?” That does it. Tuette felt a break of irritation and a shout rose in her throat. One didn’t emit though when she saw that on the king’s face was not a defiant guise that said I’m the king, so tell me. Rather, it said to Tuette I don’t understand and she felt a little sorry for the crownless man. “Celester, sir, it’s just… I’m not supposed to reveal anything. Of that nature.” That drew a reaction she hadn’t expected: the king looked slightly shocked, even a little disgusted. She assumed that wasn’t the answer he was looking for and then felt irritated for feeling that tiny moment of sorrow for the man. Resuming forward focus, she felt baleful eyes falling on her and was determined to ignore them. If the king had any further questions, she would simply direct him to Dermy. He trusted the diminutive traitor anyway. It was just before nightfall when they approached the outskirts of Scothil. Tuette remembered the previous night, when she got to witness Celester fall from his high haunches and experience real fear, probably for the first time in his life. It had been about this time, and she smirked in the waning light. Floating fireballs approached the small group, signifying lit torches and the people who brandished them. Tuette didn’t recognize anyone and then felt curious about herself for wondering why she might expect to. She’d never been to Scothil. Perhaps it’s seeing Dermy again that makes me wonder if others from my past might inject themselves into my present. They were put up in an inn that suffered from the type of neglect that only disuse can inspire. The proprietors, a family by the name of Koop, had kept up the beddings but were unaccustomed to dealing with guests. As such, their eagerness to overly please the group was slightly bothersome if not invasive to Tuette. She preferred to handle her own satchel and luggage; people tended to stick their hands inside and withdraw items that didn’t rightly belong to them otherwise. Thankfully, she was able to sleep in her own room. The thought of fleeing the group flitted through her mind many, many times before she finally fell asleep under the well-washed blankets. But she always came to the same conclusion. It wouldn’t be beneficial for me in the long run. A final thought occurred to her that she hadn’t readily formulated before. What if the flock of chickens we seek is the last flock? If that was the case, it was either her own Curse or the kingdom’s impending Curse that would be ultimately Reversed. And then only the murder of a count would save the kingdom. She knew this because she wasn’t going to let the chance to escape her Magiked situation slip through her worn fingers. She felt she would assist the king if it came to such a circumstance. Yes, assist him in stopping Count Roost. Maybe. If it’s the last flock, that is. But I truly doubt that. She smirked and let tiredness engulf her. |
| Roost was having a terrible fit. He didn’t always sleep soundly but it was irregular that he couldn’t sleep at all. Rather, he preferred to not fall asleep. The past was haunting him more frequently. He preferred to deter the moments when he was forced to relive his younger life; relive the highlights anyway. Or lowlights. But in forcing himself to stay awake in his own bed, he knew that he would have waking dreams anyway. He was becoming uncomfortable beneath the bedclothes, with sweat surfacing on his legs. Roost sighed with heaviness, threw the blankets from his bed, and stood up to stand at the window. Looking into the sky, the moon was a few days away from being completely full. It was the full moon that ultimately brought out his Decennia-aimed Curse, he knew. But he hadn’t bothered telling Puze that. Puze. The little cretin that Roost pretended to not care about whether the creature lived or died. Or forced him to constantly return at least. But deep down, he did care: he was lonely. He sighed heavily again and reverted his gaze to the village below. It was his, as taken by force. And it reminded him of home. As a child, growing up in Gor Bilesk, he had not been lonely at all. There was always his mother and father to associate himself with. And the friends that had grown accustomed to his condition. He looked down at his hands, holding them out in front of him. They reflected brightly the waxing moon and represented Roost’s greatest personal accomplishment. He had been born, as part of a preconception Curse, without thumbs. With thorough travels in his later teens and harsh twenties, he had finally encountered enchantments that would allow him to mask the fact that he had no thumbs. It was Potent Magik, to say the least. With his Magiked guise contributing to the appearance that he had thumbs, he could also feel. He could touch objects; grasp items. Tools. And weapons. His father, as part owner in a weapon-crafting business, had managed to create the invaluable VoiRen pikes with someone of Roost’s disposition in mind. Then they moved. Relocated, as his father put it. His mother had done nothing to stop the situation. Roost grew to gently despise her because of her inaction though in hindsight, he finally realized it was his father that should’ve taken the brunt of his childhood angst. With uprooting the family while Roost was young, he felt disorientated and a little afraid. His thumblessness had been acclimated by the residents of Gor Bilesk over time. Most of the families there were his friends and friends of his parents, despite the fact that it could’ve easily been any of the neighbors or residents that had caused his situation. It’s usually hard to tell when someone else was Cursed, after all. Life began anew when his father found purchase in the southeastern regions of Decennia Proper. Whereas Gor Bilesk claimed that it was a colony of Gor Pyron, settled just off the coast of east Decennia centuries before – though who could prove such a statement when the oceans weren’t presently passable? - the town they moved to, Rion in the Broze region, was not a Magikal community. Rather, they looked down on Magik as a mythic, mental crutch that only crazies used to demand more of their overtaxed deities. After he was asked to explain his handicap, Roost was socially ostracized. The family was asked to move outright. One incident brought violence to their doorstep that included the murder of the family feline, a tir named Sir Pommagin. After months that eventually turned into years for the family, Roost’s father refused to move again, claiming that they couldn’t be bullied by “those Decennians”. Count Roost presently smiled at himself. Looking out the window at the silent community below the castle and beyond the shores to the nearest island, which was almost always obscured by fog banks, he remembered life before fleeing the violence, and how all he could recall his father saying is something about “those Decennians”. He remembered the hate his father harbored too for the people of Rion. Often, late at night, while Roost would be treating bruises inflicted by local, often older, brutes, he would hear his parents arguing about their terrible lives in Rion. How it would all be the same, all over Decennia. “These livestock-lovin’ monsters don’t understand anything about Magik. Or Curses. And our life was better in Gor Belisk,” his mother had said one evening. “So why do we stay?” He hadn’t heard his father’s reply, as soft-spoken as he often had been back then, but it was apparently enough to shut his wife up. After that night, the violence didn’t get worse and it didn’t slacken either. But their ignorance increased. So much so that young Roost, upon turning twelve, was encouraged to sing in the annual Plank-Setting Festival… A chill presently ran down his spine and Count Roost vowed to halt his dip into the memory well. He yawned and noticed that, in his remembrances, the moon had shifted considerably in the sky and he was being attacked on the mental front by tiredness. He went back to his bed, feeling curably chilled by the night air that haunted him while gazing out the window and into the past. Roost knew sleep would come easy enough now. He also knew that a nightmare was just below the surface. Each time he experienced it, he knew it would be some time before it came back to attack him again. And by that time, he would be in possession of the Godblade. Then, old Voidet far below would be at peace. Meaning I’ll also be at peace. Closing his eyes, inhaling in the night air and listening to the sounds of nighttime creatures far below, Roost was swamped by tiredness. And he knew he was that much closer to waking up in a cold sweat. * ~ * ~ * Young Roost stood behind the curtain. It seemed thicker than normal, blocking out all noises from the other side; he knew it couldn’t have been silence from the makeshift seating area because the citizens of Rion knew who was performing next. And they had already voiced their opinions of a “Magik-like, Cursing kid” trying to pay respect to when the first tolo of the town was built; when the first planks and boards were put down. Indeed, silence was all around, like a thick blanket settled upon him with the intent to smother, and Roost was growing more curious. How thick is this curtain? He poked at it, his four fingers spread out carefully. Resistance on part of the curtain was minimal. The material was soft, even comforting. Without caution, he prodded around for the break in the curtain that would allow him access to the stage. Without finding it, he was becoming frantic, almost panicked. He knew he had to sing for these people, if only to prove how much he cared for his father and respected his decision to stay amongst “those Decennians”. Finally, with tears beginning to well up in his eyes, he broke through with a wash of conciliatory relief washing away all doubts that he had for his mother’s insistence in relation to this duty, this task. But no one was on this side of the curtain. There were no seats and the grass that should’ve at least appeared trampled and muddied by the shifting weight of standing people was vibrantly green. He looked back at the curtain and it was blindingly red and extended well beyond the stage’s physical parameters. It took over the whole world behind him. And it appeared more solid than before, as if he had found his way to one side and was disallowed from returning to the other. But there is no one on this side for me to perform for. Being in his extremely early teens, he realized that he might have an ideal voice for releasing understandably beautiful pitches, but he was nervous about the act anyway. Without anyone to hear him though, there was much less trepidation. Roost’s mother was on the other side of the curtain though. “I’ll be here when you’re done. “I’m so proud of you.” Had she been there before? If he never started, could he ever be done? Would he ever see her again? Though she hadn’t been able to stop the horrendous move to Rion in the first place, at least she seemed to have voiced reason after the fact to the otherwise mokheaded patriarch. Young Roost stepped to the edge of the stage and looked down. The drop seemed to have been raised to a dangerous height. He dare not step down for fear of breaking a bone. He moved back to center stage and looked again to the crowdless void. He deduced that the only way he would be allowed to leave back through the curtain was if he finished his performance. If I sing and no one’s present, is it still a performance? Does the presence of the stage change the definition of the action? Because without anyone to hear it, it feels more like I’m practicing. He didn’t care to work out his own reasoning though. Roost just knew that, with the rules set by his mother and the curtain, he had to sing and then he’d be done. So he began. It was not a song that most Decennians knew but had been sung to him during bedtime hours. It was a ballad that dictated to the listener a tale of a young woman who gave up her love for the greater good of her village. In the end, it turned out the love lost was the village leader’s son and, since the village was set to prosper, so would the leading family. Which meant the woman would be able to be with the man she desired after all. Roost had always enjoyed the tale because it said to him that even if you don’t understand the reasoning for your actions or benefit from them initially, the greater good can often lead you towards personal happiness. Upon reaching the verse where the young woman is forced to decide between her love and her village, a sound entered the fray. It was like someone was digging beneath the ground. Continuing to sing, Roost looked out at the open space and saw mounds beginning to form, like the dirt was being displaced from below by burrowing rodents. Before long, people began to emerge from the mounds, as if being born. Instead of flesh, they were mere skeletons and when their skulls appeared, they were all impossibly smiling. There were dozens of them and though the situation horrified young Roost, he continued to sing, nearing the point in the ballad when the woman is learning to truth of the village’s leading family. Voices and cackles began to project like visible specters from the throats of the skeletons. They swayed back and forth with the slow beat of the song and Roost could feel tears once again fill his eyes as he became nervous with not practicing but fully performing. And to a stale crowd, nonetheless! All he could think about was finishing the song and retreating backstage to where his mother was supposed to be. More skeletons entered the area, some wider than others; most disturbingly taller than average human height. Roost was nearing the finale, which ended with a lengthy high note. He was prepping his gut and throat to hold the note when he felt a subtle but wet smack hit his arm. Roost lifted his hand, still singing and gaining in volume. The contents of a broken egg covered his arm, encasing his four fingers, peppered with eggshell fragments. This act brought more cackles and he tried to sling the mess of egg away from his arm. He was unsuccessful and, in fact, the amount somehow doubled and began to move up his tiny bicep, aiming for his chest and torso, maybe even his neck and mouth. The skeletons continued doubling in number, their voices ringing louder, threatening to drown Roost’s melodious voice out. Fearing this would cancel out his performance, he gained volume, forgetting the egg on his arm, and revved up to the final note. More eggs entered the air between the barebones-audience and Roost. Most landed upon the stage, sounding loud with the multitude of cracking animal embryos. Some landed on Roost, coating him with egg whites, yolks, and off-white fragments of shell. One smacked his lower lip, knocking it against his teeth. One scored a home in the back of his mouth, opened as it was to release the high note. He stopped, mere beats from finishing, as he gagged on the egg, but it didn’t break. Part of him wanted it to bust open but part of him knew it might damage him permanently. Roost’s breathing began to come in shallow waves, his air supply cut off by the still-life stuck in his throat. He wavered on his feet and, stepping once, slipped and crashed against the stage. On his side, aching from fall, he could see spots in his vision. Beyond the spots, the now-even-taller skeletons were looking down on the stage, pointing and laughing. More eggs poured out of their blank eye sockets. These they chucked at the slightly-plump boy again and again. Finally, he dug his thin, thumbless hand into his mouth and attempted to grasp or shovel the egg out of his throat. This somehow brought out more rumples of laughter and Roost only felt like crying and even dying. Without finishing the ballad, he would never get to see his mother. He turned over, trying to face away from the Demonastic audience but could only see more skeletons where the world-dividing curtain had been minutes before. He looked around and saw he was no longer on a hand-crafted stage anymore but a stone dais of some kind. The skeletons had reached gigantic proportions and Roost was nearing unconsciousness when the egg rolled itself out of his throat and hatched. A baby chick rolled over, looked at Roost, and began to laugh, sing, and swear. Openly sobbing, he tried getting on all fours but that only drew barks from the crowd. He lowered himself further and stayed on his belly, which somehow demanded hisses from the horrible audience. They then reached for him, their skeletal hands looking dangerous in the now-cloudy light and all he wished for was his mother’s embrace. That seemed impossible as he felt the first boney grip around his wrist. He was then pulled in many directions all at once and it started to rain. The water didn’t wash away his egg but seemed to compound it further, turn it into a type of suit that he couldn’t remove. The skeletons righted him and they began to cluck like chickens with the baby chick conducting their actions like a symphony. The last thought he recalled was sheer wonder over how they had located so many rare chicken eggs, as if that’s why they were clucking at him… * ~ * ~ * He woke with a panicked sweat. The sun was cresting over the watery horizon and Botch stood there with a poached fish and peppered avian eggs on a tray, his face nearly blanked except for slight surprise. It wasn’t the first time a servant had found the count in such a state but Roost didn’t feel as self-conscious about it with Botch for some reason. Without a word, the young lad set the tray on the wobbly table next to the bed and left the room. The count couldn’t help but feel something for the boy then, though he couldn’t place it. He hadn’t asked about his obvious-nightmare like some had and he hadn’t stayed to revel in the man’s discomfort like others. Rather, he had left Roost with some sense of something he had rarely felt as of late: a bit of dignity. Of course, the dream exaggerated what truly had happened but for Roost, it seemed to get worse with each occurrence. He hadn’t enjoyed the added clucking at the end, to say the least. It only reminded him that some people had chosen to liken him to a chicken because of his weight and his thumbless appendages, resembling skinny wings as they somehow used to. It was that dreadful night, long ago – only days following his fledgling twelfth birthday – when he left Rion without saying goodbye to either parent. His self-styled journey wasn’t easy though he was assured to find a privatized bank of Magikals who recognized his Cursed status and were not dreadful of his presence. They called themselves the Diseesnia Mages, after a sorcerer who had performed some obscure but ultimately beneficial Spell – the effects of which had still not been presently ascertained. But they were possessed of strong faith that his duty would ultimately reveal itself in time. During his time with the Diseesnians and long after, Roost was still largely untrusting of Decennia as a whole and, in the midst of his fourteenth year, was shocked to learn the country’s king was being replaced by his son of only twelve years. He wasn’t sure what was more shocking: the fact that a child younger than he was taking the country’s throne or that a monarch of any kind was acknowledged at all. His travels through Broze had led him to believe that the various towns were segmented wholly from each other. This was most evident by what many referred to as the Nementor Path and its horrible state of disuse, as if inviting those of nefarious ways to perch themselves on the sidelines and merely wait for passers-by. But the passing of King Ghoul or King Bold – while he’d been away from the throne, no less – was something scandalous enough to warrant everyone around the nation knowing. And in knowing, everyone was dully reminded that a king of some kind was actually in charge. With such blanketing ignorance, young Roost could only wonder how a king came into power anyway. It had not been easy sifting through the varied facts, myths, stories, and nonsense that made up the history of the kings. But Count Roost had been somewhat successful. As it is custom for a monarch to usually fall into power, external elements had been used to select the bloodline of the king. Roost had been anxious to learn exactly how it had occurred but those details were lost. It had apparently come about following a bicentennial, several centuries ago, that had been remembered as being devoid of Magik. With his growing experiences inside the company of the Diseesnians, he had come to realize that such a Spell as the one that had chosen the first king had to have been lethally Potent. It was those varied steppings into history that had revealed the finite root of the monarchical Magik: the kingstone. Though no sketches existed of the actual artifact, Roost learned that it was passed from king to king and always insured that the first child born of the king was a male and that he was destined to become the next crown bearer. The count, in those early days and with his innocence not entirely robbed, wondered many things. What if a female had been born, or even the rarity that was twins? What if the kingstone was somehow misplaced? The questions were still unanswered but his knowledge seeking had not gone unnoticed. A trio of siblings that identified themselves as the Toll Brothers brushed into Roost’s life roughly six years ago. They informed the Cursed wanderer that the kingstone was a highly desired object in the foreign land of Gor Pyron. Mentioning his self-perceived homeland, as defined from afar, made Roost perk up and listen. By this time, he had fashioned his thumbs through methods stolen from a Shaping Clan based out of Wintel, a town on the border between the Broze and Whismerl regions. Voidet had also entered his life in a most demanding manner shortly after Roost had become acquainted with the Toll Brothers. The aged man had followed young Roost’s travels, knowing that someone sought the power of the kingstone. Which brought into Voidet’s mind the power of the mythic Godblade. In being reminded of the purported Godblade, Roost sought conference with the Brothers. The eldest by several years, Beretoll, had the answer. “The Godblade is in the land of Gor Pyron, brandished by that nation’s leader, K’lec Topoto.” Beretoll had no answers as to how it got there but did confirm that a descendent of Voidet fashioned it after discovering the material in Dar K’won Valley; the valley was the current seat of Topoto. “It’s rumored that the materials used to fashion the Godblade are pieces of Valtos himself. Bringing strong reason to the subtle argument that Gor Pyron is a defining focal point for all of Valent.” The youngest, Cricktoll, chimed in after that with whispered words that continued to stick with Count Roost: “He who wields the Godblade is said to have power over the masses. He who controls the blade… controls the world…” It made sense to Roost. His mindset focused on a series of tasks which involved retrieving the kingstone and exchanging it, somehow, for the Godblade. With gifts from the Toll Brothers, Roost was able to eventually take up residence as the count over the municipality of Boost: it was the only one of the Seagull Islands that had the perfect base of operation in Castle Tigra Lei. No place had ever turned out to be quite like the colonial provinces of Gor Bilesk, but Boost was symbolically close. * ~ * ~ * A sound rattled from far below. From the realm of the amateur infirmary. It was strong enough to bring the count into the here-and-now. Racing down the spiraled staircase, the count couldn’t help but wonder if it was commonly referred to as an infirmary because most residents of such a location are infirm in many ways. Passing through the dungeon-like doors, Roost saw the defining piece of the infirmary: Voidet with his infirm mind. Prints were strewn about the stone floor and Botch was forcibly holding the wailing man to the bed. The sight made Count Roost both appalled and annoyed. Appalled for thinking that such a man as Voidet and this ancestry of crafted greatness was reduced to such waking fits. Annoyed that it was disrupting his own agenda of activities. He moved forward, grabbing the Pain-Less Stone on the shelf near the door, and beginning the necessary chant as if regurgitating it on forced will. Putting the Stone to the old man’s forehead, Roost finally ended his chant with a necessary spit that curiously built up in his mouth during the recitation. The salivary blob landed against the Stone and Voidet immediately stiffened. Botch looked confused. “It’s a Pain-Less Stone, boy. It can’t relieve his actual pain but it does spare us from having to be burdened.” He looked into the elder man’s eyes and could readily tell how much pain he was truly in. He was beyond the help of a ta or even Maperryta Dormaset. Why is he being so stubborn? Roost knew the obvious answer was because he was holding out for the procurement of the Godblade. It would still be some time though… The serving boy looked aghast as he stepped back, the movement drawing Roost’s attention. “Can you…” Roost snapped his neck at the boy, catching the boy’s accusatory look. “This is all we can do, Botch.” He was surprised at calling the boy by his name but more so by using the inclusive we when discussing his own actions. He continued, attempting to appear unperturbed. “Pain cannot be ignored, erased. It can only be isolated.” He momentarily was back on the stage, being smattered with eggs. “Believe me. I know.” Botch only nodded and moved forward, grabbing hold of the Stone beneath Roost’s hand. He looked at the count, nodded, and Roost drew his hand away. “Hold it like this?” asked Botch. Roost was slightly stunned at the boy’s desire to learn such a paining practice. Perhaps there is genuine hope for the teen. Nodding affirmation, Roost said “Preceded by the chant. It has to be repeated three times before applying the Stone. You saw me spit?” Botch nodded. “That’s part of the process. It all works together, even though it might not seem like it.” Botch began to mutter the chant under his breath, word for word. Roost was surprised the boy had been listening that closely. Was he drawing from previous experience or was he that adept? The count decided it didn’t matter. The boy wasn’t the first apprentice Roost would attempt to profess knowledge upon, or the last, if Roost had anything to say about it. The eagerness, though, brought to mind some of the more talented hopefuls of the past. And how easily they had passed through his grasp after being appropriately Cursed. Roost turned to leave the room, expecting that Botch could handle the situation. “I’ll clean up the prints, sir. And have your basin filled in a bit.” Count Roost paused and, without turning back, said “That won’t be necessary, boy.” “Won’t be shaving today?” Confusion was evident in Botch’s voice as, in only the last couple weeks, he had known Roost to shave everyday. ”I will.” He took a breath, allowing the words to build up before extracting them from this throat. “But I’ll fill the basin myself. You take care of… him.” “Yes, sir.” “And later,” he continued while walking, turning finally in the doorframe, “I’ll show you some other things. History prints. Recitations. A Pote or even some Cursing scripts.” Botch nodded, restraining something from bracing his face that, in the torchlight, might’ve been a smile. Roost felt like smiling too and nearly did. Catching the expressive emotion, he turned finally and ascended the cool stone steps, wondering exactly what rested at the top: his old, stolen castle, or the added hope at a proper apprenticeship. Such hopes had come and gone before. Not since taking over Castle Tigra Lei but in Broze and briefly in Uv-Hren and the coastal Serres Mor even. Those hopes had been dashed through varying degrees of quickness but with this one, he felt some real Potential was seeping into the walls, spreading from Botchael. It made him feel good. Surely such a good man as I am bound for great things. That was a primary reason for inducing the Curse against Decennia: ultimately, he knew it was for the greater good. |
| She didn’t even know his name. Celester? Celester?! He had waited for an apology of some sort and even asked Dermy in private if he had heard correctly. “Yessa, Kingasir. T’ette saidin’ ‘Celesta’’.” It was one of those moments Sylvester had wished that Dermy would finally shed the Magiked disguise; the alterations to his speech were becoming more convoluted. He remembered that Fy’tay, while reinforcing the change, had boosted it somehow. Perhaps that was why it was becoming more bothersome to listen to the dwarfish man. Fy’tay. Sylvester called back on her face fondly. She was a beauty in her own right. Of course, he understood completely that he might only find her to be exceptional because he had little else to compare feminine qualities. He drew on facts about the councilwomen he knew, Marylyn Coiper and Pocquet Ghin’ra. Marylyn was a few degrees older than women he knew but Sylvester understood that he should still maintain a cordial respect for her. For some reason. And Pocquet was almost ethereal in nature and that made Sylvester uneasy somehow. He couldn’t place the feeling exactly, but he knew he would be uncomfortable if left alone with the womanly Ghin’ra twin. But Fy’tay. She was something else. Not like the occasional chambermaid or cook that Sylvester found himself accompanied by, she was of an agreeable height and her darkened hair flowed and curled like a lovely thickness of vines. He found his mind wandering further still as he recalled that Tuette mainly kept her hair imprisoned by her cloak’s hood. He had seen Tuette’s mass of locks in darker conditions and it seemed like she would want to let them flow as freely as Fy’tay did. It also seemed like if she didn’t want them to flow, she might at least want them out from under her clothing: he felt itchy thinking about that large mass of hair against his own neck and back, stifled by the fabric’s heat. And her legs… Of all the wrongs that perpetrated Tuette as a person – Celester!? – her legs were something else. They were shapely where Fy’tay’s had not even been properly glimpsed. Sylvester had noticed that they seemed to possess a slight shadow of hair but thought nothing of it because his own legs were just as peppered if not more lavishly. He suddenly wished to be spying Fy’tay’s legs. Tuette had expressed a candor about her legs while Fy’tay had not even offered a flash. Why keep them hidden if they be as shapely as Tuette’s? He wondered if they weren’t more covetous than Tuette’s as she was turning out to be a rather wretched woman. He thought that a more acceptable gal might have even more enjoyable leggings. These were the thoughts that greeted him as he finished dressing himself, just before the older Guard entered his privatized suite. “Sir, a breakfast is being served in the main dining area. We must depart after that. Miss Tuette says she received information on the chicken flock heading more southerly.” Sylvester nodded, thanking the Guard. When the door closed, he immediately wondered if the Guards would be eating with Dermy, Tuette, and the king or if it would be the trio or if it would be just him. He didn’t relish the idea of having to eat with the pair. As it was, Dermy didn’t seem too comfortable around Tuette for some reason, despite them having a kind of undisclosed history together. Is she uncomfortable that he brandished a Magiked disguise? Doesn’t she understand that his level of competence can’t be witnessed by any potential spies? He realized he might have to ask about their past together, sooner or later. Sylvester saw a spider move in the corner of his eye, into the corner of the room. He jerked his head, feeling a twinge of disgust. Was this creature here all night? Was it even closer, possibly even crawling on me? Sylvester felt an involuntary spasm course through his body as he felt most unclean and wished to have time for a quick washing. A surface cleansing at least! But no, without the usual accompaniment of oils and products, Sylvester was going to have to settle for brushing out his own hair and beard. He pulled out the brush and, looking around, noticed for the first time that no mirror was available. He remembered seeing one in the hallway just outside his door so he exited his room, giving the spider one last contemptuous glance before doing so. In the hall, he found the mirror and began to attempt something similar to what Penson might accomplish. He missed Penson then and wondered if the groomer would be okay. They had arrived at the inn rather late and Sylvester himself was both tired from the trek and frustrated at Tuette. And Dermy had not thought to pull out the strange talking ring and Sylvester himself had forgotten about it up until this moment. He paused when he heard dishes rattle below and plates being scraped by utensils. Dermy’s voice drifted up the inn’s curiously thin staircase with hints of nervousness giving his state of wellbeing away. That meant he was probably with Tuette, eating breakfast. Meaning Dermy’s room was vacant. Sylvester inched to the door to the mirror’s right and peeked in. Not seeing the rucksack that he would recognize as Dermy’s, he went back down the hall and checked the second door he passed, knowing the first one had been occupied by the Guards. In seeing the specialist’s bag, Sylvester moved forward, taking care to step lightly. He bent down, unlatched the shallow pocket on the bag’s front, and dipped his fingers in. He immediately came across the ring and withdrew it. It seemed to glint differently and he assumed that the lighting was causing the difference: he had really only gotten a clear look while in the presence of a weak candle’s flame. Slipping the ring on, he immediately stroked it, thinking that he was performing the action right and wondering if he wasn’t doing something wrong altogether. But Dermy is in my employ so all of his possessions are technically the king’s, aren’t they? Still, he felt like he was crossing a line of some kind. But the urge to get an update from Penson was a little overwhelming, especially with the means to do so within reach. He realized, right away, that the update was an excuse; he was aching to hear the familiarity of his loyal friend. He couldn’t recall if the ring in his possession was supposed to warm at the same time as the corresponding ring. The only way he could tell if he was successful is if a voice emitted from the stone. Otherwise, there would be nothing. Wondering briefly if there was some means of letting the wearer know that someone had attempted contact, he began to stand as his knees were becoming uncomfortable. “That’s mine,” rang a voice; not from the ring but from directly behind him. Sylvester turned quickly, feeling a flush of red color his face, and saw Tuette being framed by the doorway. She was clutching her wrist, rolling the bracelet there back and forth. Sylvester removed the ring, his hopes dashed. “Uh, so sorry.” He stepped forward and held the ring out for her to take. Tuette stood there, giving the ring a glance and then darting her eyes to the hairbrush and then finally landing her sights on his hair. He felt scrutinized but knew that being caught was part of the risk of sneaking around. He could’ve sworn it was Dermy’s bag though. Tuette didn’t take the ring. Instead, she flashed a depreciating smile and nodded at the top of the king’s head. “You should worry more about that bed head before you worry about chatting, Celester.” By that point, the color was returning to a normal hue but upon hearing her version of his name, he felt the red rush right back, bringing volumes more and making him feel like he might start sweating the rage out. Taking a deep breath, he said, “My…” and that was all he got out when the younger Guard came up the stairs and rounded the corner, stopping after he realized that Sylvester and Tuette were in a bedroom. “Sir, madam, Lady Koop has asked me to, uh, inform you that the breakfast stuffs are chilling and,” he looked nervous to continue but did so anyway. “And she requests that you step quickly. Sir.” “We… I’ll be down in a moment. Thank you.” He breathed easier and then descended once again. Looking back at Tuette, he offered up the ring one more time. “Here, Toot.” Tuette’s smile returned and he felt like shouting. “Just put that back where you found it.” Then she turned and went downstairs, replacing her hood atop her head in that unusual fashion. He turned on his heel and nearly threw the ring across the room, but thought better of it. Instead, he shoved it forcibly into the pocket and refused to latch it shut. That bit of retribution sent jolts of pleasure up his spine, thinking that the ring or whatever just might fall out of the unsecured pocket at any time. Standing back up, he turned partially and paused upon seeing something in the room, a piece of furniture. Balking, he left and could only focus on one thing. How did she get a room with a mirror?! * ~ * ~ * Breakfast passed by tensely. Sylvester had been forced to eat with Tuette as the other three had finished their meals and were packing up their possessions. He chose not to acknowledge her and she appeared to do the same. It lasted just this side of Eternity. Returning to his room, he passed the mirror and noticed that his hair had stayed in its bedraggled manner. And that, because his hair was flipped up in the back on its own accord, his kingstone was exposed. Sylvester’s hand instinctively shot up to his neck to embrace the supposedly-precious stone. Did the Koops see it? Surely, Dermy and the Guards know about it, but did Tuette? He moved quickly to his room, retrieved the brush he had returned there, and brushed more furtively against the curl, wondering exactly what Penson always added to take care of the revelatory flip. It wouldn’t go down. The brushing actually seemed to make it worse. Would anything make it obey his command? Maybe water or some type of sticky food substance? A plant extract maybe? Grip juice immediately came to mind, but from what Dermy had said a few days before, it wasn’t a substance meant to interact with human skin. And human hair probably wasn’t that much different. To hide the kingstone though, he had to seek an alternative and thought he had found a stylish solution in a waist length cape that owned a rather high collar. He regretted wearing it when Dermy chuckled. Sylvester cut off any type of comment that Tuette might make by insisting they leave at once. They finally left the inn with the Guards leaving some larger sort of monetary compensation with the Koops. Sylvester, though he appreciated the hospitality of the proprietors – sleeping outside would’ve been a nightmare! – did not understand why any type of payment had to be made. He was the king and they were on a journey of paramount important within the kingdom’s borders. To provide any type of assistance for the monarch should’ve been privilege enough. “Why did we have to pay that old couple for letting us sleep and eat there? Don’t they know our mission’s important?” Tuette exhaled loudly. Dermy, thankfully, didn’t answer and Sylvester noticed for the first time since entering the fields south of Scothil that he was keeping his distance from the group. But why? It was the older Guard who answered. “Despite our positions of import, those kind people, sir, didn’t have to help us. And they weren’t going to live off of kind words and social gestures. Not when people don’t use the Nementor Path to travel like they used to back when that inn was built decades ago.” Sylvester continued on in silence, waiting for further explanation as he believed his question hadn’t been answered. The younger Guard joined in. “So, since they provided a service, we provided payment. Just like how we Gousheralls protect you, we are provided with living spaces, food, and currency to spend during our time off.” This answer did not settle well with King Sylvester at all. “But what about me?” No one said anything. Had he said it out loud? He assumed he had. “Yo, Kingasir?” “Yes, me. I’m the King of Decennia and I don’t get any currency to spend during my time off. I don’t even get time off, away from the crown. Unless you count the annual trips to New Opal, but even then, I’m officiating their festivities.” “You’re the king.” Sylvester looked at Tuette, wondering how she could consider that an answer when she was only restating what he had said. “This isn’t some job that you chose. And you sure weren’t chosen for it.” That stung in a way Sylvester couldn’t identify and he chose to focus his attention entirely on the harpish beauty, waiting for the chance to similarly sting her… Did I just consider her a beauty? But Tuette continued before he could dwell on the thought: “You are provided for wherever you go, even when you aren’t on any official duty or some mission. The people that work for you earn wages just like the Gousheralls. It’s only when you’re out here in the real world that you have finally witnessed what it’s like to travel the means of the common man. The entirety of your position has been nestled with the idea that you have everything you ever wanted and have no worries and know exactly what you’re doing in every second of every day. And that’s been the definition of a normal king. Until now.” Something settled inside his chest then and he felt like his eyes were burning a little. He felt he knew where this speech was going and that somehow she had picked up on the truth that he hadn’t wanted anyone to find out: that he wasn’t qualified to be anyone’s king. Suddenly, the lead Guard shouted, pointing into the distance, his voice hoarse from being elevated by such volume. “Chickens!!” That drew all of their attention and Sylvester was briefly relieved for many reasons. One, because the female fig that would always be Tuette would stop insulting him, and two, the mission was soon to be over once that flock of chickens was cornered and Frozen. On Tuette’s face though was something more than hope. Was it fear? What was there to fear in a flock of chickens? The lead Guard bolted forward atop his splint with Dermy starting almost as suddenly. The rear Guard passed by Sylvester, the trio getting closer to the white and brown flock of birds in the distance. Sylvester had never seen creatures of such sort and wondered why, if they were so rare, one wasn’t already atop Mount Reign? If Tuette and the Guards were correct, he was supposed to be supplied with almost everything anyway. But I have no chicken. He also wasn’t moving forward any more rapidly, despite how he nudged and prodded at Eafa. Tuette, to his left, was in a similar condition and he chuckled a little at seeing her desperation mask any kind of dignified composure she might otherwise have tried to muster. He remembered the day before when she had started upon her own splint after a lesson more brief than his own. The anxiety she felt must’ve been great for her to forget the desired commands to make her blandly-colored splint move forward. The younger Guard apparently had seen the pair’s need for he had circled back, came behind Sylvester and Tuette, and smacked the rear of each splint hard with the flat side of his broadsword. Both mounts spat in succession and were off with Sylvester taking a slight lead. It was very thrilling as Eafa could obviously obtain a high speed. The lead Guard had been overtaken by Dermy, the latter man’s size obviously adding to his speed, and was nearly on top of the birds. Sylvester feared they would fly away then but the flock did something else: they bolted in one direction at such a speed that Sylvester wondered if Dermy would catch up to them. Then he felt something beneath him shift considerably and he looked down to realize that the strap that kept the saddle secure had come untied, causing the whole seat to vibrate wildly. In a flash, the vibration was gone as his stomach climbed into his throat and he hit the ground hard, the wind escaping his chest, his vision dazing at the edges. Sylvester thought he heard a laugh come from Tuette’s general direction but couldn’t honestly place the source: he had become completely disoriented after hitting the ground. He tried moving his neck around and saw that Eafa had stopped a short distance away. She was relieving herself, the discharge landing on a small rock that caused part of the liquid to splash back onto the animal’s hind legs. As he struggled to merely sit up, the eastward sun staring him in the face, Sylvester wondered how a creature could just let the obnoxious fluids even touch their body after making a point to eject it away. His memory landed on Misren OkLat and his accident during the last meeting with the Malforcrent. He had never encountered an adult that had been unfortunate enough to experience such a thing, but Misren certainly acted like the king assumed someone might in that situation. Eafa took it in stride and moved forward a few feet to graze on a clump of grass. Should Misren have behaved more like Eafa? Sylvester wasn’t sure but the animal seemed to hold more dignity than the Javal’tan ever could. And appeared to chew her food in the same fashion. So it had to be that taking an embarrassing situation and not making a fuss made you appear more dignified; more approachable, as if the incident didn’t matter. The younger Guard had circled around yet again and dismounted, helping Sylvester right himself and eventually stand. With a wheeze, Sylvester said “Thank you… uh, uh,” but he had nothing else. He felt flushed by the idea that he didn’t even know this man’s name. A man that served him so closely and loyally. It occurred to the king then that he didn’t know any of his servant’s names except for Penson and, just recently, Dermy. Technically, he knew the Malforcrent served him but they had been lesser or even equals. He always felt that they were like a larger body that Sylvester answered to and not the other way around, as was suggested. Sylvester looked into the younger Guard’s eyes, noting they were a very light blue for the first time and, pausing, finally said “What is your name?” He felt like a fool for asking and nearly halted the Guard’s answer— But the man looked surprised; pleased, even. “Terrikoy P’mire, sir. Or Terry. The Gousheralls call me Terry.” He smiled as if he had never been asked to reveal something so personal, and with the king, of all people. Sylvester wondered if this would be marked up as a great moment in the Guard’s life… but then realized how much conceit lay behind such a thought. The earlier words of Tuette and the older Guard had bolstered him with unwarranted feelings of greatness. King Sylvester knew he was nothing great though. Just a man with a stone in his neck. Whether he wanted it or not. He felt ashamed for not knowing if he really did or not. * ~ * ~ * It was a few moments of recuperation before Sylvester and Terry could join the trio but when they caught up with them, guiding their splints by hand as Sylvester had been unable to mount Eafa again, there were no chickens in sight. Just a bunch of feathers littering the ground. “Those’n fast ‘uns, oh!” uttered Dermy. The specialist then spit from atop his splint and it landed on a small pile of something white. “What’s that stuff?” Sylvester asked, taking a deep sniff for the first time and noticing how foul the fleeing fowl had left the area. Tuette looked down and then laughed. “That’s chicken droppings. No Magik properties. Tends to make footwear messier rather than cleaner.” Sylvester wondered at her meaning as she was stating the obvious. “Yeah? What droppings don’t?” She cast her gaze downward, drawing his attention to his own feet. “I thought you might assume differently, judging by your boots.” The tips of his boots were covered in the stuff. Lifting each foot, he saw that the soles were smeared even more grotesquely. “Blech!” he managed before almost tipping over, unbalanced by his displaced footing, and being caught by Terry. A snicker rolled out of Tuette and Sylvester thought again of Eafa and her hind legs and how she didn’t even care to have a mess on herself. So I don’t care either. He purposefully stepped on another pile of mess, attempting to navigate through the makeshift field of feathers and excrement. “So, uh, I guess the chickens went elsewhere? The splints scared ‘em, yes?” The older Guard – Sylvester made a note to eventually ask him his name too – nodded. “They headed towards that patch of forest there.” The king looked back to see that the Guard was pointing to the west. “I guess we go there then. Right?” He had directed the question towards Tuette but she was busy casting her gaze around the ground like she had lost something. “Did you drop something?” He looked down too, hoping she hadn’t. If she had, he might be inclined to pick it up and if it had landed on a pile of chicken mess… Well, he knew he could shrug off dirty boots but having to touch the stuff with his hands seemed like an entirely different beast to slay. “I’m looking… for eggs. Chicken eggs. They’re rare. Many Magik properties.” Sylvester hadn’t thought of that before. If the birds were reported as being rare, than it was obvious their eggs were rare too. Was this a way to make him express self-doubt again? Or had she scored without even knowing it? He grabbed the back of his neck, rubbing it gently and feeling an odd comfort wash over him as he nudged the kingstone with the tip of his finger. He took another step, purposefully not watching or caring where he stepped to prove he could, and heard a wet crunch beneath his foot. The sound had drawn the attention of the rest of the group, all at once. The act of seeing them shift their simultaneous gazes onto him was a little chilling and he pulled his hand away from his neck: it was providing no more comfort now. The crunch he had accidentally produced was unmistaken; he had destroyed an egg. Most likely, a chicken egg. Tuette rolled her eyes before closing them, heaving a deep breath that caused her chest to become displaced in an oddly pleasing fashion. But the pleasure was short-lived when she started to speak. “You yilting oaf! You discrepant man! Y-You horrible king!” The way she had said king sounded more like she had snarled it out of her mouth in an insulting fashion, the likes of which made Sylvester feel evermore despondent about the journey as a whole. “I said I was looking for eggs and you just crushed one! We all heard it, Celester! You crushed an egg! I told you it was rare, that they had Magik properties, didn’t I?” Something was reaching a boiling point inside Sylvester. He wasn’t sure if it was the way she was speaking to him or the fact that she had said Celester again, but he knew he was nearing his level of tolerance for this woman. Even if she was a Freezer and her precious Pote was going to help save Decennia from the maniacal count from down south. Tuette had started lecturing from atop her splint how Magik was invaluable and how everything that could be used within the confines of Magik was equally valuable when Sylvester reached across Terry’s front and unsheathed his broadsword. The action had drawn alarm from everyone and Tuette’s eyes widened as if with fear. She was beginning to dart her hand into her rucksack, one that was very different than the one he had found the communication ring in earlier, when he stepped forward and slapped the sword’s flat side against her splint’s rear end. Her splint spit and took off. Tuette, without a grip on the hanks, did not. She rolled off the side of the splint and landed bodily on Terry. Sylvester winced as he had not anticipated that action but he knew the Guard’s light armor would protect him, mostly. Tuette forced the pair to the ground though, crisscrossed over Terry with him landing on his back, her remaining on her stomach. Her hands were outstretched to brace for impact and they landed with one on the ground, the other on a pile of chicken mess. Sylvester guffawed at the outcome and looked up to see even the older Guard smile slightly. He handed the sword to Dermy, who handled it awkwardly, denoting his weaponless specialty fantastically, and stepped forward to help the pair up. Tuette scrambled before she could be assisted, leaving Sylvester to gladly help Terry back onto his feet. “Sorry, Terry. But her squawking forced me to think on my crap-laden feet. Must be why it turned out to be dirty fare in the end.” He smiled and even drew a smile from Terry, who’s backside had a good bit of the mess on it. Tuette looked something less than angry. Even a little hurt. Sylvester felt glad to bring that out in her. Now she might treat him with respect. A pang struck him firmly, even sickly. Is that the way to garner respect? It didn’t feel right. It felt even worse than when he had been rummaging through the rucksack and excusing himself with decidedly irrational thoughts. He had brought Tuette down to a manageable level, yes, but it had been drawn from taunts and teasing; childish name calling, if the insults were boiled down to their roots. Sylvester immediately thought back to his early days at Majramdic and thought how he would often witness smaller boys being teased by larger groups of bigger teens, but had never been a victim of such a test of fortitude. He had been protected by his eventual title. Now, he had behaved a lot like one of the teens, one of the bullies. The egg smashing was an accident, yes, but Tuette was only shouting at him. He realized then that he could’ve hurt her with his stunt. A new worry entered his mind: Did I want to hurt her? With that sobering realization, Sylvester stepped away from the group. He should’ve taken the oral refuse in the same manner as Eafa let urine splash across her hind legs: he realized he should’ve ignored it. “Sir?” Terry had said that. What did he want? He looked in the Guard’s direction. “To the forest?” Sylvester nodded once, lost in his self-depreciating thoughts. He felt awful and he wanted to look at Tuette to see if the situation had affected her, to see if he could witness something telling on her face. But he didn’t get a chance. She was already atop her splint and headed towards the forest, obviously forgetting about potential eggs: Sylvester heard one crack beneath the weight of her splint. Tuette didn’t pause though, just trotted forward. Terry helped secure Sylvester’s saddle once more and, as soon as both were mounted, they joined the group. * ~ * ~ * The forest was shallow, the trees spread thin. The other side could almost be seen and the king wondered aloud “Is it technically a forest if it’s this small?” He was only voicing such thoughts though because his real ones were focusing on his own behavior minutes before. And how it made him feel less than lousy: he felt like the substance coating his boots, like the fecal matter of a flightless bird. Clucks could be heard, after his question had settled on seemingly deaf ears. The clucking echoed against the unevenly spaced trees. On the edge of the forest, the trees had low-slung branches. Going further into the din, Sylvester saw that the trees were rather bare when it came to their trunks. It was the topmost portions that branched out, the limbs of any tree brushing against any other. With this evidence, it seemed like they could’ve brought the splints in, but Tuette had argued against it, stating that the birds would get frightened again. The animals would graze anyway. As they walked, Sylvester noticed they stayed in relatively the same positions as if they were atop their splints, but they were spaced much further apart. He would’ve liked to assume it was an unconscious means of covering more ground, but he felt that the others either feared him or loathed him or both. What’s he gonna do next? Sylvester himself didn’t even want to know. A bank of trees near the center acted as a shield, protecting the nucleus of this arboreal oasis from prying eyes. The group, seeing no chickens that might produce such clicking noises, angled toward the clustered trees, hoping to spy the flock on just the other side. Thinking quickly, Sylvester held up his hands and said “Wait.” Everyone but the lead Guard stopped. He quickly followed suit when he didn’t hear the crunches behind him. Once he turned around, he looked to Tuette and asked his question. Her face seemed impassive but her green eyes were bright thanks to the surrounding environ. “Since the chickens are in here, a forest, can’t we just Freeze it all, adding the chickens to the scenery, and doing the whatsit?” “The Curse Reverse?” “Yeah, that. Is that possible?” Dermy answered for Tuette as he might’ve discerned that she really didn’t want to speak to the king. He briefly wondered if he should command her to speak to him but decided against it. “Nah, Kingasir. We’s gotta be Freezin’ those’n chicks an’ such, oh. They’n be ‘ere in th’ for’st, ya, but that’n be goodless fer us. They’n gots t’ be they’n all their own for’st, oh.” He spit on the ground and scratched his forearm. “Nah, Kingasir, we’s gotta be drivin’ ‘em ou’ this’n for’st an’ be Freezin’ them all out’n ‘ere.” He gestured to the area beyond their immediate surroundings and Sylvester nodded in understanding though he assumed the actual explanation would make itself evident in time; it was very difficult having to listen to the farmer now. The king wished that the disguise could be stricken. Perhaps after we complete the task at hand? He surely hoped so. He started forward and the rest followed suit, Tuette lastly. The clucking grew louder, more regular as they neared the tree group. Through small gaps, Sylvester could see what looked like a shelter of some kind. The lead Guard rounded the last tree and paused at whatever he saw. Sylvester and the rest came around as well and everyone paused. Tuette was fishing around in her rucksack as Sylvester edged forward past the Guards and Dermy. Before him was not so much a shelter as a canopy that had connecting points with four different trees. Thin and tattered sheets were drawn from the canopy to the ground, held in places by large rocks. It was a small clearing meant to compliment such a small forest. The trees looked like they had been purposely planted in their sight-blocking stances long ago. The clearing was made of bare dirt mostly and what might’ve been the beginnings of a lek, though it was tiny compared to Cripp Lek. The rest of the forest they had traversed through had been batches of moss and fallen, dead leaves, by contrast. As there was no path of bareness leading out of the clearing, Sylvester could only assume that whoever had erected the canopy was long gone, long dead, behind the hanging sheets, or simply… A middle-aged woman emerged. She was clutching a dish of some kind and cooing at the chickens that had darted towards her. She clucked in a fashion almost similar to the birds and then balked, dropping the dish when she saw the five journeypersons; the clatter was dull but enough to alarm the nearest birds. Tuette had drawn a vial from her sack and was holding it in her right palm tightly; her thumb ran over the stopper a couple times but she didn’t open the container. Her gaze was wholly on the birds, as if she hadn’t noticed the woman. She was obviously mesmerized because it was the chicken-messed hand that clutched the vial. Sylvester moved forward even further, bowing slightly. “Ma’am, I…” “Blech!” she began while stretching her mouth in odd movements. “Cal-ork! Clork! Clook!” The sight might’ve been comical if it wasn’t laced with apparent sadness. Has she lost her mind? Such a situation was possible, he supposed, but she seemed otherwise fine. The action finally grabbed Tuette’s attention: the mystery of the woman caused her grip to slacken on the vial. Looking at the woman first and then to Dermy, she said “Her head energies?” Dermy only shrugged. Head energies? “What’s that?” he asked. Tuette rolled her eyes and approached the woman, but not before switching hands with her vial so she could dip her dirty hand in the lek water briefly, drying it against herself. “My name is Tuette. Ma’am. Madam! This is Dermy.” She pointed over Sylvester’s shoulder. “And these are special Guardsmen.” She sighed a little, not averting her gaze. “They protect him.” The woman hadn’t made anymore noises but had visually followed wherever Tuette’s hand pointed. She looked bewildered, like she was trying to say something that wasn’t making it all the way to her lips. “Your chickens, madam.” She nodded down to the birds, maintaining eye contact. “Such rare creatures, they are.” The woman mimicked the nod a half dozen times, as if the mimicry was the only way she could knowingly comment. “How did they come to live here? With you?” The woman’s eyes had begun to well up. She chewed on her lip in a forcible fashion. Sylvester didn’t understand the situation. “What’re you doing, Tuette?” Still looking at the woman, she said “This lady has obviously been in holed up here for a long time. Which is strange because she’s so close to a town, a group of people. She’s either in exile, Cursed, or trapped here by forces of a physical,” she finally turned to Sylvester, “or a mental nature.” “Clo-oot. Too-oot!” She balked, demanding everyone’s attention once more. “Too-eat. Toot!” She paused, taking several deep breaths. “Too-ett! Tuette!” Dermy released a gasp. Tuette moved even closer, pocketing her vial so she could take the woman’s hands. Sylvester noticed for the first time that she wore a skirt and tunic similar to Tuette but of a different color scheme. And it was frayed on the edges, resting more like a second skin than an article of privatized clothing: the king wondered if she ever removed it, even for sleep. He then wondered the situation concerning her legs, whether they were peppered like Tuette’s or not. This drew him back to Fy’tay but only for a moment as Tuette started guiding the woman, who was now openly crying, to sit on log stripped of its bark. He didn’t understand why the woman wept but did notice that the chickens had calmed once again and were pecking at the items that the woman had dropped when she lost her dish. It was many minutes before she regained her composure but upon doing so, her speech ranged from chickenesque to something passable at least. With Tuette prodding her with questions while the four males stood around and listened, ever mindful of the chickens, they learned her tale: She was called Reefetta Bingson Lo and she had not known that Scothil was nearby. A barren woman in her forties, Reefetta was neither Cursed nor trapped in the forest’s lek-centered clearing: she had chosen to live there. Following a tragic incident in the even more southerly township of Lorstelta, which was near the southern border of Jint, she fled with her self-determined life mate, his name being Yuka Porrson Po. They sought refuge in the present clearing knowing that the pursuers from Lorstelta believed it to be the habitat of a Horror of some kind. The heart of the shallow forest suggested that someone might’ve crafted the hollow center around the small and curiously deep pool but had vacated it some time ago. And Horrors were apparently not the type of creature one fooled around with. But Sylvester had never heard of one in the manner Reefetta spoke. Through the first winter months they felt regret for leaving Lorstelta as they had never been forced to live independent of a larger community. Plus, the mini-lek often froze over, requiring that they break it open with rocks, which often were dropped and lost to the water’s bottom, however deep that was. In the following spring, life gradually improved and Yuka became more adventurous with the forest as a whole. Reefetta said that he came to know every tree and rock and even began to skirt the edge and eventually beyond. It had been an untold amount of time since Yuka left the forest’s edge and never returned. Reefetta had no weave or script with dated notations and could only judge by the seasons. She knew at least that it had been twelve winters prior. She feared the worst, thinking the Lorsteltans had found Yuka and dragged him back to be judged for his crime. Or maybe they killed him on first sight. Reefetta didn’t know and assumed she never would but. It was her assuming the best that Yuka would return any day now, which inspired her to remain in the forest’s nexus. It was less than three winters ago that saw the arrival of the chickens. Reefetta greeted them with seeds she had gathered from low-reaching branches and they appreciated it greatly, providing her company that she hadn’t known she craved. “I remember a time, a couple years after Yuka left, I thought that it’d be grand for him to remain gone. Because life with myself was fine. Now, with the ‘kens, I can’t imagine what I’d do without them. I’m just sorry they have to forage outside of the forest for food. There’s just not enough for them and me. And when it comes to snatching a rodent who comes within reach or snapping the neck of one of my ‘kens… well, let’s just say that rats taste best with many added herbs stuffed inside their wretched corpses.” She had named the chickens and had come to identify with all sixteen of them. “There were originally more but they forage too much and don’t, you know, get busy enough. To makin’ eggs. And little ‘kens.” It was a story that was making Sylvester feel heavy behind his tunic. He felt like trying to help this woman. Suddenly, Reefetta paused in telling her story and her position took on a new composure. She was sitting straight with her hands in front of her, resting one on each thigh. She no longer sniffled and Sylvester saw that some mucus was beginning to climb out of her nose. The entirety of the situation felt coldly familiar. Tuette immediately stood up, turning away from Reefetta with her hand in her skirt pocket, and muttered something about something or someone being fake, being… artificial? Sylvester was greatly confused as Reefetta had seemed utterly convincing. All thoughts were dashed when Tuette fell forward with Reefetta standing behind her with a wide stick in her hand. She had struck Tuette! Sylvester felt sick when he looked into the woman’s gaze and saw… nothing. No malice, grief, sorrow. She was devoid of any emotion. Then she swung the stick at Sylvester, who was out of range already. The Guards moved forward, daring their swords. Reefetta swung again, catching the older Guard at the elbow. He dropped the broadsword and Reefetta just as quickly threw the lesser weapon at Terry, catching him in his bare face as she rolled against the ground and came up on the opposite side of the clearing with the dropped sword in hand. And she was amongst the chickens, gathered and pecking in vain at the barren ground where she had dropped the crumbs. He would’ve felt sorry for their desperate attempts at finding food, but Reefetta’s action drew an even greater amount of sorrow: she swung the blade quick and low, slicing through two of the birds, sending spurts of blood and stained feathers flying. The rest of the tiny flock scattered and Reefetta, with a quickness that hadn’t been evident before, chased each one and ran it down for the slaughter. The sight was the likes of which Sylvester had never seen. Reefetta made not a sound, her nose draining more quickly with her efforts. Sylvester could only stand in shock, darting out of the crazed woman’s way when she started towards him by sheer accident. The Guards behaved similarly, not sure if they should attack or avoid like the king was doing. She was behaving too erratically for them to know exactly what she was doing. Tuette, on the edge of the clearing, was moving groggily on the ground but was safe—until one of the chickens attempted to nestle against her far side in an attempt to find a safe haven. This chicken was noticed and, seeing Reefetta move forward, Sylvester was inspired to dash at the mad woman’s front, thinking of the most direct manner in which Tuette would be removed from harm. He came in low with his right shoulder in the lead, praying to whatever listened these days that she wouldn’t cut him apart for his effort… Contact with her gut came hard and he felt for the first time how truly light she was. Reefetta continued forward, propelled by her motion but once Sylvester rose up, he leveraged her over his shoulder, causing the seemingly small woman to flip and land flat on her back. He heard the air escape her chest in a light groan and something popped. He looked down to see she had landed on her free hand and withdrew it: the wrist was at an odd angle. Then Reefetta’s face scrunched up and she began to moan. She released the broadsword, which the older Guard stepped forward to retrieve, and she grabbed at her clearly-broken wrist. The sight was a nightmare, the likes of which finally drew Tuette’s passive gaze back to the center of the clearing. Sylvester looked around again, noting the many dead chickens. Feathers drifted like snow, making the clearing seem more like a mottled dream than a harsh reality. And Tuette began to weep. With that weep came the harder truth: their chance had been foiled. The crazed Reefetta had tampered with the fate of the kingdom. Sylvester wondered if a display of anger or sadness was more appropriate as he clearly felt both. Terry came up. “Are you alright, sir?” he asked while clapping Sylvester’s shoulder, checking for soreness or something. “I’m… many things.” He looked down at Reefetta and then to Tuette, who was standing up and dusting her skirt off. Her shoulders didn’t bob but gentle tears flowed freely. Dermy came to her aid, whispering words of query and comfort. “I’m upset, for one thing. And… in utter shock as to why she did it.” He looked down at Reefetta, feeling the urge to kick her enter and leave his head, and asked “Why? Why the chickens?” Reefetta, who had started crying again, rolled over and awkwardly stood up, holding her wrist to her chest, and looked around. Her face blanched even whiter, a solid reminder that it was dark red animal blood splashed again her cheek and forehead. “M-my ‘kens…” she started. “Cloo-ack! Cloot! My ‘kens!” Sylvester grabbed her by her shoulders, forcing her to look into his face, into his eyes. Her hair landed on his hands and he wanted to pull them away because they felt stringy, like when a spider crawls on the skin, but this was important. “Why did you nut out and kill ‘em, Reefetta?” “Wh-wha’? I killed them?” “We know you did. Why?” She exhaled a great amount of air. “I killed them, my ‘kens?” Sylvester looked at Terry and then back to Reefetta, confused. “Why are you confessing what we just witnessed? What you just did?” Reefetta withdrew, leaving her broken wrist against her chest and raising the other to her mouth as sobs and unintelligible sounds were wrenched from her throat. Her face was now entirely red, her eyes glassed over and raw around their rims. Sylvester worried that she could cut herself with her fingernails, noting for the first time that they were obscenely long. Then the screaming started. “Why? My ‘kens! My chickens! You… You all…” Her knees buckled and she fell into a smaller lump of herself, her eyes defocusing, and she seemed broken in many ways. Finally, she looked up into Sylvester’s face. “Why?” She sniffled, wiping her nose against her sleeve finally. “Why did you d-do it? Or them?” She gestured to the Guards and then to Dermy. “Why? My ‘kens. My…. ‘kens…” Tuette stepped forward then, drying her face and nose with a white cloth that she tucked back into her rucksack. Dermy stepped just behind her and to her right. “Reefetta, we didn’t.” Sylvester was confused. “Of course we didn’t, Tuette. We all saw her do it…” “She didn’t do it either.” Tuette sniffled while tightening her hood. “She was possessed. By an Artificial.” Sylvester didn’t know what that was but assumed it was something Magik and, therefore, potentially dangerous. “I tried Freezing the chickens once I realized, but Artificials can make a body move faster than expected. It killed the chickens because it knew we needed them. And with them gone, our journey continues.” She looked to each man in turn and then settled on the forest, as if taking it in for the first time. “Only now, I’m thinking that it’s more than about the chickens. Or the Curse.” Reefetta began to rock back and forth, humming to herself and cradling her wrist. Sylvester shook his head and stepped forward. Terry was looking at the various chickens, picking up the survivor that had fled towards Tuette, stroking the back of its neck like it was a feline. The king said, “Then why send us out on this… this wild chicken chase? Why enforce a Curse at all?” Tuette looked back at Sylvester, moving towards Terry to gently take the chicken from his grasp. She stroked it similarly as the animal appeared agitated and said “Count Roost obviously has an ulterior motive. Anyone with his obvious level of skill could hide their location from a Locator Spell. But he didn’t. He wants to be found and he wants it to be whoever is actively seeking to end the Curse against Decennia.” She met Sylvester’s gaze again, sending an odd jolt through his spine. “And if he knew that you were attempting the Reverse, that might mean that he wants you alive and in his grasp. For some reason.” The thought caused his jolt to mutate into a cold shiver. Such a large-scale means of getting Sylvester to personally leave Mount Reign? Is this something orchestrated with the Malforcrent? Are they plotting to overthrow me? Or does count have something in store for me? Something devious or even deadly? More importantly why are we scurrying after chickens when the source of our problems is in the Seagulf Islands? “If that’s the case and this Roost fellow is willing to destroy lives to get at me,” he looked down at Reefetta before continuing with, “then I think I should meet him head on.” Yes, this decision felt right, though it made him start fluttering on the inside. Nervousness could be dealt with. What if Roost can’t be? What does he want exactly? And what if Tuette is wrong? She was a sore woman to converse with and, so far, travel with, but she seemed to hold a large amount of Magik knowledge. Probably because she was a Freezer. He looked at Dermy and wondered why the specialist hadn’t identified the Artificial beforehand? Had the situation surprised him? Did he only have firm knowledge when it came to plant-based Magiks? Judging by what he could remember, Curses could be Reversed by performing a dictated action or killing the Curser. If Roost was going to stop him or the others from performing the action, then it was only logical that they make a run at Roost himself. But killing the man? That was murder and whatever the little things were that Sylvester had done and felt bad about, he wasn’t sure he could feel sanctimonious about killing someone. Count Roost was causing a problem though. He was putting the kingdom in danger with whatever Curse he had cast. At least, that was the assumption. As far as the king knew, Roost had not contacted the throne to make any demands against the crown or even publicly acknowledge that a Curse had been cast. If he wanted Sylvester personally, it seemed like some sort of direct message would be sent. Perhaps it had been lost? Or Misren was the intended messenger? The Seagulf Islands are part of the Javal’ta region. He was beginning to feel evermore weary about embarking on this quest as it seemed to raise more questions than anything. And when he had questions, they seemed to accentuate his self-doubt. But whatever the situation, Sylvester knew the decision was his to make and, moments ago, saying it had felt like the right action to take. “Yes, we’ll go after the man. If he’s going to keep us from performing the Reverse one way, then he has to be… stopped.” Tuette nodded and even seemed like she wanted to smile. Terry had been walking around, looking at the various corpses the entire time and had finally stopped after making another revolution. “Counting Tuette’s,” he began “there are only fifteen birds here.” Sylvester and Tuette both looked around on the ground with Dermy stepping forward to count as well. The older Guard still sat on the log, rubbing pain from his stricken elbow. Reefetta had settled into a state of disuse, now sitting on her legs which were crossed beneath her. And Terry was right: there were only fifteen chickens. “Where’d the other one go?” Reefetta, as if attempting to come out of her trance, blinked and looked around. She had begun to drool and her head jerking around sent some drool flying from her face. A glob landed on Sylvester’s boot. “It probably left the clearing. Or fell into the little lek” Sylvester offered up, trying to ignore the disgusting salvia. What does it matter where one chicken is? We have a new mission and it’s going to be a little easier. Maybe. Hopefully. They were going to confront Count Roost and stop him, one way or another. It was the “one way” that Sylvester hoped would be resolved by the time they arrived in the Seagulf Islands, with meant anything other than death. The group had begun to depart when Dermy said “We canna be leavin’ th’ miss herein, Kingasir.” Sylvester looked back at Reefetta who had finally stood and was frantically gathering the chicken bodies. He wondered if she would do the smart thing and eat them or continue to suffer from malnutrition and bury the birds. Her hands were coated in blood and feathers. “She’ll bein’ broke ‘side ‘er min’. Th’ en’gies not flowin’ prop’ly.” Tuette hadn’t stopped. “Tuette,” he called to her. She looked back. “We should take her to Scothil at least. The Koops might come to care for her. Or someone.” No sense of understanding crossed Tuette’s face. What was her problem? He could only assume that she didn’t care about Reefetta. Or anyone else, for that matter. Big surprise. But, no, she had attempted to Freeze the chickens when she realized they were in danger. That accounted for something at least. The lack of caring caused Sylvester to turn to Terry and the older Guard and say “Please, help guide her to Scothil. See if the Koops will attend to her. Tell them that the king has ordered them to take care of her.” It didn’t feel improper to make such a demand, seeing as how Reefetta was clearly in need of attention. If she traveled with them, she would hinder them, especially considering that they now had a larger distance to close in the same predetermined amount of time: that being when the Curse would activate come the next full moon. “What’ll we be doing while your Guards run your errands?” For some reason, everything out of Tuette’s mouth seemed to be the most extreme version it could be. When she was empathizing, it sounded like she might care too much. When she asked questions about decisions made, they always sounded like she thought so poorly about the decision as to pass it off as stupid and useless. He refused to be made to feel useless anymore. The bare fact that Roost was after him made him somehow feel quite important indeed. If only I knew why. “We’ll be resting. And chatting. The three of us.” He gestured to Dermy and Tuette. “We need to discuss some things. Immediately.” It’s time for some answers. They left the clearing with the three remaining in the shade on the outer edge of the forest and the Guards heading back towards Scothil. Reefetta was compliant and easily mounted behind Terry on his splint. |
| “How do you two know each other?” asked Celester. Tuette looked to Dermy before deciding to answer. She knew that her outburst in Zharinna would eventually bring about this question. “We were traveling companions. A few years ago.” Do I need to reveal that I’m Cursed? Will that counter my Freezer guise? Does it matter now whether I keep up the ruse or not? Their goals had shifted in the span of a few minutes. Before the Artificial attack, they had been actively pursuing a rumored chicken flock. Now the king had decided that they should go after Roost. The situation somehow had unfolded in Tuette’s favor. “Traveling companions? That’s it? Like, with a troupe or like minstrels or something?” Neither knew how to answer so he asked another question. “Are you bandits?” Bandits? Is he serious? It sounded like a horrible suggestion, as if plucked from a tree in the middle of nowhere. Tuette assumed all the king’s thoughts came from nowhere, rather than from his invaluable kingstone. Why isn’t he using that knowledge to seem intelligent? Because he’s an idiot? Big surprise. “Kingasir, we’n be no ban’its, oh. We…” “Why are you still wearing that disguise, Dermy?” She couldn’t help asking. The Guards were gone and if they were being spied on, it was by Magik means because she didn’t notice anything out of the ordinary. And if it was with Magik, there really was no point in trying to block it: someone determined enough would come across the truth of his situation sooner or later. Dermy sighed. He then stood up, moved to stand beside a tree, forced his wrist tightly into a fork between the trunk and a branch, and pulled bodily against it. The sudden action made Tuette shriek as loud, wet cracks sounded from not just Dermy’s shoulder but his entire arm. In the next instant, Dermy was back to his normal self, his arm still hung up on the tree. He reached forward with his left hand to remove his right and he then settled it against his side. When he let it go, it hung limply, like when his disguise had been dissipated before. It looked broken beyond repair. She immediately wondered why he hadn’t let a ta heal it. He settled himself back down on the log and began to speak. “It’s just… with the disguise, I know I sound like an idiot and look different, but at least,” he picked up his right arm with his left, letting the hand dangle at the wrist. “At least I’m useful like that.” Celester stepped forward. “You broke your arm, Dermy? Why not see a healer or something?” He took a deep breath. “Because it can’t be mended.” Another deep breath. “I-I sacrificed it. So the bones could be tethered to my disguise.” Understanding dawned on Tuette but the king looked even more confused. “Tethered to your disguise? You mean… What? What do you mean?” Tuette felt her eyes roll at the lack of comprehension on behalf of the king. “He means that, to work for you and to appear unassuming, he had to adopt the disguise with Magik. Most require the Spell be tethered to an object that you always have to keep on your person. He knew he’d need to keep the disguise up for a long time and that would be proportionate with the size of the object to be tethered.” She took a breath, thinking of the things that Dermy had been forced through since leaving her company. Since working for the crown. Yet another life ruined in the name of the king. “Human bone, king, is terrific for absorbing tethers: they last longer and are sturdy. But they eat away at the bone. If Dermy has kept his tethers on for even a year, too much of his bone would’ve deteriorated. And eventually, the bone will vanish and the disguise will fail.” She looked at Dermy now, who looked sullen. “How much longer do you have for this disguise, Dermy? Before you have to go back?” “A month” he said quietly. “Maybe two. Craspone said that I couldn’t trust the other farmers. At least not the ones on the mountain. He said I needed to appear unassuming, so they wouldn’t suspect me. I imagine they did anyway.” “Who’s Craspone?” Tuette suppressed a heavy sigh. Did Celester always ask the unimportant questions? She also didn’t want to relive the past. Not that part of it anyway. But now she understood for what real purpose Dermy had left her for. “Craspone per Taali met us during our travels, about three years ago. Before that, Dermy and I traveled the land, searching for a variety of ingredients to store for making Potes and crafting Spells.” She finally decided to omit the part about being Cursed. For now, at least. “In Dekenna, we came across Craspone. He works for you. Or did, at one time. He recognized Dermy’s affinity for plant properties and said he could have a good future working under—Working for… the mountain.” “He said I could work for you and I’d end up helping the whole of Decennia. When I told him that I couldn’t leave Tuette, because…” “Because… I’m a, uh, sorry traveler. With poor direction.” “I wouldn’t say that, no,” said Celester. “But for you to travel alone, as a helpless woman in the wilds, that I understand.” Helpless? Tuette knew she was hardly helpless, even back then. But she knew that contradicting him would only further the instance in when she would have to reveal her Curse. She scratched her head through her hood, noting not for the first time that her head was sweaty, her hair matted against her scalp. It felt uncomfortable, but they weren’t in the shade. She stood, moved to stand in a surefire shady spot just inside the forest, and undid her hood to let her hair out. It was true that she was limited, yes, but she knew she was not helpless. The king looked puzzled as to why she had done this but didn’t ask questions. His eyes did seem to linger on the hem of her skirt though and she looked down, wondering if she had gotten more chicken droppings on it. When she looked back up, he was looking back to Dermy as Dermy said “So Craspone directed both of us to the Grechy Pools and there, we found Tuette’s swan.” Celester looked confused again as he glanced back at Tuette. Apparently, he had forgotten her swan-shaped home and thought that a real bird was being discussed. She chose to ignore the confusion and speak like he should have remembered the structure. “I talked about how I could use a Life Spell on the swan so we could travel around more quickly.” The confusion faded and the king even looked a little bashful for having forgotten. Tuette knew that after finding the swan, Craspone had pulled her aside and informed her about the nature of the kingstone, for then-unknown reasons, but she decided to omit this during their retelling too. It seemed that, judging by the way the king hid his kingstone, that it wasn’t exactly public knowledge. “Then Dermy left me, in the middle of the night, with Craspone.” She looked into Celester’s eyes. “For you.” The monarch didn’t seem ashamed. He almost seemed amused, at least. Dermy spoke up then. “Craspone told me that I couldn’t be so open about using my advanced forms of Magik on the mountain. Not around the farmers. He said a plot was brewing. Against you, sir. I told him I could disguise myself. Appear unassuming. So that when I went to work the orchards, I wouldn’t be suspected. He said he was already a suspect and that he had managed to escape.” He gulped, as if thirsty, and Tuette wondered if they should’ve brought their skins into the forest to refill with fresh lek water. “During our travels back to Mount Reign, we were… attacked. By thieves. Or what I thought were thieves. They aimed to kill both of us but Craspone fought hard against them. And took a fatal blow for it.” Tuette recalled in her mind the image of Craspone and found it both humoring and pitiful to think of such a tiny man as he was fighting against any kind of attacker. But he apparently had and paid with his life. “Before he died,” continued Dermy “he said I should use the disguise, like I said I would, and infiltrate the mountain. For the sake of the crown. And the future. And everything. “I based my disguise on him and, when I arrived at the western fields, told them that word about Craspone’s death had reached his home village. And that our families feuded. And that I hated him and wanted his job because someone like him didn’t deserve it when I clearly did. I felt sick for the lies but they bought it. In no time at all, I was installed on the mountain and made contacts with the other Magikals there.” “Others? There are other Magik people on Mount Reign?” Celester looked embarrassed. Dermy shook his head. “Not many. A few. The men that worked in the orchards were only spies, not Mages. We had our network. And it never involved face-to-face meetings. Those are too risky. No, we had to leave scripts and such to relay messages. I was contacted shortly after arriving. Apparently, Craspone had come searching for me personally. I didn’t understand why.” He looked at Tuette then. “Now I think I do.” “How do you mean?” asked Tuette. She was genuinely curious now. “Think about it, Tuette: during the months we traveled, we came up with some fantastic Potes. That had to get noticed by someone. Then we separated and have now found ourselves on the same quest, helping the king here save Decennia.” “But anyone could do this. It’s only a means of performing a Rev—“ “No,” said Dermy in such a forcefully quiet way that Tuette remained silent. He looked down at his dead arm. “No. We were chosen. By someone. Or something. Maybe even the maperryta. It started with us needing to Freeze chickens but Roost changed the rules and now we have to confront him. And he’s using Magik that I know you recognize.” That shook her. He had remembered everything she told him about her apprenticeship under Corunny Voidet. Has he pieced out that someone’s adopted Voidet’s means of Cursing? He knew she was still Cursed so he’d already figured out that Voidet still had to be alive. But how had the count overcome the Curser? Did Dermy know the answer? She’d ask him later, when the king wasn’t so attentive. But the comment drew Celester’s intrigue. “Magik you know, Tuette? What Magik?” She maintained eye contact with Dermy for a second, let a moment pass between them, turned to look at the king, and said, “My old teacher, Corunny Voidet. The last I heard of him, he was working near the southern edge of Javal’ta. And he’s a master at Cursing.” That was going to be all she divulged. Until the pesky king asked, “Your teacher was Cursed?” So he remembers the facets of Cursing, then. “And, what, his Freezing profession panned out and he became an irritant of a count?” “No. We’re not dealing with the same man. But we’re dealing with his Magiks.” “So someone… killed your teacher? And is using his Magik against Decennia?” Not wanting to invite more questions, she nodded. “Yes, that has to be it.” Dermy met her gaze again and, when Celester looked to the specialist, she shook her head slowly at his puzzled look, silently pleading that he not reveal the whole truth just yet. Celester looked back at her as she resumed her normal, storytelling features. “And I guess that, since you’re tangled up in this, you definitely want to go after this guy? For killing your old teacher?” He paused for only a second, not letting her answer. “I guess I would do the same thing, if it was one of my more cherished professors from Majramdic.” The king turned wholly back to Dermy as Tuette began to bunch up her hair to be resettled inside her hood. “And your disguise? Do you need to keep wearing it?” Dermy sat for a second before answering, his gaze distant in a way. “My right arm is useless without the disguise. The Magik, though it’s tethered to the bone, keeps the physical illusion of usefulness.” He sighed deeply. “Until the bone is gone, that is.” “I don’t think you need it anymore, Dermy. If it’s the Guards you’re worried about, they’re trustworthy. That’s their job.” Tuette shook her head at the man’s naivety but decided not to comment on it. “And if we’re spied on, then we can take it head on. But we have a new goal in mind.” The sound of splints in the distance came at them and they all turned their heads to watch the Gousheralls in the immediate distance. Tuette said, “Dermy, if anything, we need you as yourself. You’ve done your duty with the disguise. And if we need to fend of any additional infiltrators, then we’ll take it in stride.” “But my arm…” “It can be mended. A good ta can fix it. It’ll take considerable time but if we don’t move now, then we won’t have that time available. And whoever does the healing needs at least some original bone to work with.” She moved to stand at his side, placing her hand on his shoulder. “Don’t worry. After this is all over, we’ll get you back to your normal self.” He nodded only once before standing, but he muttered a familiar something while stroking his right arm and Tuette knew he was resetting his disguise again. She thought of the few instances where a Magiked disguise had to be used for such a lengthy period of time and knew they never ended well. Depression was a common enough occurrence, along with odd splits in personalities, as if the wearer couldn’t distinguish between the fashioned disguise and his true self. But Dermy seems okay. For now. As his façade resettled itself, like a shimmering skin, he seemed wholly happier. Almost like a different person. Tuette could only wonder how much was Magik and how much was truth. “So I suppose the disguise stays then.” It wasn’t a question from the king, but a statement that seemed to be tinged with sadness. What does he care about Dermy’s state of well being? He’s probably more worried that Dermy might hinder our travels if he becomes mentally unhinged. Does Celester know of the side-effects regarding prolonged Magik disguises? Dermy might have informed him before they embarked, but she wasn’t sure. The Guards arrived finally and Sylvester attempted to whistle to get Eafa to come to him. The actual sound that came from his mouth was more like a comical raspberry and Tuette could only stifle a laugh. What man can’t whistle? This one. * ~ * ~ * When the Guards dismounted to help fetch the remaining splints for the trio, Celester looked like he was accepting the situation as rote and was willing to move on. He clasped his hands together when his mount was finally brought to him and said “So, how do we get to the Seagulf Islands. In the span of… how many days?” “Kingasir, it bein’ eigh’ day, oh.” Tuette pursed a frown, feeling sorry for Dermy. He had left a solid life of Magik exploration to help a monarch who couldn’t even whistle. And he was suffering for it. She knew plainly that his arm couldn’t be restored. He’d have to resort to a delfin, maybe. And those creatures, if bred poorly, were unreliable and sometimes dangerous. “We can be at the southern coast in four or five days, depending on travel.” She tried scrambling her brain in an attempt to remember the pertinent information regarding southerly travel. Is the Nementor Path safer in Javal’ta or will we be forced to travel more nocuous routes? There were no mountain passes in the south but there were many swathes of forestry and the occasional river. Without a means of fording those rivers, they could spend as much as two weeks trying to reach the coast. She realized she had misspoken because it was with her swan-home that she had been able to travel so quickly. She felt abashed for the oversight. How could she have forgotten her means of transport for the past three years? “Four or five days?” asked the older Gousherall. “We can’t fly there, Miss Tuette, however convenient that might be.” Tuette felt her face flush crimson at the man spotting her flaw. “Uh, yes,” she finally stammered out. “I had… forgotten.” She looked to Celester but his face didn’t brighten at her admission: he seemed lost in thought. An idea percolated quickly in her head then. “The chickens.” Both Guards looked at her in confusion, Dermy with a quizzical manner, and the king looked… surprised? She continued though. “We need to follow their trail. Where they came from.” Terry, the younger and more attractive Guard, said, “If we find more of those flightless rodents, won’t Roost have them slaughtered again? I mean, isn’t that why the king suggested we go after the count instead?” “But where did they come from? Chickens stay in flocks for their overall safety when it’d be easier for them to separate individually. Maybe there’s a larger flock of chickens… and maybe some other flightless birds?” She hadn’t intended for it to come off as a question but it couldn’t be helped because even she was dubious of the brazenly-forming idea. Dermy caught on more quickly than the others though. “An’ wit’ th’ other bird’, on’ migh’ bein’ a t-a-l-ker!” “Yes, and if we can convince the talking birds to help provide use passage, for the benefit of the kingdom, then we will get to Boost before the Curse matures!” Celester still looked like he wasn’t paying attention. The attitude was typical, she decided. Does he ever listen? Finally, he silently nodded but straightened his posture, staring Tuette directly in the face. “We’ll do this. It’s necessary.” Dermy looked more pleased than his Magik disguise could compensate for while the Guards began to check the splints, tightening their saddles and such. Celester looked somber once again, as if he had something difficult to swallow, or spit up. It finally came. “Tuette, why did you attempt to Freeze those chickens?” A cold knot formed in her chest, in her stomach. Dermy paused but didn’t look at her: he had known even before that time, then. Before she had that panic filled moment where she saw her only chance to Reverse her own Curse. And how it had been slipping away. She wanted to tell the whole story but her ability to deny and bend the truth seeped through first, making her feel like oily strands were entangled around the words that left her mouth. “I was trying to save them. For you. For Decennia.” He moved forward by one step and seemed that much more impossibly imposing. “No, that wouldn’t have worked, Tuette. The Curse would’ve remained. Because I wasn’t Freezing them.” So he knew how it was going to work. He was more informed than she had been let on. Is that his style? Does he feign ignorance, only to drop incriminating evidence right into your lap, like a viper poised to strike or strangle? Still, she felt like it was to her benefit to continue with a lie, or rather an omission of truth. Tuette knew she didn’t have to discuss her Curse, just gloss over it. Her idea might prove unreliable, even though it was clearly the best shot they presently had. “No, sir. I could Freeze them and then you could re-Freeze them, and save everyone.” Tuette wanted to end the sentence with a flippant smile but it wouldn’t come. Celester didn’t take another step and considered the notion. For a non-Magikal, it would make sense. It had to. No one outside of the fold could understand otherwise. It was correct to say that Magik Spells and Charms could be multilayered but Potes could not: they couldn’t be used on the same target twice. It was something that baffled Mages for centuries and no matter how many tweaks went into the creation of a Pote, it always ended with a target singularly affected and wasted Potes. A Spell of similar properties could be used in conjunction with a Pote, but there were no Freezing Spells and the only genuine Freezing Charms were the jo’kra rods that Freezing Clans had been passing down for generations. They’re selfish like that. But the king, with his limited intelligence – that combination of words seemed to fit best in her mind – didn’t know any better. Dermy obviously did and she knew that she’d have to converse privately with him later. Celester nodded once, still looking grim, and moved to mount his splint. Dermy let a lazy gaze linger on her before performing similarly. The Gousheralls had, at some point, already reclaimed their positions as front and rear-Guard and they were forced to wait for Tuette to finally mount in her ungainly manner. She felt less deflated by showing her legs though: she decided that she really was in the company of men that knew better than to make a comment or honestly didn’t even care about her leg-based locks. For that small token of kindness or ignorance, Tuette knew she was grateful * ~ * ~ * She recognized she was behaving deceptively and that she would have to eventually provide truthful answers. But only Tuette knew she had no answers. None that would please anyone, anyway. Tuette, in pondering, realized she had more questions than anything. Was the Curse against Decennia a ruse to bring out Celester or was she really the target? It was obvious that Magik commonly crafted and employed by Corunny was being used against them all. But why would some count be doing this just to bring out a Cursed apprentice? Tuette didn’t pretend to know. She had witnessed the Artificial-from-Afar Charm before but never in such a bewildering manner. What had been the conduit of proximity? It had been pure ironic chance that Reefetta had been possessed as it could’ve easily been herself or Dermy even. Running over everyone’s physical stance in her mind, before the slaughter, she wondered if the Artificial might’ve passed over Celester and maybe even favored Reefetta. But that shouldn’t have been possible. With that particular Charm, there was no amount of discrimination. Unless Celester with his kingstone is immune to Artificials. It was only a theory that could rarely be tested but, judging by what Craspone had told her, the kingstone was supposed to divulge knowledge of the past kings while also providing various amounts of protection. Celester certainly behaved like he was physically protected: he had faced Reefetta and overturned her without hesitation, as if he didn’t have to worry about the possibility of falling on her blade. But was he protected from Magik too? The passively aggressive idea zipped through her head that she might try Freezing him to test the hypothesis. But she didn’t want to waste her precious Pote on the gullible man. They traveled. It was at a quick pace that threatened to actually lull Tuette; traveling by night for so many years, between planting shallow roots here and there, had conditioned her to sleep more evenly during daylight hours. Half the day was already over and Tuette knew they still had at least another full day before they reached the Javal’ta border. It was during this time that Celester requested they stop for yet another meal. Just how much food is available to him on his pretentious mountain perch? In the wilds and amongst the planes, the spaces between towns, food was not so easily garnished. Fruit trees or vegetables couldn’t always be found in the midlands. Idly, Tuette only wondered where the produce originally came from that Dermy grew for the king and all of Mount Reign. It had to have originally come from somewhere. And meat wasn’t that easy to come across either: small or medium-sized animals weren’t abundant in the area. That fact was more evident by the chickens being able to survive the area for so long; if some feral canine had ever took them in the night, their numbers would’ve diminished more quickly and the group wouldn’t have been able to witness the slaughter, as ultimately beneficial as that had become. Thinking of the mayhem caused Tuette to partially lose her appetite. But she knew she needed to eat so she didn’t try and stop King Celester from calling a halt. They rested near a rocky outcrop which seemed out of place in the midland, much like the ones near Zharinna. Tuette wondered if they formed a loose trail when seen from above. As if someone, long ago, had decided to move the mountain and dropped pieces along the way. They ate rationed portions of salted meat. Dermy actually had been able to lure some lengthy, meaty worms from beneath a rock when he put what he called a broccot leaf in a shallow hole. “Th’ broc-cot ‘ttracts these’n dirt serps, oh.” They left Dermy to his dirt serps, watching through peripheral only as he cut off their heads, squeezed their boneless innards into a half-bowl, and added some of the broccot and other grounded herbs. He then mixed the concoction with his bare fingers and then proceeded to eat with those same fingers. Tuette felt nauseous from the site and could only chew her meat carefully, nursing it during the entire meal. The sun, high in the sky, seemed to beat it’s warmth against them and Tuette knew her head was going to start sweating and matting her hair down again. Just another instance where the Curse was a major irritant. She thought briefly of letting her hood down and allowing the swan-shaped mass to be on full display. What does it matter anyway? Celester is mostly ignorant about Curses and the Gousheralls don’t generate an opinion one way or the other. But Dermy had been reluctant to let them see him for what he really was. Perhaps he really didn’t trust both of the men, or maybe just one of them. Tuette silently hoped it was the older, less appealing one, knowing it was foolish to think in such shallow terms. And that since the younger Guard, Terry, was less suspicious, he was most likely the one to be wary of. She looked at Dermy and, although he had been forced to reveal his personal gambit, he looked as chipper as ever. Tuette knew it was the disguise though and briefly wondered if it was designed to take his most sour and unpleasant mood and emit the polar opposite. She knew that disguises varied but this was the first long-term one she had witnessed that hadn’t been an obvious one. Amongst traveling performers, one or two people were forced to always be in a disguise of some kind to make it appear that some mythic beast had been captured. But always, the disguise had to be tethered to a larger-than-average boulder, of which the counterfeit creature was usually perched upon. They could eventually be rid of the falseness though: Dermy was stuck to be disabled permanently. She thought of delfins again, creatures that were waterborne shape shifters, to a degree. They could mimic the proportional shape of another living being or even just a limb and act in conjunction with their owners to let them live seemingly normal lives. But delfins were rare now. In Decennia, anyway. They could only survive in the water provided by the seas; lek or river water seemed to put them in comatose states. And they could survive outside of their environments for only hours at a time, always having to return to their isolated tanks of sea water. Tuette couldn’t imagine Dermy having to put up with a delfin. She had never seen one in person but was told a story that one bit its master on the cheek when it didn’t want to pick just one more piece of fruit. She shivered at the thought of her own arm breaking off only to bite her on the face, and that was enough to help her refocus on her present task: aiding the others with trying to follow a chicken trail that was at least three years old. She knew the idea was a long shot, to say the least, but it was worth a try. Tuette had almost suggested that they go back to Zharinna and attempt to use her swan for traveling purposes, but that meant another two days lost and they’d be scrambling like mad to get to Boost. Especially with the limitation of nighttime flying. If only some chick eggs had been harvested from the deceased flock! That was not meant to be though, and she knew it. Travel would be non-too-limited by the rising and falling sun with some random reptile eggs and a proper Bring to Life Spell. She silently wished to come across yet another swan-shaped home and instantly wondered where it had come from. She had never heard of the structures before. In Accordia, which was actually well east of their current location and therefore, out of the way, Tuette knew that they had giant frog-shaped structures. But would a frog travel as smoothly as a swan? Images of the quintet inside a brick-and-mortar amphibian as it bounded across the landscape made her slightly queasy. And then when they got to rivers! No, she didn’t enjoy the idea of them traveling inside a river, or even on its surface. To keep her mind from wandering to a fearful moment in the past, Tuette thought about Corunny Voidet and Count Roost. It was obvious that the count didn’t want the Curse to be lifted immediately, but which Curse: her own or Decennia’s? Was Voidet working with Roost? That doesn’t seem likely. Voidet couldn’t stand the prolonged company of any single person, at least not when I was his apprentice. She remembered attempted lessons that were always cut short when she asked seemingly important questions about Spells or Curses. As if Voidet himself was reluctant to reveal an entire recitation in one sitting. She had spent just over a year under the large man’s tutelage and he had truly shown her very little. The knowledge she owned, she knew it was because she personally sought it out and claimed it for herself. The search-and-discover approach seemed to enable her to grasp concepts more readily though. Tuette simply hated being Cursed because of it, knowing it was a mixed blessing: if she hadn’t been Cursed, she’d be trapped on a rigid path to becoming a ta or perryta. Being free to travel – and sometimes forced to travel – she had seen some valid sights But after all was said and done, Tuette knew she would wish the Curse of the Hood hadn’t ever been cast. * ~ * ~ * As they had resumed their southerly travel, knowing that Lorstelta was their most likely stop, Tuette recalled the day, nearly five years ago: she had been sitting in a small planthouse in Kluya, the other patrons around her enjoying their various types of potted stimplant blades in various ways: some licking the wide blade quickly, some sucking it slowly. Tuette had never been one to indulge in stimplants: it looked too much like putting large blades grass in your mouth, which it technically was. But the environments of most planthouses is usually very quieting. At that point in her life, she had needed the quiet more than anything. She was nearing seventeen or eighteen years of age – she hadn’t truly kept track since leaving home at fifteen – and had only managed to cross the border of Dekenna into Whismerl, a feat none-too-large as New Opal had been relatively close to the border anyway. Those few years had found Tuette hopping from one small town to the next, hoping to find work and the Magikal underbelly that she knew had to exist in almost all towns. Kluya had been her eighth disappointment. But at least they had a planthouse. It was a rainy day with Tuette drinking a green-tinted beverage when she met Corunny Voidet. He was not a particularly lean man: he was quite possibly the widest person she’d ever met but he was kind and offered her a room for the night. In the dead of that same night, she couldn’t sleep and in trying to coax some water from the piping, she came across Voidet scribbling on some parchment… by the light of a glowing sphere. It shocked Tuette back then: she had never seen a Glow Globe. She watched in silence as he scribbled on the substrate in haste and, when he was seemingly finished, he leaned back, picked up the script, blew on it as if to let the ink dry, and the entire page turned into a sheet of water that quickly fell against his lap. Voidet cursed loudly but the situation had caused Tuette to cry out in alarm: she had never seen anything so wonderful. Voidet was angry at what had occurred but not towards Tuette. He even invited her in and began to explain the situation with statements about Magik being a natural substance. She was ecstatic beyond that point, feeling she’d been struck with a pure-fated beam of luck. In the weeks and months following the encounter, Tuette came to rely on Corunny Voidet for food and shelter, and the occasional lesson in Magik ritual, Spell casting, and with item Charming. He only briefly touched on Potes and Curses in their entire professional relationship, and Tuette realized too late that it was because both were Potentially the most powerful forms of practiced Magik: Curses because they could dreadfully alter a person’s entire life and Potes because of their sometimes-dire permanence. In that time, the pair moved from town to town, touching base with the local perryta and being provided with communal shelter. To help pay for their non-Magikal board in Gimble Valley, Tuette had become temporarily employed with a small menagerie that highlighted avian species and called itself Menginal’s Attitarry. In return, she received eighty poks a week, menial by many standards. Tuette didn’t know what an attitarry was but Menginal, the owner, seemed smitten with animals in general. Her section was with the swans and each worker that presented the birds had to wear a hood that could be stuffed to make it seem like a plush version of the bird was perched atop their head. In hindsight, Tuette wished she has chosen a smaller animal, like a hummingbird or even a swallow. The elegance of the swan drew her though and she was marked, in part, because of that. When they left Gimble Valley, she kept the hood, it being the only article of clothing she could swathe about her head in the colder months that had been drawing nearer and nearer. In learning about tas and the maperryta, Tuette could only ask why Corunny himself wasn’t in line to become a ta: he had possessed so much useful knowledge, and even a tome that he said held some of the most Potent forms of known Magik recitation. He would often say, as a response, “Tas and the like are stuck and only focus on one thing. Us freelancers get to learn and specialize in conceivably everything. And since we travel so frequently, we get to know the lay of the land better than any ta could claim to know.” Concerning the collection of scripts, Tuette now knew that tomes were physically dangerous because of the destructive nature of the ink, but Voidet’s had been tamed or shielded somehow. She had never learned the true nature of how all that ink had been subdued but she finally learned, near the end, that it was largely comprised of intricate Curses and other things that were never explained for her but were simply called V’tal Magiks, a term Tuette had never encountered before or since. And that the last swathe of pages were blank, which told Tuette that Corunny himself might have even written most of the Curses and their recitations down. At the time, she had no idea if he was creating them or scribing them from another source but once she learned the truth, she knew that he was a dangerous man to be around. It was the discovery of the true nature of his tome that had sealed her Cursed fate. When she asked about the nature of Curses again and then confronted him on the issue of his bound scripts, he got angry. He didn’t threaten physical violence but he did force her away. Partially dejected and partially relieved, she left him while they were on the outskirts of Porssell, a township in northeastern Javal’ta. She traveled northward for a week before she came into Gale Marsht, the self-proclaimed “Magik Capitol” of Decennia. Her situation wasn’t demanding enough to warrant an audience with Cafeglian Dormaset, but she did speak with Gale Marsht’s perryta, Ack’orpo Trao. It was in Trao’s company when she had been effectively Cursed. Her hair, shorter by a considerable bit, shaped itself into a small swan as the pair walked down a narrow hallway, talking about her situation, and enjoying the sunlight that flung itself through the tall windows. Tuette noticed the topside irregularity with calm alarm but Trao acted like he had been attacked by a lettado: his eyes bulged and he stepped backwards, slowly, and when he came to the wall, he moved along it, away from her, until he reached a door and exited through it. In being Cursed, she also experienced, firsthand, the bigotry that was coaxed out of people. She still hadn’t decided yet if that was another Curse in itself. Trao’s reaction certainly didn’t make her feel any better about it. It was in a short time where she learned that sunlight brought on the worst of her Curse, which she had named Curse of the Hood, as the unfortunate shaping of her hair could only have been decided by the swan-shaped hood that she had worn during her entire journey towards Gale Marsht. Tuette was shuffled away from the capitol then, not even getting to finally see the maperryta when Trao had refused to acknowledge her. It had been a low time for Tuette; she assumed she could only stand in the shady representations of first the buildings in Gale Marsht and then the trees that she came across outside the capitol. It was while being attacked by another kind of gale that she drew up her hood and realized that she didn’t have to live completely in shadow. But her hair did. In being Cursed as she was, she knew that it had to be Corunny as he was the only one with access to any stray hairs that she might’ve dropped while she was living with him. Of course, it was only when she had left his massive company that she realized he was also Cursed. It was either him or Trao and the perryta had acted like she would haunt him for eternity with her Cursed self. She never learned what her teacher was Cursed with but her travels near the northern border between Whismerl and Broze brought her into contact with Dermy. He himself was not Cursed but he was the first Magikal she had come across who didn’t shy away from her when she shared her unfortunate story. He expressed an interest that delineated from ta-hood as well and she felt blessed to be graced with his company. When Dermy pulled out his own smaller tome, she immediately became alarmed. But inside were no Curses, just facts: it was scripts bound together that provided detailed sketches and tidbits of information about a wide variety of plants. And the ink wasn’t oppel, but some sort of non-aggressive juice, watered down, and applied with twigs and splinters. It was while traveling the midlands between the towns of northern Broze, near Dekenna, that she had received a script that stated simply the nature of her Curse, which she had already figured out, and the means of Reversing it: by Freezing a flock of chickens. It was the script that inspired the pair to begin thinking about Potes, their ingredients, and when they started working strenuously to craft the perfect Freezing Pote. Dermy seemed to take it in part to see if he could actually do it but a part of it, Tuette assumed, was because he genuinely cared to see her free from the Curse of the Hood. What Tuette never learned was exactly how Corunny had known where to deliver the script. She could only assume that he tracked her movements with a Seeker Spell and a map weave, much the same way Ta Speebie had located Count Roost. In asking the script carrier, a strong man who seemed none-too-traveled – he had soiled himself a couple of times and was dehydrated – where the delivery was sourced, he could only say that he recalled last hunting in a forest in southern Broze, near the coast. Tuette, recalling the nature of Artificials, knew that Voidet had to have orchestrated it. He had instructed her, poorly, in crafting an Artificial once and though she couldn’t wholly remember how to construct a useful one now, she did know how to identify one of the false spirits. Feeling pity for the poor messenger, Tuette and Dermy had first assisted him in regaining physical and mental stability, not to mention dignity, and guided him in the direction of southern Broze. Tuette knew that after crafting the Freezing Pote, she would then focus on finding a chicken flock, keeping in mind that they were rare in Decennia. Dermy had promised to help her, too, but Craspone had finally come along and the rest was horror-inducing history. She was fated to fly by night in the swan and attempt to find peace in whatever town would have her. * ~ * ~ * Tuette scratched her scalp through her hood, being careful as always to not let a stray hair loose from the corral that was her headwear. In the west, thunderheads had formed and were close at hand, which surprised her; in the middle of the day, when she was anticipating the quick drop of Estella’s masculine half, Brill, she kept a hopeful eye on the sky and any cloud cover that might provide her with a bit of reprieve from her Curse. In a short time though, the tall, dark clouds would be upon them and Tuette would feel free to take down her hood and give her hair a menial cleansing: she realized she hadn’t been able to tend to it in almost three days. Remembering scraps of her sorcereric origins tended to do that: mentally reliving the past and ending up in the Cursed present only to look forward to a future where dark clouds inhabit on the horizon. Tuette silently said a few choice swears towards the supposed direction of Corunny Voidet yet again and wondered if, in finding Count Roost, they might also find her teacher. One thing she was thankful to recall was Gimble Valley and the massive amount of birds that used to be caged or tied down there. She wasn’t sure exactly where in northern Javal’ta the place was but she was now piecing together the idea that the chickens might’ve flown the coop from Menginal’s Attitarry. She couldn’t recall if any of the birds had speech capabilities back then but there were bound to be some present now. Tuette felt confident in that. They arrived in Lorstelta well before dusk, which didn’t matter since it was beginning to rain anyway, but there was no inn or public bedding. They used the time before darkness settled around them to find the town’s leader, a squat woman named Jirra Porrson Po. The name stuck with Tuette but she couldn’t recall where she’d heard it. Jirra allowed them a night’s stay in her own private residence, which was a building dug into the stout hillside on the western edge of town. When they approached, a small child ran up to Jirra and leaped into her arms. The child, a girl, smiled happily. Then a tall, lean man exited the home, bending low to get through the entryway. He was conventionally handsome with short hair, which was the same shade as Jirra’s, a dingy blonde. Tuette, her hair free since the clouds had arrived, was envious of the short hair on both people and wondered if she could mirror the same look and eventually cause envy in someone else. “This is my husband, Yuka.” The group stopped short with Celester about to grip the man’s outstretched hand. “This’n company, Jir?” Jirra nodded, not noticing that the king hadn’t taken the man’s hand. “This’n the king, Yuk, dear. Of Decennia. They comin’ all the way from the mountain!” Yuka looked stunned this time and, when Celester didn’t complete the handshake, he let his own fall to his side, staring at the king. “Sir.” He dipped his head a fraction and Jirra, who actually didn’t seem to pay attention to anything – a prime quality for a town’s leader – was beaming like her child at having such a distinguished guest. “We havin’ a guest room, yes, in the front.” Yuka looked at Jirra as if about to say something but she cut him off. “And, course, we’ll take the back room. With Little Jorry here.” She hefted the little girl, who giggled, and then Jirra looked to the two Guards with the hint of a frown. “We have long seat cushions for your militiamen, if ya want. You and Miss here can, course, use the big bed in ‘ere.” Tuette felt like vomiting on the squat woman’s round head. Dermy, thankfully, intervened. “Those’n naw marr’ed, oh. Kingasir gots naw queen. Yet, oh!” He then winked at the king and Tuette felt the queasiness return. “The two gentlemen here can have any big bed they want. I’ll take one of those long seat cushions you’ve got. Or even a cot. Or a bedroll. I’m not picky.” Yuka didn’t say anything but Jirra offered him the child to hold and took Tuette by her arm to guide her towards the home, happy to have another full-grown woman around, it seemed. If only for a night. But Celester and the Guards remained behind, talking to Yuka and Tuette could only imagine about what because she finally remembered the man’s name: he had been Reefetta’s life mate. How he had ended up back in Lorstelta was anyone’s guess but it most likely seemed like he had abandoned the woman and, whatever crime he had committed, he had been granted immunity. How he had come to marry the town’s leader, Tuette couldn’t fathom. Had he come to plead his case, putting whatever blame he could on Reefetta. And Jirra, feeling sympathetic, felt pity and took him in? Tuette, while being ushered inside, took a breath and asked. Jirra looked taken aback by the question. “How well do I know Yuka? Hmm.” She seemed to really be thinking about it, like she was afraid to divulge too much. “We’ve already met Reefetta.” That unsecured Jirra’s mouth somewhat. “Well, ma ‘usband was killed during a hunting expedition in the Tollu Fields, in the west.” Tuette had heard of such fields: they housed large, herbivorous creatures called pop’yogs, or just poppers. They were defensive of their territories and could kill a man with their tusks. “Yuka was in charge of the party and his wife of the time, that female fig, Reefetta, well, she had tagged along. “Yuka was leading the group and his wife wouldn’t leave his side because she was too afraid of the midlands. What’s I told her ‘fore is that she should try the Nem’tor Path, yes! But, no, she never did. And she distracted Yuka and he led them into a popper nest ‘cause of it. Ma ‘usband was trampled and at first, everyone had blamed Yuka, ‘cause he led the team, and ran him out of town. He came back ‘bout three years ago, in secret and told me what really happened.” Jirra scowled then. “That trampy scag. That fitch! She gets my ‘usband killed! “But I got her back, didn’t I?” She nodded back to Yuka. “I got her ‘usband, yes!” Tuette wasn’t sure how she personally felt about the situation; persons were allowed to remarry in many religions but she knew that most of those same religions, along with the town, usually required a proper separation from the first spouse. That usually involved the shattering of the unity case, a glass dome that was placed over a couple’s double-wick candle. The flames, which burned for a time after the dome was placed, flickered and died but the dome was sealed to the surface that held the wide candle. Tuette knew that the unity case symbolized that even when spirits were doused, the barrier around the pair still kept them protected from harm. When a marriage ended, the case was always shattered and the candle buried. She didn’t bother asking about any such unity case because it could’ve already been shattered and disposed of or even kept elsewhere. It didn’t matter either way because only Yuka was here to tell the tale, with Reefetta back in Scothil. The situation made Tuette burn a little though because she knew that Reefetta had settled blame solely on Yuka and it truly sounded like it was a mistake on many levels. Of course, Reefetta had been very vague about the exact reason they had both been chased away from Lorstelta. But Yuka was truly free to say anything he wanted and he might have, just to get back into good graces with his hometown. It only served to remind Tuette of her fears concerning Dermy and it seemed like he hadn’t even mentioned her while he was working for the king. And for some reason, that didn’t settle well with her either, like their history hadn’t even mattered. But Tuette wanted to believe the unsupported figure, Reefetta, before she wanted to believe Yuka. Perhaps because I pity the unfortunate woman, or maybe because I heard her story first? What point would Reefetta have in telling Tuette and the others that Yuka had been the target of the mob; she had clarified that much. She couldn’t know they would find Yuka to dispute the tale and Yuka, obviously, thought that no one would ever come across Reefetta, alone as she was in that lek-centered forest. It’s rumored to be inhabited by a Horror, anyway, so who would ever venture forth to wonder? Travel between the towns was not always a novel idea in this area, mainly because of creatures like the poppers and, of course, bandits and rakish vagabonds. Tuette knew she was safe, to some degree, with the Guards and Dermy. And since they largely traveled by day, when it seemed like danger and harm had less traction under Brill’s gaze, they weren’t likely to come into any form of physical danger. She wondered immediately about the king then: if Celester knew he was protected from harm via his kingstone, why did he insist on traveling with Gousherall Guardsmen? Was it a policy or was it truly only Magik harm that he was protected harm? If that was the case, why did he attack Reefetta when she was possessed by the Artificial? She could only decide it was because he truly didn’t know any better and because he had rarely ventured from atop the mountain, he couldn’t recognize real danger when he saw it. Tuette let the issue drift from her mind as Jirra setup a bedroll in the sitting room, where the Guards would be sleeping on the seat cushions. After using her Wash Stone and a basin of fresh rainwater to clean her traveling garments, they settled in for bed in the family’s sitting room, cramped as it was. Terry gave her his cushion in exchange for her bedroll and, throughout the night, Tuette regretted it: the cushion wasn’t comfortable by any degree, no matter how cushy it seemed to be. |
| Count Roost had been with the chicken a whole day and he still didn’t know what to do with it. Puze had brought it back during the creature’s latest jaunt. At first, the bird – Is it a bird if it can’t fly? – had run around the room like a victim of decapitation. Puze explained why: when he had gotten near the group in the forest, following Roost’s own predictions, one of the women began to hack away at the chickens. The one Puze had landed on had been running for it’s life and Puze, being so near his own termination, held on for dear departure, intent on bringing the rare bird back with him. What the Cursed fiend didn’t know was why the woman had changed so suddenly: Roost clutched the lei cat tooth in his lower pocket, smiling to himself. The item was involved with a Potent Artificial-from-Afar Charm, to say the least. With the intricate makeup of the large tooth, Roost had been able to apply multiple Artificials to the design, a total of three. And when Puze, his proximity tool, came within range of the kingstone, the Artificial channeled through the tiny animal and performed whatever actions where necessary to insure the king continue his journey towards the count. Apparently, the Artificial had slaughtered the chickens, an act which brought a level of grief to Roost; he knew how prized the birds were. What the count did cherish about the situation, at first, was the arrival of the avian with Puze. That is, until an hour ago, when the bird began to make a guttural screech of a sound before the sun was even up. Roost, assuming he could leash the bird in the same room as the large and odd plant, had left it over night. But the awful sound drifted up the stairwell with relative ease, scratching against the insides of Roost’s ears. He fumbled around in the pre-dawn light, which he wasn’t accustomed to, and made his way quickly down the steps, wishing he had a banister of some kind to cling to. I’ll get Botch to build one this very day. Arriving at the workshop door, he witnessed a strange scene: the chicken was perched on the eastern window, beginning another bout of the awful sound, like a sun-driven clock. Roost immediately wondered if the creature aimed to kill itself. And why does it sport that odd crest on its head? Roost recalled sketches of the rare creatures and none of them had it. This one seemed almost lean as well, which could’ve attributed to a poor diet, but Roost felt with certainty that it was more masculine in nature than he had previously assumed was possible. He felt immediately abashed at having thought of the creatures as being genderless, though such a thing wasn’t uncommon amongst Magik-supportive animals. Like lettados, and thief-ghems, and the atrocious night dragons. But this bird was none of them; just small and ordinary in most respects. That wasn’t the most surprising aspect of the scene. Behind the bird stood a person, a girl. She was in her teens and… garbed in a feather dress. The colors were the same as the chickens and Count Roost was more surprised than anything to allow a proper response. When one finally came, he laced it was as much anger he could muster, saying, “Who are—“ As he had begun speaking, she turned, her feather dress shimmered to the same color as the floor she stood upon, and then she faded into nothingness. Her face had been bleached with stark surprise and Roost immediately felt more anger. The girl was either an Artificial, a rogue spirit, which wasn’t likely, or a World Spirit. The final option made Roost punch the stone wall, which he immediately regretted. World Spirits, Roost knew, were troublesome creatures. They had been disallowed from leaving the Mortal realm after their bodies had died and were forced to adopt lifeless environments, like abandoned forests, stagnant lakes or leks, or even barren caverns. The location they attached themselves to was usually near the site of their death, and what was most bothersome was that they all had expired during the same point in time, roughly ten centuries ago. At least, the Mages brave enough to question varied World Spirits had reported as such. Rubbing the soreness out of his knuckles, Roost recalled that the spirits, being faced with a solitary confinement on the Mortal realm for an untold amount of time, were justifiably bitter. If I’d been forced to reside in the location where I met my demise, I’d be fairly angry too. Why Valtos had commanded that Salrouge deny these spirits access was beyond anyone’s guess. There were etchings in Roost’s tome, he knew, but he took no interest in them because he had no concern for World Spirits. Except during this moment. How had he been living on a spot where such an entity had resided without him knowing until now? Had the chicken’s presence drawn her out? Count Roost knew she had seemed genuinely startled, to say the least. Perhaps she’s never seen a chicken? But that was unlikely as she would be centuries old and during her young and true life, she would’ve seen a plentiful amount of the ground-based ‘kens. He had been able to surprise her though and that should’ve been impossible as the World Spirits were supposed to be omnipotent within their confined environs. Roost found himself feeling a little sympathetic because the girl had obviously been young when she died. He looked at his knuckles and the middle one had split open smoothly with rough skin flakes on the edge just waiting to be brushed away. “Mokheaded spirit,” he muttered, knowing he’d never coax the girl out of hiding to send swears into her useless face. Another wonder popped up: why did she even appear? It was true that the World Spirits were limitedly omniscient but they could alter their form and affect their space however they wished. Was this why Castle Tigra Lei had been abandoned: the former governor was deprived of an even amount of head energies because the Spirit drove him insane? Roost left the workshop and went downstairs, wishing that Botch had been present to at least light the torches. But sunrise was fast approaching, signified by a soft glow permeating the castle’s interior. In the kitchen, he opened the piping and let icy water run across his hand, watching pink fluid swirl in the basin. When he closed the pipe, he heard a crash from bellow, followed by some grunts and moans. Botch was below, then, and handling the decrepit Voidet. Roost recollected the past few days where he had begun teaching the servant a few useful Charms and even being so bold as to talk about Artificials. He didn’t mention that he had tied a trio of them to the lei cat tooth but did mention that it was easy to tether such creations to inanimate objects. He also didn’t mention that they could follow only simple orders, if made up properly. His throat caught at the loss of the chickens again but that was temporary. Surely there are more elsewhere. The sounds had not died away, telling Roost that Botch was showing a reluctance to stifle the elder’s pain. The boy knew he didn’t have to endure the man’s suffering. Does he pity himself for thinking such a selfish thought? Roost then wondered at how selfish it really was to force a person in ailment to go through the motions in peace. For some bizarre reason, Roost remembered coming across a stray nit in a wood. The small feline was mewling off droves of pain as if forcing sympathy to live inside of any within earshot. Roost recalled feeling sad for the animal and angry that it could have so much power over something inside Roost when it wasn’t powerful enough to save itself from whatever had caused its pain. It was a handful of seconds in which Roost had to decide whether to put the nit out of misery, adopt it and try to heal it, or leave it to die. The anger he felt had grown because running over the options and spending time contemplating on another creature’s fate had delineated Roost from his own life, from time he wished to spend traveling and not thinking about death. He picked up the animal and the creature screeched more, as if the movement caused the pain to grow; it could do nothing but complain and hope that the human would bestow good health. When the count snapped the nit’s neck, a wash of grief ran over him. The animal had clearly thought that salvation was at hand – that much was evident in its sorry eyes – but Roost had managed to let his anger steer the situation into what it was: an act of mercy. He knew that killing the animal would’ve been best in the long run, but he also knew he could’ve cared for it and made it his own. In time, any bone could be mended. So when Voidet came to burden Roost with his poor health, he knew he couldn’t kill the old man: he could only alleviate the pain. Since no manner could take care of Voidet’s internal malfunctions, Roost opted for the Pain-Less Stones, designed for people like the count who couldn’t stand to let the pain of others affect the decisions in his own life. To, in the end, affect his life. Finally, the subterranean groans died away and Roost knew the old man was suffering his pain in silence. He wished he could actually alleviate the pain, thinking of the dead nit as the futile prayer washed inside his skull, but only the Godblade could do that, according to Voidet. And that was Roost’s whole intent. Botch ascended the stone steps in silence and when he opened the door to the infirmary, he stopped cold when he saw the count. Was he embarrassed to have evoked such a selfish spell, after other methods he most definitely would have tried had seemingly failed? Roost dried his hand with a rag and Botch looked like he might start crying. Had Voidet struck him, or did the struggle have such a toll on his young, malleable spirit? The count didn’t know what to do. Seeing the boy and his obvious state of uneasiness was affecting his own thought process and he knew he could ignore it and act like he didn’t recognize the symptoms of shame or grief, or he could acknowledge it and try and speak with Botch on the issue. What would that lead to? Maybe the servant would try to embrace Roost? He couldn’t recall a time when he’d been hugged or even held, but the action had to have occurred when he was young. The skeletons tended to embrace him wholeheartedly in his nightmares, a feat accomplished well for those with no hearts. But closeness with that of the living? With a person of even Botch’s position? Roost had never thought much about children but with Botch, it almost felt like he had found one for himself. Roost stepped forward and awkwardly put his arms around the boy. Botch clutched Roost around the waist, causing the count to stifle laughter for it was ticklish at first. Then the boy began to gently sigh and Roost really didn’t know what to do then. “I… I tried… But he… wouldn’t… stop!” Nodding even though Botch couldn’t see it, Roost empathized with the lad. It was his first real instance in quelling the man’s physical actions as linked to his irregular bouts of anguish. His hand instinctively moved to tousle the boy’s black hair and Roost found that he was feeling suddenly uncomfortable. He made to step away and Botch immediately let go, wiping his eyes on the overstretched collar of his tunic. “Botch, it’s all we can do. I’m working to help him permanently.” He leaned down more, attaining level eye contact with the servant, being reminded that he was, in many ways, just a child. “But we cannot let it run our emotions, our feelings. His pain cannot dictate our actions. What I work towards isn’t only for helping only him, but for helping everyone. In the long run. That’s what tells me that the cause is worthwhile: because I’m being so self-sacrificial to obtain the end result.” The boy nodded, wiping his red-rimmed eyes again and Roost resisted the urge to hug him again. The first one had been enough of a display of weakness for a lifetime. He clapped Botch on the shoulder and said “But that’s done with and breakfast is due about now.” Roost almost invited himself to help the boy but, thankfully, Botch said, “Then… Then I’ll jump at it, yes, sir. You, um, upstairs and such. I’ll have your basin behind you and then get started, uh, on your eggs and meats, yes. Sir.” Theirs eyes met in the most uncomfortable, revelatory way, and Roost was thankful to have an excuse to leave the boy’s company, if only for a bit. But their dynamic had shifted, if not subtly. He knew he could never purposefully misspeak the lad’s name now: as a servant or even an apprentice, that was satisfactory and almost expected, but now it felt like an alien form of their relationship had infected them both. Roost knew it to be the long-lost stipules of friendship, but he wasn’t sure he wanted it. At least not in someone so young, and so unlike Roost himself. If I could only Curse the boy. That would draw him to remain ostracized from others and be forced to rely on Roost as his only friend. But would Botch appreciate that? Roost didn’t know and did not want to think about it anymore. As he ascended the stairwell, his physical distance approximating the mental energies spent on Botch, Roost began to think again of the World Spirit problem that he hadn’t even realized he had. Anger arrived inside his head again and he immediately regretted the presence of the Spirit for it had so directly affected him and he could do almost nothing to alter her. Unless he found exactly where she was rooted and compressed the space. It was obvious that the stones with which the castle was built had come from an infected site. He would ask Botch – no, not him, not now. He’d ask other’s of Boost though, maybe even Botch’s father, about where the stones had come from. It’d have to be the island, yes, but it was a large island, indeed. And he didn’t like the idea of having to persistently travel and possibly even stumble across a larger area of the Spirit’s infection. If the stones had come from somewhere else, why hadn’t the World Spirit enveloped all the space between? Maybe she does? She was curiously shy: most of the known World Spirits made themselves known in many harsh and sometimes harmful ways. He had time to kill anyway. By any estimation, Sylvester would arrive in Boost near the full moon and that was days away. And he had the Artificial-from-Afar Charm as well. All he had to do was send Puze to the king again, possibly even order the irritant to tell the king the truth of the matter, because who would believe that? And Puze didn’t know everything anyway, so what would be the harm? Thinking of what Puze had related to Roost, his mind wandered even further. Who is traveling with the king? His illustrious Gousherall Guards, obviously, but Puze had stated seeing two women. Were they sorceresses? Had the king, recognizing that Magik was being handled heavily in his situation, hired Magikal hands to assist him? That seemed only logical, from Roost’s standpoint, but they could only serve to hinder the king, throwing multiple options his way and possibly delaying his arrival even. Yes, he would alter instructions for the second Artificial to dispose of the Magikals in any way necessary. Especially if they are going to actually attempt a ‘ken search instead! What foolhardy leader would bow to the demands of a terrorist rather than seek out and destroy that menace? Obviously, King Sylvester and his easily-swayed mind. Was he not guarded with suspicion about such possibilities, as provided by kings of the past through his envied stone? It occurred to Roost for the first time that the two women might be purposefully curbing the king’s situation because they wanted the power of his kingstone for themselves. Yes, I might arrange to have them both killed. He couldn’t risk losing the kingstone to a couple of naturally wretched creatures as those that would try and travel with the king. And end up driving the Godblade further into the annals of mythology. |
| Rain pattered lightly against the tiny window pane as Sylvester tried and failed to fall asleep. It wasn’t too unsettling but there was definitely a level of discomfort. Sylvester had never been in the same bed with… well, when he though about it, anyone! But sleeping with Dermy at his side felt more uncomfortable for reasons he couldn’t specify. He imagined that the short man might brush his bare legs against the king’s and he knew that would feel odd. Sylvester then imagined someone like Tuette, with a gentler dusting on their legs, and suddenly found it not so much incongruous but maybe even less appealing. With his mind drifting before he would let sleep win out the moment, Fy’tay came about and he realized again that he had not caught a glimpse of her potentially shapely legs. Would their paths cross? He certainly hoped so, if only for that reason. The curiosity nibbled at his nape, for he knew he might not like to cross his own coarsely, hairy legs with another set. But he did imagine what a set of smooth legs might feel like. He actually almost yearned for it. Of course, if he wouldn’t like some coarse hairs rubbed against him, he wondered if any woman might not want his upon her legs! What do people do? He scratched at his kneecap, moving the covers in the process and exposing dozing Dermy’s right kneecap. But it wasn’t his real kneecap, not truly. Dermy still wore his disguise. But he seemed to enjoy it. And Sylvester could understand exactly why. With the disguise applied, that was the only way Dermy felt useful. Sylvester knew the only real reason he, as the king, had embarked on this tasking journey was because he needed to be useful, to feel useful, in some degree or another. The Malforcrent could run the mountain and the whole kingdom while he was away, which they were probably doing with much more efficiency in his absence. It didn’t take much, since the regions rarely had disputes with each other, a fact that Sylvester was finding to be quite evident during the quest. For some reason, the towns had evolved to remain segregated from each other, except for the occasional wandering merchant or entertainer, as Tuette had explained that the type of disguise Dermy was using was more commonly applied to self-titled “freaks” that were no freaks at all. Yuka Porrson Po had even traveled a lengthier journey to return home and explain his situation rather than start a new life in the more adjacent Scothil. And Sylvester had been forced to ask him why, while Jirra had directed Tuette into their abode for a quick tour. “Why come back, all the way here?” he had said after explaining that they had run across Reefetta and deposited – though he hated using that term, is was apt – her in Scothil. “Because I have no life elsewhere but here.” He seemed shaken by the knowledge that they had come across Reefetta, a notion that had occurred to him when Jirra had announced their presence and prior path. “I know I was leaving Reef behind, but she wasn’t safe here, not with all of Lorstelta and Jirra threatening to disembowel the poor thing for… for what had happened. “She’s better off without me anyway.” He had adopted a pained expression then. “I would’ve imagined that she had left the forest long ago though. You say she had adopted chickens as her companions? That’s… saddening, to say the least.” Sylvester had nodded, knowing it had felt good to listen to the man’s reasoning. And again, he could only empathize because Yuka had clearly taken the correct course. It was sad about how Reefetta had turned out, but being left in a new town rather than returning to bloodshed in your own certainly seemed the better choice. Something about the situation did bother Sylvester though. He could only wonder why the people of Lorstelta, Jirra included, would think to take vengeance on their own behalf. Doesn’t that set a poor example for those who looked to Jirra for guidance? Sylvester instantly realized that he was doing the same thing in going after Count Roost personally, but no one looked up to him. He knew that. If anything, the tents looked to their representatives on the Malforcrent and might not even know there was a king. Currently, that was necessary. But he had decided that this quest was to help reestablish the power that was supposedly his. If I go after Roost and bring about his death, won’t that make me the person to be looked up to? It seemed paradoxical to the king and he suddenly felt like he hadn’t chosen the right path anymore. He also felt a little afraid, if he was to be honest with himself. Facing against someone that could directly alter the fate of every person in Decennia shook him to the core, now more than ever. Using Magik, a device that was largely part of Sylvester’s life and curiously missing from it, someone could bring about destruction on scales unimagined. But he knew the situations between Jirra and he was vastly different: he was trying to save the future while she had been attempting to spill blood for the sake of something done unto her, something that could never be undone. Thoughts invaded then that, once he gathered the respect he might one day earn and deserve, he might have to deal with other maniacs, whether they dealt with Magik or other forms of mayhem. It disturbed him even more. With the disturbances came even less sleep and Sylvester took the time to focus on the bedroom. It was clearly more than a guestroom. Jirra had given him their bedroom for safe sleeping. It occurred to Sylvester that sleeping in the back, with the entire side of a hill buffering them from the outside world, might literally be safer but it was the kind thought that stuck with the king. Why give up their personal happiness, even for one night, in my name? He instantly felt abashed for thinking that he shouldn’t have paid the kindly Koops just earlier that day, simply because they had allowed him and his companions ample bedding for the night. Had it really been within the same day? They had left Scothil and the Koops, met Reefetta, experienced a slaughter, and were now in Lorstelta. It felt like a week had passed. Of course, travel from the shallow wood to Lorstelta had been painfully quiet and therefore, seemed to last a longer time than it truly was. And riding on splints, Sylvester decided, for that long amount of time was severely uncomfortable. His thighs had begun chafing slightly with the fabric almost being ingrained into his flesh by his own weight and the animal’s side-to-side shifting. Yuka had some powder that alleviated the pains and Sylvester had been given a good dose that would last a few more days. He was sure that Dermy would eventually come across some plant that possessed healing properties though. For now, the discomfort was minimal, no thanks to their current bedding. Sylvester recalled that the cushions the Guards were sleeping on certainly looked comfortable. Probably more comfortable than this stiff mattress. But, again, it was the gesture that stuck with Sylvester. Dermy began to make smacking noises with his lips, a sound that further distracted Sylvester from sleep. Sitting up in bed, the king looked and saw Dermy’s rucksack. Yes, it is his. Tuette had been playing some sort of game with him earlier, then, when he had tried contacting Penson. Sylvester swung his legs over the edge and touched his bare feet to the cold floor, which wasn’t stone but possibly the original dirt, compacted by years of walking to feel tremendously sturdy. He walked to the chair where Dermy had settled his sack and felt into the main pouch. There was some kind of binding which held a wide collection of scripts, some empty vials, some wrapped rations of bort stalk, jing-pie base, and salted strips of hyrent meat. And in an inside pocket was the ring that Sylvester had been shown days before. As he held it, he could feel how warm it was. It’s fairly chilly in here. How’s it so warm? He remembered the reason, put the ring on his pinkie finger, the only one it would fit, and rubbed the ring’s gem. “…which means that Trisden could possibly be—“ “Penson? That you?” He felt a lightening in his chest at hearing his old friend’s voice, diminished as it was by the Magik’s transfer of sound. “Sylvester? Sir? You hear me now?” “Yes, yes! What were you doing?” There was a pause. Is there a delay due to our physical displacement? “I’ve been trying to contact you at night hours and then during some day hours. I haven’t heard from you since you left! I thought… Well, I thought the worst, as usual.” “But you said something about Trisden? Trisden Fellowes?” “Yes, I wasn’t sure if you were receiving my voicings so I sent updates on what’s been happening here at the castle. In case you could hear but couldn’t speak. Trisden caught me one day, around noon, out in the orchard’s barn. He chased me, through the orchard, and I got away. I don’t know what he heard, but I know I can’t trust him.” Trisden? He’d been so adamant at looking out for Decennia and its welfare. Why does Penson believe he can’t trust him? It was Dothel op Prissen and Kren Solarpaste, and possibly even Marylyn, who needed watching. But if that was the case, why did Trisden chase Penson through the orchards? Was the man from the Fortright Isles hiding something? He had seemed so genuine about the king completing his mission. Did he actually want the king gone… only for Sylvester to meet his demise while jaunting about the midlands of Decennia? A cold streak raced through the king’s mind. What if Trisden Fellowes is, in some way, working with Count Roost? With his eyes being opened to more and more possibilities as provided by Magik, he could see that being a real occurrence. After all, Sylvester realized he was communicating with his friend many kilometers away. Who’s to say that Trisden doesn’t have the same means of contacting the count? He suddenly felt uncomfortable, like he was being exposed to too much. Or by too much. Sylvester had seen this quest as a means of reestablishing his station as the rightful ruler of Decennia, without the constant aid of the Malforcrent. But he hadn’t wholly considered the possibility that those same people might actually want him gone for good! He asked Penson a question, knowing it might startle his friend. But he had to know. “Penson, if I die, out here, who becomes the next king?” There was the longest of pauses and Sylvester was about to repeat the question when Penson said, “Sir, no king has died without a proper heir in place. If you die, then the leading tent takes your place.” Penson then lowered his voice, which caused Sylvester to put his hand uncomfortably close to his ear. “Your kingstone is supposed to prevent that from happening, sir. It’s the nation’s guarantee that we’ll always have the proper king to look to in times of need.” The proper king. The words hung at Sylvester’s ear like a fly buzzing to be acknowledged. He felt like swatting away the phrase but knew it wasn’t as disgusting as a fly, just annoying like one. And he couldn’t help but pay attention to it, thinking about what exactly was behind the term proper king. His silence coaxed Penson’s voice from the ring. “Sylvester?” He cleared his throat, which suddenly felt too dry to swallow, and said, “I… was just wondering. Penson.” His mind drifted back to his last face-to-face conversation with Penson, the one where the groomer had revealed to know the true uselessness of the kingstone. And that King Gould had possessed the same thing. He then thought back to the Curse and how, ultimately, this was all being done to save everyone’s thumbs. The implications of such a Curse finally dawned on Sylvester: without thumbs, simple tasks might become exceedingly difficult. His mind drifted to the many instances where he clutched something with his whole hand, requiring his thumb for the greatest security on any given object. Then Sylvester thought about Dermy and Tuette and the Guards, Terry and whoever the other one was, he still hadn’t thought to ask. The Gousheralls wouldn’t be able to wield their weapons; Dermy wouldn’t be able to handle simple tools, even. He wasn’t sure but Tuette’s ability to direct the powers of Magik might be curbed dramatically. Sylvester looked at the ring, recalling how he had clutched it between thumb and forefinger first, before donning it. The ramifications of Roost would be devastating, possibly causing a panic throughout all of Decennia. In such a state, it might hardly matter which region you were born under or what township you knew as home. With everyone in the same disparaging situation, chaos would ensue. “Keep an eye on them, Penson. And watch out for yourself.” “It sounds like you need also to watch out for yourself, sir.” Sylvester nodded and realized the Comgem wouldn’t be able to convey such a gesture. “Yes, friend. I’m keeping my eyes and ears more alert each day. And I’m among… companions, at least.” He had wanted to say friends but he knew he couldn’t consider Tuette to be his friend. She was behaving beneficially and offering sound advice, but at the same time, she was holding something back. * ~ * ~ * The ocean’s frothy surface was rushing up to him just as he awoke. He let the terror-inducing dream leave his mind as he focused on the present. Still tasting the gilltain and fleshy fingers that could only be represented by morning breath, he noticed that Dermy wasn’t in the bed and Sylvester was somewhat grateful. He was fairly certain he didn’t want to talk with anyone just yet. Sitting up, Sylvester appreciated how the room looked much more spacious with the dawn’s early light having chased the shadows away to wherever they spent their daytime hours. And there was a tall, thin mirror set against the wall. Sylvester got out of bed, joints and thighs feeling less sore than he might’ve imagined, and went to look into the mirror. At his currently close distance, he couldn’t see his arms. Has Dermy stood in front of this same pane and seen himself, without disguise, to imagine what life might be life without the one arm? As far as Sylvester understood, the appendage was lost. For a time, at least. Tuette had stated that a ta could mend it. Sylvester thought to ask what that was when the door to the bedroom opened and Terry stepped through. “Sir, Madam Jirra says that a breakfast has been prepared. But she has already left for some morning management in Lorstelta proper. Yuka is still here though. And will be accompanying you for breakfast. Along with their daughter.” Nodding, Sylvester said, “I’ll be out in a moment. Must,” he gestured at his hair and bedclothes “make myself more presentable.” “As you like, sir.” Terry dipped his head and stepped out of the room. Sylvester returned to his gaze and withdrew the metal comb from his travel pouch, which smelled faintly of Eafa’s tuft. He thought it might be nice to have the pouch washed but it would be a useless gesture: it was being reattached to the splint’s saddle in a short bit anyway. According to Tuette’s suggestion, Gimble Valley was their next stop, where they were going to employ the possible use of a bird. Or several birds. It only sounded like a good idea to Sylvester because it was still a direction of southerly travel. The notion of flying seemed a little farfetched by his standards. He finished poorly combing his hair and instead of putting on his traveling suit, which was beginning to smell musty, indeed, he pulled out the map weave that Fy’tay had given him back in Zharinna. The map itself didn’t smell like Perryta Fy’tay but he couldn’t help thinking of her when he unrolled it, how he had felt that tingle run up his arm when her hand fell onto his while passing the weave to the king. He refocused his mind though and let his eyes dance over the map weave. It had belonged to the older crone that ran the shop they had congregated within. It was probably as old as her too as it didn’t show the proper and present regions in their entirety. Uv-Hren and Jint weren’t represented. But Sylvester though it curious that the towns were still properly stitched into the weave. Their present location, Lorstelta, was closer to the middle of present-day Jint rather than near the Javal’ta border, as Tuette had implied, and Scothil wasn’t really very far at all. But it took a full day to get here! Looking at Mount Reign in respect to Zharinna, it looked to be the same distance. Between Zharinna and Scothil, though, was the vast terrain that Sylvester recalled had hurt the most. They had bore their splints through the midlands like crazy beasts, driving hard work and speed out of the creatures. Studying the weave further, he saw how much further Gimble Valley was compared to the distance between Zharinna and Scothill and he didn’t relish the idea of working Eafa and the splints so hard again. Especially not at the cost of his knees and thighs. Looking at the details more closely. He saw that they were to travel into a forest as well, which he knew would be difficult for the splints, regardless. So the trek towards Gimble Valley might take two days, and with no shelter in between. Unless we are expected to sleep in the wood. The thought made Sylvester uneasy and he immediately wanted to ask Dermy if there was some way to keep the entire troupe awake until they reached the relative safety of the valley. But the splints would need that same remedy. And food. Looking at other areas on the map, he noticed that a town to the southwest of Lorstelta, called Accordia, was within a quick-paced day’s travel. And no forest would intervene. Would the group agree with him? Probably not. Gimble Valley was more the direction they needed to travel as the Seagulf Islands, clearly distinguished by a large burn mark, was south by southeast. Accordia was actually more to the west than anything, clearly within the boundaries of Serres Mor. Sylvester sighed and rolled up the map weave and redressed himself, unhappy about the course of travel. The idea of keeping them all awake and aware would not go unvoiced, no, but that didn’t mean he would enjoy the route they needed to travel. He sniffed his tunic again, wondering how it would go about getting washed. Thinking of the night’s gentle rain, Sylvester thought it might’ve been wise to let the skywater wash away the accumulation of sweat and grime. Thinking back, somewhat wishfully, to life in Fyse Castle, he realized he never knew exactly how his clothing was taken care of. Or even where it came from. He just always had something to wear, as chosen by Penson. Suddenly, he did recall that he had learned one thing concerning clothing: that it was made up of shrent fibers. How long ago had he come across those field hands who endured the pain of the plant just so it could be manipulated into workable cloth? Just three days ago? That meant, he knew, they had only the six days left. And by air alone, Tuette had confirmed that it might take five or six days, from Lorstelta. And Gimble Valley was easily two days away. He whistled – or tried to, sputtering out spittle once more – about how close they were coming to possibly failing. But Count Roost, by whatever means he had at his disposal, would kill any chickens they came across anyway. He thought of Tuette then, thinking how she had attempted to Freeze the chickens the day before in an effort to save them for Sylvester’s own Freezing purpose. Would that truly have worked? Or had she been trying something else? And was it that something else that she was keeping from the rest of us? Dermy would tell him, he hoped. They had a history, as strange and coincidental as the idea seemed, but that relationship also seemed tinged with a lack of trust on some level. Sylvester understood why: it sounded like Dermy had left Tuette in the midlands, in eastern Dekenna. Albeit, for a good cause, but she had felt slighted nonetheless. He had said that she knew the Magik being used against the kingdom. And she had confirmed that Roost had killed her former teacher in Magik, some man named Corunny Voidet. Ultimately, she might’ve been seeking revenge. But why now? What was stopping her from going after the crazed count in the past? Is the murder recent? Or has she been waiting for the right opportunity to give her a “free ride” so that she could drive the killing blow? Finally dressed and feeling a hunger pang tap from within his hollows, Sylvester focused on the idea that Tuette might possibly be prolonging their venture just so she could have her day with Count Roost. If that was the case, it seemed like she was wholly capable of taking care of the man. He could only assume that she had decided to take revenge recently because she had that odd swan structure before they had met. Now her fellow Freezers had reduced her to splintback travel only to find her actively seeking another means of aerial travel, just to make it to Boost and Roost in time to stop the Curse. * ~ * ~ * Breakfast with Yuka and the little girl – Sylvester couldn’t remember her name exactly – was a little uncomfortable, mainly because Yuka wasn’t making it evident that he didn’t want to discuss the happenings with Reefetta in front of the youngling. During the meal, Tuette ate very little but Sylvester noticed that her clothes, the same from the past two days, were very clean. How’d she do that? He inquired. Tuette looked a little annoyed to have to answer – Does she really have to answer? – and swallowed some of the peppered meat that was the main course of the meal. “Last night, before I went to sleep, I washed them.” She resumed eating, huffily. The answer felt like burning venom in his ears and he could only ponder on how her tongue and lips hadn’t been equally burned by the remark. Dermy, who had been noisily smacking his lips while chomping on breakfast rolls, fell silent, apparently not wanting to attract attention to himself. Sylvester then thought that the small man might feel torn between his loyalty to the crown and his past friendship with Tuette. His discomfort was palpable and he smiled, which truly revealed nothing. Yuka spoke up. “Uh, if it’s your, um, tunic or short cape that you’d like washed… I mean, I don’t have a Wash Stone or anything, but we usually rub dry sand to get anything really messy out of our clothes. Or rainwater might help. If it smells, uh, sir.” “What’s a Washtone?” Tuette, with her mouth full, let a groan work its way past her food and over her plate. Terry, standing at the room’s entrance for precautionary reasons, answered before she swallowed. “Uh, Wash Stone, sir. Rub sand on it, at night, and drop that sand into some water. Add, uh, almost anything and, depending on the amount of, um, cleanliness, you can have clean clothes in no time.” “Is this what they do back at the mountain?” It had to be, except he then imagined the large pennants that the wind directed to sometimes wrap around Fyse Castle’s towers. How do those get cleaned? “Yeah, yeah, Kingasir. Yessin’, oh. Wash ‘tones an’ th’ likes. Th’ ladies tha’ be cleanin’ th’ castle up a’ways doin’ a fe-ine job.” Sylvester pointed his fork across at Tuette. He didn’t know why he really said it because he had no real opinion about gender roles but he imagined it had something to do with looking at her sitting there in her clean clothes and he was basically basking in his own smelly outfit, his pants still encrusted with chicken guts. But he said, “Well, she’s a lady. Why didn’t she clean all of our clothes?” Yuka’s brow shot up. Terry backed slowly out of the room, his eyes wide. Dermy had stopped chewing altogether. And Tuette clutched her own fork ever tighter, her knuckles whitening. Sylvester thought she might throw it at him or attempt to break it. Instead, she gently settled it against the wooden table and said, in that mockingly-sweet voice of hers, “Well, I just assumed that you were trying to smell like a wild fig. I mean, if anyone was sending hunting figs after us, everyone knows they won’t chase after there own kind.” It felt like a sparring match, the kind he had been forced to participate in with padded staffs back at Majramdic during the early years. She had just landed a low volley against him and he knew he’d have to send one back at her, as he suddenly felt weakened in the eyes of those around him. Eafa’s dirty legs and the indifference she held flashed through his mind, but it was too fleeting to make a difference in the present, as that happens with most life lessons. “Since we have you, a femfig, with us, I was just guessing that would be adequate enough. To deter… such a situation.” Tuette scowled and Yuka’s girl left her seat to sit in her father’s lap. “Dad dad, you canna call mom mom that, can you?” Yuka looked down into his daughter’s eyes. “No, Jorry. That’s not appropriate language.” He looked at Sylvester and then Tuette. “Not even for some adults.” Sylvester instantly felt abashed for having said what he had. But he didn’t see the same remorse in Tuette. Instead, she looked a little more annoyed and was almost pointedly looking at anything but Yuka and Jorry. He wanted to ponder as to why but she got up and left the table, heading towards her provisions in the next room, towards the front of the house. He sighed and looked down at his half-eaten meal, feeling wholly unable to eat anything else. Looking at Yuka, he sighed and said, “I’m… I apologize, Yuka. We’ll be leaving soon. I, uh… Well, thank you for your generous hospitality.” He stood, his chair sliding against the compacted dirt in a surprisingly loud manner. Dermy stood as well. “Uh, Terry or, um… Well, you’ll be compensated. Again, I’m sorry for… any discomfort we might’ve brought you.” As he started into the next room, he could feel his face radiating heat that seemed like it would start the wooden support posts on fire if he got too close. How could I have let her goad me like that? He felt himself slipping further from the crown. What king would treat any of his citizens that way? The kind that no one needs. She was tying up her rucksack when he approached her. Tuette looked stricken but the poor light afforded nothing: the sun was rising on the other side of the hill-house. She started bunching her hair together, wrapping it firmly into something rather large on the backside of her head. He thought immediately how uncomfortable that looked. When she pulled her hood up, yet again, he saw the bulge loosen beneath the cloth and fall under the neckline. Sylvester felt itchy again, thinking about all that hair against his own neck and back. “Tuette,” he began, not knowing what would fall after her name. How did one apologize after a mere verbal bout? And besides, she was an equal participate, even a catalyst. Why do I feel I have to apologize? He wished he knew the answer, but it was a fog-shrouded bank on an unseen lek for the king: he didn’t know where to step, but knew he had to move forward. She didn’t look him in the face but did pause in her actions. “I’m… not too certain, uh, what to say. Here. Right now.” He gulped, swallowing only dryness and what tasted like bitter pride. “But I’m sorry. For what I said.” Tuette resumed with tying her hood off, hefting her sack, and saying, “Forget about it.” It felt like getting kicked. Or smacked. Forget about it? How was he to forget about it? He was trying to apologize, an act he didn’t feel was justified in and of itself. And she’s practically dismissing the situation! As she moved towards the entrance, Sylvester felt like grabbing her arm and making her talk through the incident. But he knew that wouldn’t solve anything. Tuette was of firm constitution, and if she said to forget it, it seemed like he should do just that rather than make things worse. So he did his best to push the thoughts out of his mind, a task none to easy, but doable. * ~ * ~ * Atop their splints, Sylvester brought up the notion of traveling for what seemed like two days, with a night being spent in a wooded area. “I’m not too enthralled about the idea of sleeping in the wilderness, just so we can sidestep to a valley that may or may not host a helpful flock of flyers.” “Kingasir, it bein’ a goo’ plan, oh. Flyers be comin’ in man’ sizes an’ s’uff. If we bein’ true luckals, we migh’ be gettin’ pass to Boos’ clear free, oh!” He hadn’t thought of that. Sylvester usually only thought of the gulls in his nightmares and the small birds that found perches outside of Fyse Castle. Are there birds that can carry people? And not just in the sense of Tuette’s odd swan-shaped home? The thought slightly alarmed him. How does a bird grow to being house-sized? Magik tampering might bring it about. He knew that much from the history regarding the Dissociative Wars. Whole armies had been made up of humans paired with certain kinds of animals for the sole sake of fighting. What was unique was the animals were all bred, somehow, with speech capacities. With speech came increased mental functions and whole off-shoots of traditional species that could speak intelligently were created. Sylvester had never personally encountered any such talking animal but he had read in the castle’s archives that they truly existed. At least, they had at one point in time. If this… Menengitical? Was that the man’s name? If he can ease our travels, it really would make the journey safer. But the idea of sleeping in the woods still didn’t settle well with him. Tuette sighed and when Sylvester had her attention, it seemed like she had just rolled her eyes. “Look, we’ll sleep in the woods – if they’re even still there – and your Guards or whatever can keep watch. If not that, I know how something called a Doornail Charm can help out. It’s just, well, we need to do this. Perryta Fy’tay didn’t let me bring my swan for some reason.” A look of distant worry crossed her face. Is she afraid that Fy’tay might violate that ugly structure? “But it would’ve been so helpful, yes.” She sighed and continued. “Menginal can help.” The notion of using his Guards in that capacity seemed unfair because they were trained to defend him in times of personal crisis. They were not set up, centuries ago, to make sure the king slept well. “Okay, then we’ll do that. But I’ll also help keep watch.” His face heated up a little and he felt self-congratulatory tingles rush through is body. Yes, it felt proper to make the suggestion. Of course, Terry or the other Guard would never allow him the chance to risk losing sleep to help protect the group. This was his quest, after all. Sylvester knew that such thoughts made him appear most unwholesome in other people’s eyes – he even felt bad for thinking them – but the truth couldn’t be denied. Letting the situation settle as if with resolution, Sylvester pulled on Eafa’s hank and pressed with his knees, setting her off. * ~ * ~ * Their eastbound riding was quick though the chaffing was quicker to return. Dermy offered up his blanket roll as additional padding, extending further down Eafa than the saddled reaches. Unfortunately, the additional weight and length taxed Eafa, who was already overburdened. She was panting heavily, just before noon, and Sylvester could only think back to when the Guards had claimed to have seen someone, one of the field hands, idling around the splints. They hadn’t checked for poison or foul play, he suddenly realized; their escape from potential spies and their arrival at Zharinna had pushed the notion from their minds. But Sylvester knew it could also be that she was genuinely ill or literally overworked due to Sylvester’s baggage or even the simple blanket roll. Tuette recognized the problem first. Towards Sylvester, she said, “Your splint is dehydrating.” “Dehydrating? She’s just thirsty?” Tuette looked like she was making an effort not to shout or belittle the king as she said, “Not just thirsty. She is being dehydrated. Intentionally.” Alarm entered Sylvester’s throat and heart. “What?! Someone’s doing this to her?” Shaking her head while stopping her own splint and dismounting, she walked to Eafa’s side. The splint looked like her eyes were almost closed and Sylvester got off and stood next to Tuette, in front of Eafa. “No, it’s already been done. And it’s a cruel way to kill an animal, I tell ya.” “Kill? Someone is trying to kill her?” Tuette nodded, looking pained in the eye. Still, her voice carried that all-business manner in which she spoke. “Yes. She always under watch?” “We thought we saw one of the field hands messing with the splints a few days ago, before we picked you up. After that, we’ve kept eyes on them.” Terry said it with confidence and also a little shame. Sylvester understood: Eafa was being killed and they hadn’t thought of the slight incident until just now. “So it’s official that someone else doesn’t want us to not only not go after chickens but also to not go after Roost.” “What do you mean?” “Well, Eafa was probably given a Dehydro Stone, wrapped in leather that has only just recently been eaten by her stomach. We don’t have many options in this situation. We either need to keep her submerged until the Stone has absorbed all the water it can, or… Or we leave her.” That choice didn’t settle well on Sylvester’s heart. It was true that she was an animal, but he couldn’t help but feel like it was his fault that she’d been the target of someone’s murderous sabotage. “No. We can’t leave her here to die.” It was Dermy who dismounted and approached Sylvester. “A Dehyd’ ‘tone ‘sorbs too much, Kingasir. We not be havin’ lot-o time a’ such, an’way, oh.” He looked happy to be saying this, but Sylvester remembered what Tuette mentioned in passing: the disguise conveyed the very opposite of what he was feeling. “It bein’ bes’ to ‘et ‘er pass.” “Pass?” A notion struck. “Will she pass that De-Dehyrdo Stone? Will it come out, like something painful and treacherous?” Tuette slowly shook her head, letting sadness or sorrow, if the two could be separated, play across her face. “No… sir.” That sent a shock through Sylvester’s head. Sir? “The Stone will sap her liquids well before that. She’ll… She will die.” Sylvester let that soak in as much as he knew that Eafa had to soak in some liquids. If only there was a river, or a lek… or maybe if it rained… Another thought struck, even more powerfully than the first and Sylvester rocked a little on his heels. “What if a storm came up? Or one was, I don’t know… created?” He then looked up at the sky, noting that the pale blue of a healthy sky crushed his spirits in quite the opposite manner than a clear sky normally would. But something seemed to animate Dermy as he reached into his own rucksack and pulled out that small, compacted script binding. Tuette came over to his side as he frantically skimmed through the inked leafs, looking over his shoulder and scanning the same things. A surge entered Sylvester’s bloodstream at the fact that he might’ve made a viable suggestion after all. “What is it? Can you make a storm, or summon one, or something?” Tuette curled her brow and smirked her lips. “No, Celester. Nothing like that.” His heart dipped only slightly at the mention of her somewhat irksome name for him, but he let it pass as she continued. “But there are plants that provide a lot of moisture. Like hor’k or serteg ivy. Some vines even hold water drawn from deep underground.” “Yes’n, oh. An’ I gots sketchin’s o’ lots ‘em. Eaf’ still gots a bit o’ time, oh!” “We won’t save her with a plant alone, but we can give her enough time to get to… Was it Horp Lek? We were gonna pass near that lek on the way to the forest. But sounds like we have nary a choice but to make that our next destination.” It entered Sylvester’s ears with ease but did not find solid ground inside. The idea of delaying their mission felt wrong. It felt more like when he mistreated Tuette just because she smarted off to him, or had tried to make him sound like an idiot, the day before. Running over possibilities in his head, Sylvester asked, “How long would it take for a lek to stop this… whatever. The Stone inside her.” Tuette looked at Sylvester, her eyes moving in the back-and-forth manner that said she couldn’t decide which of his she should focus on. “That depends: if it’s an old Stone, it won’t take much time. If it’s new…” He nodded. “More time than we have.” She bit her lower lip as her eyes glassed over. Dermy was still thumbing through the pages. Tuette nodded and he felt a little sick about the situation. He coughed once, as something beholden of thick moisture built up in his throat: Moisture I don’t need, but Eafa does. It was an irony he hated all the more. “We… We’ll take her to Horp Lek. Or try. We’ll give her the rest of this day and, if she doesn’t…” He began to feel hot in his cheeks, his light beard not making it any more comfortable. He couldn’t truly understand why he felt this way. He wasn’t particularly close to Eafa, but maybe it was just that she had a name. And she was going to most likely die while she was his charge, his mount. Sylvester stroked Eafa’s neck, just under the left hank. She was blinking rapidly, and he could only wonder if it was because she couldn’t keep her eyes moist enough. He wondered if she would even be able to see much longer as she might have to keep her eyes closed until she passed, or expired, or simply… died. “How far is the lek?” he asked, continuing to her neck. Tuette reached into Sylvester’s pack and unfurled the map weave. Setting it against Eafa’s rear flank, she traced her fingers till she found their probable location. “Uh, less than an hour, at a hard ride.” She grimaced. “About two hours and some change at a… respectable pace.” A respectable pace. Over two hours to go and Eafa might not last till then. She had been given a Dehydro Stone, probably by the spies from the fields, wrapped in something to delay the process. Who would want to stop us from completing the quest? A few days ago, he was looking to Freeze some rare chickens as means of abating a treacherous Curse. The only people, as far as he knew, that couldn’t be affected by a Curse – who had nothing to fear from any Curse – were persons already Cursed. Does that mean someone Cursed did this? That they wanted everyone to lose their thumbs? He imagined how someone Cursed wouldn’t mind such an occurrence, but he wondered if they wouldn’t do anything in their power to make sure no one else would have to go through the same thing. The thoughts bothered Sylvester. Eafa was an innocent creature. He knew it wasn’t her fault that she was a splint in employ to the king. And someone, most likely a Cursed person – someone who wants everyone to suffer the same fate – has sealed her fate in an attempt to bring the mission down. At first, Tuette had informed them all that Count Roost had sent that Artificial to kill the chickens as a means of inviting the party to attack Roost personally. But this act had been performed even before that one, and it wasn’t by Roost as that man hadn’t left the Seagulf Islands, that much was ascertained by that old crone in Zharinna. So he has henchmen who tried and failed to stop my means of mobilization? It doesn’t make any sense. He looked at Eafa again. Her eyes were closed but her breathing wasn’t as laborious. They started in silence towards Horp Lek, as determined by the map. All of them were atop their splints, except for Sylvester, who was guiding Eafa by the hank. He still silently wished that a sudden storm might occur. As they walked, Sylvester began to grow tired in his feet. The tiredness made him a little angry because he knew that whoever had caused Eafa’s eventual death had brought his sore feet into being as well. “This has to be the work of another Cursed person,” he said. Tuette looked like she had been slapped while Dermy looked surprised that Sylvester had said anything at all. “Why do you say that?” she asked, the remorse suddenly gone, which made Sylvester wonder if it was ever really there in the first place. Maybe she just felt sorry for him and felt nothing about Eafa. Or maybe she’s more worried how one less splint is going to affect her quest for vengeance against her teacher’s killer. He then listed his few reasons for naming why someone who’s Cursed would actually want Roost to succeed, even if only Roost himself wanted to ultimately have an encounter with the king. “I mean, maybe whoever did this is ultimately right.” He couldn’t believe what he was now saying but it did just occur to him. “Just think that if everyone was Cursed with something small, then no one could be Cursed again. And everyone would eventually adapt.” Tuette seemed genuinely startled by his opinion and he suddenly felt like he had said the completely wrong thing. He admittedly still knew so little about Magik and Curses that he was probably talking out of his— “That might actually be a good idea,” said Tuette. Sylvester now seemed startled as he hadn’t expected her to agree with anything he ever said. It felt… eerie. Dermy gave her a sidelong glance and a smirk and the rest of the trek to the lek, which felt more like a funeral procession than anything to Sylvester, was made in stark silence. The heat beat down on them as the sun reached its peak, glaring at them through near-perfect weather conditions. He could only think how clear skies have never perpetuated such cloudy thoughts before. Stroking Eafa’s neck as he walked beside her, he was glad to be in front: it made it more difficult for the others to see his teary eyes and quivering lip. * ~ * ~ * Eafa never had a chance. They were within sight of the lek when her front legs buckled and she fell forward, keeled to her side, and never regained the power to stand up. Sylvester had only been to one burial before: his father’s. And even then, there hadn’t been a body. What is there to do with Eafa? Do we have time to dig a grave large enough for the splint? Maybe if we covered her with branches or stones? But there were neither of them in enough abundance to fulfill the duty. Tuette dismounted and said, “In some religions, words are spoken, or a prayer is said.” He hadn’t recalled anything tremendously profound about his father’s service. Just that it had ended with him, a young boy, not quite pubescent, being burdened with a heavy crown. Tuette continued. “We of the Mezahn Valtosist faith believe that all spirits, of human and animal, are sent back to the land of the living, in another body, another splint. So Eafa isn’t really dead, not the spirit that would remember you; she’s just somewhere else now.” That made sparse sense to Sylvester but he knew he had little knowledge regarding any religion. He didn’t even know what it was that kings were supposed to believe anyway. The relative idea of passing thoughts and knowledge from one person to another was easy to understand: he had the kingstone to root that fractured fact within. But with whatever Tuette was talking about, she made it sound like every living thing had something like an invisible kingstone, tying their lives to something that would live farther down the line. With that confusing thought, he immediately wondered if Tuette was an idiot for spouting such nonsense. But, again, he didn’t know much about the religion. And she did seem to work viable Magik. Perhaps hers is the religion to follow. He wasn’t in the correct mindset to be asking questions though. She had attempted to say something kind or even sympathetic and for that small grace, Sylvester was grateful. Then Tuette bent down at Eafa’s side, put a short blade into the dead splint’s side, and created a downward slash in one motion. The action appalled Sylvester. He knew he was appalled because he felt himself staring, wide-eyed and slack jawed. “What’re you doing?!” Tuette shoved her hand into Eafa’s side, her sleeve bunching up on the outside the further she reached in. She ignored his question as well. Apparently, Tuette’s kind words were just that: words – ineffective squawks that decanted from her uncaring mouth and heart. Bending down next to her, Sylvester thought to grab her arm and pull it forcibly out of Eafa’s side. Whatever she was doing, it wasn’t sensible. It was a form of cruelty the likes of which Sylvester never thought possible. Dermy pulled Sylvester back, causing the king to land on his rear, watching Tuette dig around armedly inside the corpse’s abdomen. “She be fetchin’ the ‘hyrdo ‘tone, Kingasir.” Oh. He hadn’t thought of that. Sylvester actually hadn’t thought of anything regarding what Tuette might be doing; just that she seemed to be purposefully violating the dead splint. But if she believed what she had said earlier, then she didn’t care about the body because Eafa was supposed to be somewhere else at the moment, inside another splint. He could only formulate two words about that notion: Fat chance. Tuette finally stopped wriggling around, displaced her weight, and slowly pulled her arm out. Surprisingly, not much blood coated her arm and Sylvester remembered that most of Eafa’s fluids had probably been absorbed by the Dehydro Stone. And there it was, in her hand: the inanimate culprit that had been planted by an animate villain. It was just a stone, like they had said. Small, irregularly shaped, and black. “It’s a shame she couldn’t have made it to the lek. This Stone would’ve saturated itself in a matter of hours.” She looked at Sylvester and then, just as quickly, averted her gaze. “I mean, assuming she hadn’t suffered too much loss of her other bodily fluids.” He felt like spitting, but not at her exactly; maybe just the ground near her or even at his own feet, signifying that he had to at least release some of his own bodily fluids in regards to the subject matter. Sylvester didn’t and instead asked, “So why take it? What’s the point?” Tuette studied the stone closely, even sniffing the thing. “If we can determine the origin of the Stone, like who applied the Charm and where it came from, we might be able to hypothesize who is trying to deter us from completing our Reverse quest, one way or the other.” Sylvester couldn’t help but silently balk at her saying “our Reverse quest”. Like she’s anything but a Freezer accompanying the king. Still, she was speaking sense for a change and if any more of these types of subtly destructive acts came about in the short time remaining, they all needed to be aware of the potential arenas that the danger might originate from. “You can tell where our culprit came from then? But then what? We wouldn’t have time to take care of them. We couldn’t…” “Take care of them?” she interrupted while standing up quickly. “Take care of them how? By killing them, king?” He was taken aback, as evidenced by his failure to find suitable wording to answer the question. What else could be done? Did she imagine that they could be detained and questioned? If they harness Magik knowledge, they probably have means to counter normal methods of capture anyway. For that matter, what was to stop them from creating what Tuette had said was an Artificial and having it possess one of them and order it to kill the others? Obviously, whoever was behind this act was intelligible enough to concoct a plan like that. And since whoever was being a direct hindrance, it was clear they were going to do anything to stop the king. “Well, if that’s necessary, the action would justify the means. Wouldn’t you agree?” He looked at Terry, the other Guard, and Dermy but they had elected to remain neutral on the subject, clearly looking uncomfortable anyway. He looked back at Tuette. “But like I said, we wouldn’t have time anyway: we need to get down to the coast within five days.” “But you’re saying that if we came across this man, or woman, or Demon or whatever, that you would end their life? Just because they killed Eafa?” “Why is this a problem for you? You don’t seem to mind that we’re all on our way to confront a man that’s placing this entire kingdom into jeopardy. And that if it comes down to it, he must be executed. You said yourself that if he’s going to deter us from performing the Reverse, his death is the only other way.” Tuette paused, looking startled. She obviously hadn’t thought of the similarities. Sylvester felt slightly pleased to have pointed out her flaw in judgment. She then said, “But you’re this nation’s king, Celester.” Why is she stuck on calling me that?! “You can’t go around killing whoever you see as a threat. You have to set the example for your subjects. Do you want everyone to go around killing out of vengeance, like Jirra wanted to do with poor Reefetta?” He felt a stone drop inside. Can she read the thoughts in my head? He’d been thinking of those ramifications hours before. She obviously had no qualms about going after Roost, but everyone else had to be judged. Why? Because he’s using Magik? Because he was representing the wrong usage of powers that not everyone understood? Why did she think that Reefetta was in the wrong? Sylvester asked. “Because it’s obvious that Yuka was lying, saying whatever would please Jirra. He was afraid to be in a strange place so he sold Reefetta out, abandoning her to that forest. To be reduced to depending on chickens for companionship.” “But Yuka said it was her fault.” She rolled her eyes, clutching the Stone inside a fist. Sylvester wondered if that was wise. “I just said he was lying. Did you just forget that?” Sylvester felt himself huffing now. He wanted to end this discourse, but something burning inside compelled him to continue it. He didn’t enjoy the feeling but knew it needed to be satiated. “How could I forget? You just mucking squawked it.” He felt like calling her a slut but knew there was no evidence to support the statement. “Why would you not believe him? He was the one still embracing sanity. At least he seemed to this morning. Just before you…” “I what?” she cut him off. Sylvester didn’t like that but what could he do? He didn’t want to take a physical action. The last time he had, causing her to stumble from her own splint, he felt much regret. “What did I do?” She is proving persistent! He gulped, feeling his head spin a little, absently realizing that he was slightly hungry. “You acted like a child. Like you were younger even than that little Jorry.” He took an unsteady breath, wondering if his next line would come out as unsteadily as a result. “I could easily compare because she was in the same room with us, on Yuka’s lap. I wondered, for a moment, if it was you on his lap.” Again, he felt like throwing in a mention of potential promiscuity but knew it wouldn’t change anything. Tuette’s face flushed red, her eyes denoting quite the opposite of what it looked like to be possessed by an Artificial: they looked angry, in and of themselves. He felt a little afraid but hoped he wasn’t displaying that. “I-I was not behaving childlike,” she finally said. “I was defending myself. From a bully. You had just called me a female fig. In front of everyone, including that little, innocent girl! What was I supposed to do?” “Oh, is this the part that I’m supposed to have forgotten?” She gave him a stare that made Sylvester shiver in the small of his back but he plowed ahead, feeling justified and ignoring her question. “I mean, what, we say some things to each other, I apologize, you tell me to forget it ever happened, and now you get to bring it up as a means of telling me and the Guards and Dermy that I clearly have poor judgment? Is that the gist of the situation here, Tuette?” “You don’t understand. You just… don’t.” “No!” he shouted, sending a small amount of spittle in the process; it rested deftly on the grass. “I clearly do not! I’m not allowed to forget anything, am I? Or make a mistake? Or say the wrong thing? Or breathe the wrong way? Is that it, Tuette?” He wiped his mouth, feeling more spittle build up on his lips. Tuette looked like a cross between being enraged and afraid; her teeth were clenched and she was breathing hard, almost miming the slumped shoulders that indicated sobbing. What might she do? Sylvester knew she possessed powers outside of ordinary weapons, but he also somehow knew that this moment would help define not only his relationship with her during their quest but indicate to himself and the others exactly what kind of king he had the potential of becoming. Sylvester also realized it was a way to show that he knew nothing of how to talk to or deal with a woman. Tuette was the first to break down, her shoulders slouching, her facial muscles becoming less taut. But he couldn’t let her lose composure, not completely. Something told him it was important, that he should stick with what he did know, in that moment. “I don’t… understand,” he started just before Tuette was about to say something. She stopped to listen. He looked down, thankful to have spoken in time, and continued. “I truly don’t. I don’t understand many things… because my kingstone hasn’t let me.” She looked brazen with confusion. “What?” was all that sputtered out, though that was barely understandable. Sylvester sighed again and explained, as briefly as possible, the situation regarding his kingstone. No more words followed, but that wasn’t because of the shock of the realization: it was because many shapes had appeared in the sky above the forest in the distance. The forest that was their immediate destination. The aerial shapes appeared to be winged creatures. And they were heading directly for Sylvester and Tuette. |
| Tuette awoke, her head throbbing. Her arms also hurt but in a different manner. She looked and saw what might’ve been claw marks, or branch scratches, or… Talons. These were caused by talons. Seleagle talons. Her hand ached, coursing with an odd pain and, as thoughts flashed through her inside-eye, she recalled that it was in her left hand, her aching hand, that she had clutched the Dehydro Stone. It had obviously coaxed fluids from her hand, leaving it dry and sore to the touch. Where’s the Stone? Did the seleagles take it? If so, what do they need a weak Dehydro Stone for? For that matter, where are we? The surroundings were dim and smelled strongly of old wood. Am I in a tolo of some kind? She heard rustling now and some creature or creatures licking their lips. She immediately felt panicked because she couldn’t see too well and knew that her rucksack was not on her person. Tuette didn’t know what to do. Could whatever lie in the dark be fearsome and ready to strike the moment I make a sudden movement? Should I attempt a preemptive strike by groping around for something to swing at the beast and then leap? She knew she had to do something; she couldn’t wait in the dark forever. Slowly, her eyes adjusted but not enough to discern what was inside the structure with her. But she could see a large portal nearby. Outside, lush trees were lazily moving with the night’s breeze. Tuette felt somewhat hopeful now, knowing she might be close enough to dart through the hole and find room to maneuver away from whatever-it-was. The lip-licking continued and Tuette heard a gentle groan. That did it for her. She gathered her free-flowing skirt in one hand, awkwardly bunched, and threw her body through the makeshift doorway. In nothing but a moment, she felt the sick pang of freefalling and realized too late that she had been inside a tree. Well above ground level. Before a screamed was vocalized, the sensation stopped. And she was being held in midair by an elderly man. A new urge to scream entered her head as Tuette worked her mind as to what was happening. Is this a dream? Is this old, naked man representative of my father and he’s reaching from beyond time to save me from my irrational decisions? “Hello, dearie!” he cackled quickly, smiling a not-so-toothy grin. In a moment, she was being lifted back into the tree hole. Inside, a Glow Globe had been impossibly activated: the others were still out cold. She suddenly felt coldness between her thighs and she felt mortified at what had happened. And she realized why she had woken up: she had felt the urge to urinate. In freefall, I must’ve let fear draw it out of me involuntarily. The old man sniffed in the vicinity of her crotch and she made to swat at him when he ducked away and laughed slightly. In a moment, the wetness was gone and she could only marvel on that. Had she put the Dehydro Stone in her waistline pocket? That didn’t seem possible, not with the seleagles coming at them like they had. Tuette finally remembered what had happened, following the discovery of Eafa’s true demise: seleagles had launched themselves from the forest in the east and used their powerful wings to force the five journeypersons to the ground. Tuette had hoped to try and Freeze one or two but there were two many. The winds produced by their combined wingspan had been torrential, and they seemed to recognize that she posed some kind of threat because more had hovered around her. Finally, in a desperate attempt to regain balance, she had stumbled, striking her head against a hard patch of dirt and obtaining unconsciousness. The others must’ve suffered a similar circumstance as they all were still in a deep reverie of dreamful sleep. She looked at the old man again, trying her best to avert her gaze from his wrinkled nether region. Is he a Mage of some kind? A perryta in exile? He had obviously dispelled Tuette of her accidental ejection so he had to harbor Magik knowledge of some kind. “Who are you?” “Jack ol Dorsa.” The “ol” portion of his name denoted possible heritage from this area, in northern Javal’ta. But that wasn’t very useful. “What are you?” Jack sighed but his smile didn’t falter and Tuette was immediately reminded of Dermy’s disguise and how it reversed the outward appearance for what was truly felt. Jack spoke. “I am a lonely individual. The eagles once kept me company. They’ve gotten bigger and have changed over the years. I remember the time before they could talk!” Now Tuette was reminded of Reefetta. Had the same thing happened to this old man, except he’s been isolated for decades? Why does he call them eagles? Most everyone knew that the larger brand had speech capabilities and were identified as seleagles. And they lived hefty lives, outdistancing some humans in age. They were hearty creatures, indeed. For Jack to be able to remember when the aged birds couldn’t talk was a surefire sign that he had indeed been cooped up in this forest for far too long. “What do you mean they once kept you company? Didn’t you ask them to bring us here?” Jack’s grin broadened. “I do not control them! They are my friends. Or were, eh. It doesn’t matter much nows. I’m a tad lonely when they aren’t around. P’haps they brought you here to keep me company!” Tuette didn’t like that idea. She had a major task to perform. But escaping this old man seemed like the next step in getting to Count Roost. Her thoughts then ground to a halt. They five of them still had a ways to go and if the seleagles could be persuaded to help at least reach the coast… “Yes, you are very nice to be ‘round, yes. ‘minds me of Jillian.” His words had distracted her but she knew that if something like a plan revolving around assistance from the seleagles was to work, she needed to be nice to this old man. “That’s, er… That’s so nice of you. Jack. Who’s Jillian?” Tuette immediately regretted the question because Jack’s grin dissipated and he began to moan loudly, clutching his chest and shedding an unbelievable amount of tears. The undulations caused by his sobbing made parts of his nude body move about in ways that might’ve made Tuette lose her dinner, had she consumed any. “Jillian was ma love!” That much was already assumed but if she was to get into good graces with this little man, she was going to have to be patient. “I was livin’ in dark times ‘fore I met her, eh!” He had begun to raise his voice to compensate the sobs and now the other members of her party, as seen in the light of the Glow Globe, were beginning to awaken. But who had activated the Globe? Jack continued, drawing Tuette’s attention. “After I met her, life got grand. Livin’ was okay.” Tuette was already piecing some items together herself. Obviously, this Jillian woman had left Jack a long, long time ago and he had exiled himself. Or she had died and he was so despondent that he preferred solitude. It stank wholly of Reefetta’s situation and Tuette immediately began to wonder how she was doing back in Scothil with the Koops. “Who is that?” Tuette looked and saw Celester sitting up, leaning against the wall. He looked bruised, like he might’ve been hit in the face. Most likely, he had landed upon a rock, face first. She reserved the pleasure she felt by knowing he might’ve been in pain, a fact that was secured by him rubbing the bruised portion below his eye, on the edge of his ridiculous beard. Jack looked alarmed, his sobs subsiding, as he looked at Celester and then at the other three as they were all coming out of their forced bouts of sleep. Didn’t he notice them before, or did their consciousness put him on alert? If he was uncomfortable, he might not help convince the seleagles into helping them. “This is Jack ol Dorsa. He’s been living here for… quite a while. After he lost his Jillian.” Scowling, Jack said, “Nah! I met Jillian after I was forced here, eh!” Forced? Something suddenly didn’t feel right. Celester groaned and said, “So, he’s been exiled here, like Reefetta?” “Who Reefetta?” asked Jack with some anticipation, his grin returning. Tuette wished that he would put on some clothes. “She pretty like this one?” he said while jerking a thumb in Tuette’s direction. Tuette felt appalled at being treated as such, a feeling that Celester obviously didn’t pick up on. “This one? Yeah! I’d say that Reefetta is actually a lot prettier than this one!” Coldness settled over Tuette’s heart. Surely I’m more attractive then Reefetta could ever hope to be! Tuette felt very self-aware just then, thinking that she looked so ridiculous and frumpy, having to always where the dacking hood. But she felt she had a pretty face at least, and a body to match. “Maybe one of you…” began the old man. “Jack, I’m sorry. But you were talking about Jillian. And you said you met her… after you began living here, among the sel—among the eagles?” She had to keep him on track and she didn’t want to hear all the males begin to talk about women in such a demeaning way. Secretly, she knew she didn’t want them to think that someone like Reefetta was more attractive than Tuette. Especially Terry, who was only now fluttering his eyes open. Jack was brought back to his state of sobbing. Apparently, Jillian was classified as a sensitive subject. “She be gone! In the ground!” Tuette was becoming more curious about his story but impatience threatened to make her do something drastic, like slap the man to get him to focus. “Jillian… Jillian… I miss ‘er. I do! An’ Joy! Ooooh, Joy!” It didn’t sound like something joyful to Tuette and she was preparing to strike the little man. She settled for laying her hand on his shoulder, if nothing more than to be closer for the slap. “What is happening to him?” asked Celester. “He’s crying. Can’t you see that?” “No, what’s happening? His body!” Tuette saw it now: Jack’s naked body was fading from sight. And, where her hand touched him, his skin was changing and suddenly, he was wearing the same outfit as Tuette, hood and all! The change made Celester jump up and the Guards finally turned their heads but couldn’t get up: they were in too much pain, apparently. She let go of Jack’s shoulder instantly, anger tearing at her insides. This charlatan was no aged man to feel sorrow for; Tuette was deftly appalled. Jack was a World Spirit! “You’re no man!” Jack stopped sobbing and when she blinked, he wasn’t there. She turned and he was behind her. “Of course I am! Or once was!” “You made me feel sorry for you!” she shouted, feeling her face redden and her head ache at being duped into feeling truly-false emotions for such a trickster. Jack looked surprised and, if possible, happily hurt. “Well, why shouldn’t you be? It’s a very sad story! And you’re a compassionate, human woman! I would think, of any these fleshers, you’d be the one to identify with.” He paused, his eyes looking beyond her. “Jillian was always compassionate.” “So she was real? You fell in love with a real, living woman?” Jack balked. “Don’t be absurd! Fleshers are on the bottom rung of the dung, missus!” He chewed his lip and Tuette wondered at the effect: Jack, like all World Spirits, could assume any form within their environments and even remain invisible but substantially effective. But he remained a miserly-looking man, wholly seen – maybe a bit too seen – as if he had nothing to hide. Tuette had assumed he was a trickster, but that might have been presumptuous. It was true that many World Spirits were bothersome, but she had not personally met one; she was going off of tittle-tattle, what she had heard from people like Corunny Voidet. Tuette instantly felt ashamed for jumping to such a conclusion. She felt like she was no better than… well, possibly Celester. But she was finding that she didn’t truly know the king either. The truth regarding his kingstone had been a little unsettling, to say the least. But she would focus on that later. Jack continued speaking. “Jillian was a-nother of my kind! Another World Spirit! “We were both despicable creatures when we were alive, however long ago. Odd that we both died in the same vicinity, near the same time, and we never even crossed paths in our first lives. It was still so many centuries, as I understand it, before our roots finally became gently intertwined, eh. When that happened, ho-boy, was it a surprise! Before that, I had only encountered fleshers, the eagles, and various rodents. The eagles, as I said, provided companionship. I would scare away any o’ the humans that were looking to hunt them so it was a good friendship. “But Jillian was different. I hadn’t realized our roots crossed till I seen her on the fringe of my field, way in the sun. We got to know each other and eventually fell in love. What ever made us so hateful during the living years had finally melted away and all that was left was our bare spirits, eh. She confessed, finally, that she had the one regret of never having a child. Or children. We devised a plan, with the help of my eagles, to mix seeds and such from each other’s forests and have them planted where our roots met. Then we’d see what happened. “It wasn’t long ‘fore Joy started growin’. An’ what made it so unusual for both of us is that she actually grew. Neither Jillian or I could adopt a human guise that appeared younger or older than ourselves. But Joy steadily could. We counted it as a miracle, eh. “But then some fool ‘troduced a belcarotia on the other side o’ Jillian’s forest, her body. I couldn’t invade her space, ‘cept where we crossed. Joy could though, since she was kinda both of us, put in one. But Joy couldn’t stop the belcarotia. And Jillian couldn’t either. I sent my eagles and they stifled a few fires with them big wings, but suffered a few losses. Breathed in some smoke and crashed. And where there’s one belcarotia, eventually, there’s always more. The eagle’s protected Joy, but Jillian was burnt up.” Jack appeared to be crying and Tuette wondered again at the action: it wasn’t wholly necessary, except to inspire sympathy in others. He didn’t have to do it, but she didn’t say anything. She didn’t set her hand on his shoulder either. He continued. “For a while, I could talk to Jillian through our connection with Joy. The roots still be there but nothing much else. We Spirits are confined, in a physical sense. I can go up to the canopy but never ‘bove it. Her canopy is too close to the ground. She might as well be buried. “But, few weeks ago, Joy disappeared and I couldn’t talk to Jillian anymore. I guess the roots that kept us connected had died and we were only speaking through Joy. But now I’m alone, ‘cept the eagles. They all sayin’ I’m different now.” He sniffled. “Wouldn’t you be?” Jack looked right into Tuette’s eyes, as if reading her own spirit, her memories. She felt ashamed, but not invaded. “Joy didn’t die. She vanished. Like she was pulled out o’ the ground, roots an’ all! I need your help, missus. And his’n. And his’n. And you’s two. The eagles probably worried I can’t ‘tect them anymore. Not like anyone hunts a bird bigger than themselves nowadays. But what do I know?” So this was why the seleagles had abducted them all: to help find the child of two World Spirits. It wasn’t often that travelers were spied wandering through the midlands and, indeed, they were the first encountered after Joy disappeared. The seleagles, led by one called Beverane, knew that humans were superstitious about World Spirits and had decided that force would be required in finding suitable assistance. Tuette was not shy about wanting to help the poor World Spirit but she used that as leverage for getting aid from the seleagles. They needed the protection that he otherwise provided in return for their companionship: when confined, an individual will seek anybody who can but listen. She explained their situation to Jack. He seemed all-too-happy to provide assistance. It was probably his enthusiasm that helped convince the seleagles to provide aerial support. They spent the rest of the night trying to sleep, aiming to set out again at daybreak. So far, they were still on schedule, but might even be looking to make up for lost time with help from the seleagles. It sure beats having to all but beg Menginal for help. Especially considering that it was truly a long shot that he was still even in Gimble Valley. * ~ * ~ * In the morning, Jack provided them with fruit that Dermy felt, for some reason, had to be inspected. Obviously, Dermy had never had any experience with World Spirits. If Jack had wanted the fruits to look okay, they would, and then it’d turn out they had eaten rocks. Or animal droppings. Tuette didn’t care if they were being tricked into eating something disgusting: she was famished. Jack, clothed in the manner of the king – which made Tuette smile as he wore the outfit better than Celester, and it was much cleaner – stood with them at the eastern edge of his forest. The scorched ruins of Jillian were easily spied, as was the large equidistance hole that had obviously been Joy’s spot of berth and birth, coincidentally. A group of seleagles landed without applause and slowly walked up to the humans, looking awkward and uncomfortable. Tuette realized they probably never had to accommodate for “fleshers” like this but she decided that thanks were necessary for their consideration; landing right next to the group might’ve caused wind issues and landing away and hopping to their destination, as birds are known to do, might also have inspired fear in the humans. Beverane was among them and Tuette spoke her thanks. “It is nothing when it comes tooo our future protection.” He paused, clapping his beak. “So we will help yooo with this quest fooor the king, Tooo-ette. But yooo must promise tooo assist in locating young Joy. She is a rarity, as I understand it.” Beverane knew all too well how invaluable something like a new World Spirit was, but Tuette didn’t ponder how; being so close to the large bird, facing him as he stood on the ground and almost towered over her felt odd and she was fearful but she couldn’t understand exactly why. “We made our promise already,” said Celester. Tuette felt disturbed that he would say such a thing. He really should think before he speaks. “I only hope the surviving splints make it back to Mount Reign okay.” She couldn’t believe him: the king was being given a great service here and he was worried about the other splints. Tuette silently reeled as she knew that the persons that set this quest up could’ve easily allowed her usage of her swan-home and quicker passage for them all. She still didn’t understand why… Beverane then suddenly became agitated, flicking his head around in a manner only attributed to predators. Tuette, on instinct, stepped back, drawing herself in as he began to clutch at the air with his powerful beak; her previous thoughts melted away at this visually fearful display. She knew it was a prejudicial reaction on her part that the seleagles had been experiencing for centuries, but she couldn’t help it. “I do not wish tooo… alarm yooo, Tooo-ette. A… buzzer has landed on me… and seems tooo… be speaking.” A buzzer? “What’s it saying?” she asked, immediately doubting the bird’s sanity. Has time with Jack delineated the flyer’s sense of reality? “Unintelligible sentences. It is moooving… about.” Beverane stopped. “There. Atop my crown.” Tuette stepped closer and there certainly was a buzzer atop Beverane’s head: it was a large fly, about as big as a thumbnail. “I don’t hear anything, Beverane.” The others, who had crowded forward, also heard nothing. He looked delightfully annoyed, as only a seleagle could. “It is saying nothing now, Tooo-ette.” Suddenly, he jerked slightly and Tuette heard a faint whispering but couldn’t make out the words, except for “Curse” and “king” and “Roost” And “trap”. “I am maintaining composure, for yooo. So yooo may list—“ That was all she heard when there was suddenly a loud pop that caused Tuette to excessively flinch, along with everyone else. And Beverane wasn’t there anymore. Instantly, she thought that she had been possessed by an Artificial and it had been withdrawn: the effect was very similar, she had heard. Like standing in one spot and then being somewhere else, or even in the same spot but with things slightly moved. But time was always displaced as well, and nothing else surrounding Tuette was different. Beverane had literally vanished. She swiped her hand through the air he had recently occupied, somewhat fearful that he might snap at her with his largely dangerous beak if he was invisible. But nothing was there. The seleagle was simply gone. Destroyed? That doesn’t seem likely. Tuette would be the first to admit she wasn’t close to knowing every Magik recitation and ritual. But what could make a being as large as Beverane instantly dissipate? Or shrink, maybe? She suddenly became cautious of her footing but realized the error in that as if Beverane had been shrunken, he’d be flying around, not walking. Flying, yes. The fly. That speaking buzzer has to have something to do with it. It was true that many birds and reptiles had speech capabilities carried down through the centuries, but she wondered if flies or other insects also been altered. That seemed unlikely, unless they had been used to convey messages from army leaders to troops and vice verse. “What did yooo dooo?” demanded a smaller seleagle, attracting Tuette’s attention. “Beverane! Where is he?” He stalked forward quickly and looked like he might attack Tuette simply based on the idea that she had caused their leader to disappear. Thankfully, Jack intervened. He appeared directly in front of the large bird, formed as a wide tree trunk with two impressively sized limbs. “Breezel! She could not have done nothin’, eh? You all heard the little buzzer, sayin’ garble stuff. She was standin’ still and did nothin’! Do not be ‘timidatin’ her!” Breezel backed down, still looking flustered: a few feathers had molted off. The other seleagles looked equally disquieted and Tuette wondered if this sudden turn of events had caused them to lose faith in the humans and their plan. The bird then sighed. “I apologize, human.” He then physically calmed himself and the other did likewise. “But what happened tooo Beverane?” Tuette could only shrug, her heart aching slightly, her mind reeling at how Beverane had disappeared. Her adage was that anything was possible with Magik, but this seemed suspect; she knew the nature of true teleportation Charms and this was covered by none of those rules. She was also feeling somewhat emotional for the Spirit as he reappeared like before, though his garb was less adjusted to his stature. He was smiling, this time with too many teeth. Jack was a good man, which was ironic because he wasn’t a man any longer: he was shackled to this lush forest until Valtos found the time to finally order Salrouge to collect the World Spirits. “Is there anything else we can do here, Tuette?” asked Celester. He was maintaining a coldly rational mind over the subject and Tuette immediately wished she had been able to do the same thing; they were here for a reason and the lost seleagle might have to be counted up as one of the casualties. She shook her head mechanically, feeling sickened by the notion of helplessness. She also felt weak in the eyes of Jack and the other seleagles, but if they felt that way, they did a good job at hiding it. Without words, the five mounted seleagles, one each. She sent a glance over at the singed remains of Jillian’s forest and then she looked back at Jack. He was still smiling but she knew he couldn’t be feeling anything but sorrow over losing touch with the only other Spirit he’d come into contact with. How could he feel anything but? The situation reeked of Reefetta’s happening and she looked at Celester, who had taken sides with that lying man, Yuka. With resolve, she decided to take action: she knew she couldn’t immediately do anything about Beverane, but she could at least ease Jack’s pain. Tuette dismounted from her seleagle, a muscled male named Burinn. The seleagle squawked first. “What is it yooo dooo?” Tuette strode across the area that had been protected from the fires, passing the point where Joy was reputed to have grown. In a moment, she tripped but landed against a soft puff of air. Or at least something solidly invisible. She had been counting on something like this. “Jillian?” There was a stir and Tuette fell the minute distance that remained between her and ground. Turning her head, ever mindful that she not scrape her hood lest it come off and reveal her situation, she saw another woman that hadn’t been there before. She was lying in a position that would be the mirror opposite of Tuette. “You smell delightful,” said what was obviously Jillian. She does almost resemble me with her hair, lengthy and blonde. Though both were lying down, they seem of similar height… but Tuette remembered that Jillian, like all World Spirits, could make themselves look like anything. She didn’t trust this to be Jillian’s true form. But she saw what Jack was talking about. And she was slightly flattered. The comment Jillian made caused Tuette to feel a little uncomfortable but she flashed a smile, recognizing that she obviously had the overall scent of Jack’s forest upon her. “Jack says hello. And that he misses you.” Jillian smiled even brighter than Tuette and looked like she might cry. “How is he, miss flesh?” “You may call me Tuette. And he is saddened at the loss of your Joy. But we have been enlisted to help retrieve her, wherever she went.” A notion formulated in her head and she felt a little giddy and began to laugh. “The fly!” she shouted. She pushed herself up to look back at the others, who had not followed and actually began to look impatient. She looked down and the woman wasn’t there anymore. Lowering herself underneath the layer of the singed forest, Jillian appeared for Tuette again. “Jillian, I think I know where Joy was taken. And it, for some reason, coincides with our cause! I think.” “Then you need not waste time giving me details, Fleshtuette!” Jillian was smiling ever larger. “You may go! Flee!” Tuette made to get up and, though Jillian disappeared from sight, she grabbed Tuette’s wrist as it was still within the confines of the environ. Tuette fell under the touch and could see and hear Jillian once more. “Thank you for the words. I miss Jack terribly. In time, I will flourish again, but that will be a long while. Tell Jack… something romantic. I cannot think straight at the moment. The happiness you’ve brought has misaligned my ideas.” Tuette nodded, understanding. She got up, returned to the others who had all dismounted their own seleagles, and heard Celester say “What was that about? I thought you said there was nothing to do here?” Smiling, Tuette reproached the king. “I didn’t say anything, just shook my head.” Celester huffed but Tuette ignored it, smiling and looking instead to Jack. “Jillian says hello, Jack. And she misses you greatly.” Jack looked like he was going to become emotional and he floated away from the group to rest in the shadows. She looked at the king, Dermy, and the Guards. “Joy and Beverane both disappeared from this area. I know that Beverane had to have been taken by that large talking fly, somehow! But what if that fly has already been here and that’s what took Joy?” Celester looked doubtful. “The fly took the plant and the bird?” She felt her smile falter a little but maintained resolve that she was right. “Yes, it had to. It mentioned you, King, and Count Roost, and some kind of trap. Which is what I already proposed.” Tuette knew she was sounding self-righteous but she didn’t care at the moment because she knew she had been right days ago. “But if you’re right, we have to encounter Roost anyway and not just to stop the Curse but to get Joy back. Why is this man toying with us?” “He probably sent the fly as extra insurance…” “But Jack said Joy was taken weeks ago, before the Curse was even cast. What’s his real game about that?” Tuette chewed her lip, staring at the ground to let her mind wrap around the different thoughts. “Then maybe it’s just a coincidence. Maybe Roost knows that Joy is invaluable and he wants to exploit that somehow.” “How’n? Worl’ Spir’ts be too lim’ted, T’ette. Roos’ canna be doin’ much with’n one, oh.” “Then maybe he needs the plant itself and he didn’t recognize that it was a World Spirit until it was too late.” “But if that’s true, why not transport me straight there?” asked the king. Tuette pondered, her head energies firing rapidly. That’s a good point. If Celester is the true target for Roost, why didn’t the fly get him already? “Maybe he’s tried and your kingstone…” She paused, knowing that it was a sensitive subject still. But she had to put out any ideas she could, if only to ease their minds. She knew she had to be right about this. “Maybe it does protect you somewhat. From Magik.” Celester shook his head. “I think I’d remember a large fly buzzing around me and talking to me. It sounds more like it’s the fly that is shying us away from the count. And it knows that landing on me is the best way to talk to me: if it does that, it runs the risk of taking me with it. It was still talking when Beverane was taken, yes?” Tuette nodded, already seeing the logic. “Then the fly itself must not know when it will transport anything with it. And it might be a slave to the count…” Terry, who had been curiously quiet, mounted his seleagle again and began to strike it like one would a splint. What’s he doing? The action drew everyone’s attention. The king stepped up. “Terry, what you doing? We’ll leave in a moment.” He looked at Tuette. “As soon as we can figure some stuff out.” “I’ve already figured it out.” She was losing her composure, her excitement. Somehow, this monarchial brute had the power to do that to her. And Tuette hated it. Terry began striking the seleagle again. Breezel and Burrin and the others began to look agitated, as did Bonset, the seleagle Terry was upon. “Human,” Bonset stated. “I dooo not require strikes against my feathers. Desist.” The Guard pretended he didn’t hear and began hitting harder, as if that was going to make the seleagle actually go. Bonset huffed once in agitation and then reared up, looking menacing and annoyed. Terry fell instantly, scrambled to his feet… and was drooling. Tuette swore. “Oh, dack! It’s an Artificial!” The other men instantly became wary. The older Guard unsheathed his sword and took a defensive posture. Dermy ran behind Jack, who vanished in that same moment, causing Dermy to hide behind the king. Celester stood his ground, staring in contempt amazement. Tuette felt herself groping around inside her rucksack, knowing that the only thing viable to stop Terry, if he became aggressive, was the Freezing Pote. Or my Firedom Expansion Pote. If she used that, she knew that she’d be putting Jack at risk, only to let him suffer the same cruel fate that Jillian was now serving out. Terry drew his own sword, handling it expertly and walked backwards, moving out of Jack’s field of influence and just shy of Jillian’s. So Jack can’t stop him in case he decides to harm one of us. With that, she thought she saw a tinge of bloodlust as she made eye contact with the possessed Guard. Tuette was beginning to despise whoever had created the Charm that brought Artificials about. Especially since she knew that no one would be able to stop Terry from doing whatever it was he was trying. It was a Charm cast from afar and they’d already deduced that Roost was behind it. I just didn’t know how. And since he was trying to get the king to come to the Seagulf Islands, the Artificial was trying as well. But she knew it didn’t need everyone else to make it to the Islands: just Celester. Terry gestured to Bonset again, pointing his sword at the bird. “Dooo not point menace at me, human!” He then attempted to strike at the man with his beak Tuette quickly explained to the seleagles what had happened. “This human wishes only tooo continue the journey?” asked Burrin. “Yes,” Tuette answered. “And he’ll do anything to make sure we get to Count Roost in time. Even kill.” “Then why provoke him?” Pausing with confusion, Tuette said, “What?” “He only wants the journey tooo continue. We are done here. Let us depart.” That made sense and Tuette felt foolish for not realizing it before. She was the first to mount a seleagle. Artificial-Terry straightened his stance, sheathed his own sword, and motioned for Bonset to step forward so he could mount the bird outside of the tethered environs: the Artificial apparently recognized that the danger Jack or Jillian could cause was great. The others followed suit, Celester saying, “Okay, we can discuss this in the air, I suppose.” “I doubt it,” said the older Guard. “Wait’n!” yelled Jack who had reappeared among the group, clothed in the manner of the king again. “We can’t. The Artificial might do something awful. And it’ll take something awful to stop him.” She grimaced, knowing that Freezing him wasn’t the most awful thing that anyone could do. “Take these.” He opened his hand and floated a small leaf-sewn sack towards Tuette. “Acorns. Three of ‘em.” Tuette felt her heart burst. Acorns were used in wood-based Magiks. And they were difficult to find as woodland critters tended to prize them away for themselves for untold reasons. “If you needin’ ma help, make yourself a quick forest. Script’s inside that details how. I’ll be there for a time, since they be from ma wood.” She wondered why he had waited so long to give them this little gift but decided not to look a gift splint in the mouth. “Thank you,” she said quietly. Then they were off. She looked back and, where Jack had been standing and waving moments, there was only empty air. She realized that was the trade-off of being a World Spirit: they control everything inside their area but can’t be seen from the outside. And they can’t see outside. Tuette imagined being blind to everything but what was immediately in front of her and she felt a sense of panic begin to rise. She patted Burrin on his neck and then reached around his neck to clasp her hands together. The speed frightened her. The birds probably found it to be taxing to carry the additional weight but said nothing, knowing the end result was to their benefit. They were obviously flying lower and more slowly than they might otherwise, but the tradeoff was better. * ~ * ~ * The older Guard – she felt bad that she didn’t know his name like she did Terry – had been correct: speaking while in the air was impossible. The wind whipped about them all and Tuette feared that her hood would be torn away from her scalp, and at the very least exposing her Cursed form. At most, the swan-shaped mass would catch its own wind and rip her away from Burrin’s back, depositing her on the ground with an imprecise splat. She also had to keep her eyes shielded from the stinging wind and she had to rely almost entirely on the bird’s sense of direction. Which is rumored to be infallible, anyway. But how do the seleagles see with all this wind in their faces? She would ask when they landed. The trip through the air gave her time to think about things, like Eafa’s death, and what she might’ve done to avoid it. Should I have cast a Curse against Terry or Dermy in order to save the animal? It wasn’t clear that she could Curse Celester so she didn’t want to take a chance. And she was also uncertain of a couple other things: If I cast the Curse of Truth and commanded Dermy to talk about a storm quickly brewing, would it even work? She’d used the Curse to Truth to keep people honest in situations that demanded it but she had never been sure if the Truth produced the words or if the words, indeed, caused the Truth to come about, like a prophecy being spoken and obligingly realized. Tuette also knew that casting a Curse would publicly reveal that she was Cursed… and she silently wondered why she was keeping it a secret anymore. It wasn’t like the others were prejudicial against Cursed folk. Except that Celester had made the comment before, stating that only a Cursed person would aim to kill Eafa as a means of making sure they could perform a Reverse of their own. When he said that, she had felt terrible because she had let her head energies run that same course a couple hundred times during the journey. She even knew that was why she had coerced the troupe to go after Count Roost personally, so she could have her chance at the chickens well after the fact. The count made the case an easy sell on his own; she just provided that extra push. But she felt sorry for the animal and confused for the situation. Who would want to stop Celester from Reversing the Curse against Decennia? Tuette realized she was looking at the question from the wrong angle. Who would want Roost to remain alive? But, no, Celester had stated that the tampering had most likely taken place well before the quartet had arrived at Zharinna, meaning that someone was aiming to stop the Reverse itself from being performed. Someone who was equally Cursed and didn’t want their status to be revealed when the kingdom-spanning Curse of the Thumb took effect, as in Tuette’s own case? It wasn’t wholly difficult to discern the nature of the king’s quest: if Ta Speebie had picked up on the Curse and the Reverse, anyone with experience could. Maybe even someone who worked with Ta Speebie herself. So they were dealing with a ta or a freelancer of equitable experience. Someone who needs to cast their own Reverse, maybe? Like the king said? That seemed very logical. There were undoubtedly numerously Cursed individuals that had already suffered the dispassionate aim of Corunny Voidet. Or even Count Roost! And since two separates Curses had already been charged with the exact same Reversals, then it was feasible to believe that even more existed. Count Roost was obviously not very imaginative, reusing old Reverses as he did. Tuette, with her head buried in Burrin’s neck, turned and saw Celester on top of his seleagle. The wind didn’t hinder her from this new position. Celester had his own face buried into the neck of his seleagle and there it was, exposed with loose hair and fabric framing it like a portrait: the kingstone. It glinted in the early morning sunlight, red in color. And, from this distance, it looked quite plain. Tuette didn’t know what she had expected. After being told briefly about it by Craspone, she had pictured a lavish gem inset in the man’s neck, raised up for all to see and feel; an embroidered, metal lattice providing a more adequate frame than his currently-greasy hair. But it was very plain and small. She imagined it felt like the weight of the world though, or at least the heft of Decennia. Tuette then grimaced, wondering as to why sorrow was beginning to creep into her thoughts. Analyzing the notions, she decided that she did feel somewhat sorry for the man; he bore a title he couldn’t handle that everyone assumed he innately could. Yes, the king’s revelation had been truly shocking. His kingstone didn’t work. He was unsure of his degree of protection in regards to both Magik and physical harm. Did the previous king suffer the same problem? What was his name? What about the king before him? How long had the kingstone been ineffective? Tuette reevaluated what she knew about Decennia as a whole and deduced that it had to have been at least Celester’s father that suffered the same fate. Under his reign, that’s when the Nementor Path began to become less of a priority. But with Celester, the awful Malforcrent was called into action. It was obviously the tents all taking advantage of the king’s unintentional handicap. Celester said they didn’t even know about the kingstone and that might’ve been readily believed if Tuette herself hadn’t first garnished the information from the previous agricultural specialist. No, the kingstone was dangerously close to being public knowledge. And if the Malforcrent knew about it, odds were that they knew it wasn’t functioning properly. Her next thought almost made Tuette’s breath catch. Will the kingstone ever be repaired? After being told what it was, she had not been able to find any additional information anywhere. Granted, she was limited in where she could search, but what Tuette could access held nothing on the matter. After the Magikals of Decennia’s early years had arranged to have a king chosen by Magik, they obviously just let contact between the throne and Gale Marsht disintegrate, and for good reason. There were far too many conflicts in the past that started with someone in a position of power using Magik to further their grip. Celester didn’t seem that way though. He seemed… simple, even, like he might not even want to be king. Tuette assumed that this quest he was gallivanting on was a way to show the Malforcrent his abilities. But did he also need the excuse to leave the mountain? Is he tired of it all? Her mind then drifted to his hearty effort in stopping Artificial-Reefetta a day or two before. If Celester had known he wasn’t under any kind of definite protection, what had driven him? Tuette found that she didn’t want to think about that notion. Not really. Instead, she turned her head and looked at Terry… and felt even more sorrow for her was Artificial-Terry and he was mounted on Bonset, drooling excessively, facing the wind, and blinking away any bugs that might have smacked into his eyes. His face was marred by such carcasses already but they didn’t bother the man so he didn’t intend to swipe them away. He was simply and invasively possessed. Tuette had been around possessed persons before but these last two cases were the worst and best examples of the Magik. The target was essentially a slave and the body suffered in many ways. Tuette only imagined how much the Artificial had forced Terry to eject his waste upon Bonset. Judging by the bird’s look of disgust, at least once. The possessed was made stronger but basically treated like a puppet. With a Charmed-from-Afar variant, Tuette knew very little. She had heard Voidet’s description and hopes that he would eventually create an Artificial that he could actually control from afar but this didn’t seem like that type. It didn’t speak. It only acted or reacted. Thinking about the fact that it was a Charmed-from-Afar Artificial, she was forced to wonder again about what initially brought it to the group. And twice in two days! Her thoughts almost instantly pinpointed the talking fly. It had spoken of the count and it was clear that Roost was using Corunny Voidet’s tome of scripts. Is the fly the conduit? If so, it probably doesn’t know. Otherwise, it might’ve stayed away from the king because, as Celester had suggested, it was probably working against Roost as it purposefully missed the chance to bring the king to the count. Tuette thought to the incident with Reefetta and the chickens. The fly had to have been there as well and just hadn’t been noticed. She remembered that Terry had counted the corpses and she realized that the insect must’ve taken the missing chicken. What a fly would need with a chicken, Tuette didn’t know, but that meant that Roost probably had Joy, a chicken, and Beverane, if the truth was backing her notions. Realizing again that a simple Curse of Truth could verify her thoughts, she deduced that casting one might not be such a bad idea, if only to prove it. I don’t have to make a big deal about it. No grand show or anything. Just a simple Curse on Dermy, as he’ll understand, and I’ll even order a very simple Reverse so he can be free of an otherwise damning situation. Tuette had refocused on Terry again after her head was settled, and realized he had taken on a different stance. He was blinking more rapidly, hunched over and clutching Bonset madly. With horror filling Tuette’s mind, she saw Terry clearly lose his balance and fall terribly from Bonset’s back. Bonset let out a shriek that drew everyone’s attention and the seleagle swooped down after Terry. The other seleagles slowed and began to descend as quickly. Without so much wind, Tuette was able to take in the surroundings. They had not yet reached even central Javal’ta, a feat in itself as it was a very long region from north to south. The ground wasn’t far below but high enough to cause serious damage. Especially if one were to land on their head. Fortunately, Terry was headed towards a canopy of trees that stood as an oasis in a vast plain of midland. To the south was a simple village that Tuette didn’t know by site. To the north, over the area they had just flown, was a very small tolo as recognized by the shallow angle of the roofline and the bowed-in stance of the supporting walls, five total. There was a small garden to the left of the tolo and a pathway leading off to the right and behind. No path led to the nearby village. Terry landed with a screech that was heard even in the air. Burrin landed gently near the trees with the lone tolo behind him. The other landed close by. By the time they all had dismounted and approached the trees, Terry had moved his way down the various branches and was lying on the ground, groaning and wiping his face. Tuette leaned down, feeling her hood tighten against her forehead: her skirt had bunched beneath her and she readjusted it before trying to help Terry up. He groaned when Tuette touched his arm and she assumed it might be broken, or at least severely bruised. “What happened?” asked Celester. Tuette thought he might’ve been smart enough to figure it out but he was probably slowed by his personal ineptness. Or his broken kingstone. She wasn’t sure she wanted to know which. “The Artificial left his body.” “Artificial?” he asked. “I was possessed?” She nodded, getting the first hint of his urine-stained outfit as it carried suddenly on the gentle breeze. “What do you remember?” asked the other Guard. Terry shook his head. “Um, it’s fuzzy. But I think it was us standing with the eagles, ‘bout to say goodbye to Jack.” Tuette refrained from correcting him on the fact that they were seleagles and instead helped him up by grabbing his other arm. Terry was cradling his injured arm when a new voice entered the fray. “I can fix it!” They all jumped when they realized that a short, elderly man had joined them. “Sweet dack! Another Spirit?” exclaimed Celester. She was inclined to believe it herself as she looked around to see what he could’ve possibly been tied too. It seemed odd that they encounter two World Spirits in the same day when most people never encountered one in their entire life. If he was a Spirit, he had to have been tethered to the small oasis of trees that Terry had landed within. She looked behind the group and deduced he must’ve simply come from the small tolo. “You kids havin’ Spirit troubles?” asked the old man. “Who are you?” asked the king, a little more forceful than he otherwise should’ve spoken. He must still assume the old man is a World Spirit. “I’m Ed.” “Just Ed?” “No, Ed. Who are you?” Celester seemed confused by the question. “I’m the King of Decennia.” Ed seemed unfazed. “The king? Impressive.” She doubted that Ed thought as much but also thought it was polite of him to say it. “Well, King, I’d be glad to fix that man’s arm. Maybe give you a hot meal. Or a meal in general.” Celester looked at the trees. “There is no food on these trees. And I’m truly not hungry enough to eat anything that might come from…” “We’d be happy to take you up on your offer, if only to have Terry’s arm fixed.” The king looked confused again. She leaned closer and spoke quietly to the king. “He’s not a World Spirit. He’s just an old man. He lives over there.” Celester looked where Tuette was pointing, obviously seeing the small tolo for the first time. Such a fine display of his observational skills. She smirked and they headed across the plain. The seleagles said they would return shortly and Tuette imagined they were seeking food for themselves as well. * ~ * ~ * When they first entered, Tuette immediately noted the Magik items on the shelves. Some were small sculptures like she had seen at Ta Speebie’s: they were so finely crafted. What had that old woman said about them? They were originals of some type. Turtle? Or Burtle, maybe? Ed drew her away from them quickly, motioning that they sit at a table that was centrally placed inside the tolo. A meal was prepared in almost no time at all, as that was what an experienced Magikal could do on such short notice. If not, they were dealing with a very lonely man who always had something to eat on hand. Thankfully, he revealed himself to be a Mage. “I once served the perryta in Mokal out there.” He gestured to the village pretty much just outside the door. “Not ‘fficially, since I’m no ta, but I know more than even he does!” He licked his lips which still looked cracked, despite the effort. “But when he found himself some ‘gitimate tas, I was tossed. Ma home be ou’side Mokal’s true jurs’diction but I still get some residents comin’ to me with problems. Like the Guard here, with broken bones. I’m a good mender, mind you.” At that, Tuette immediately thought of Dermy’s arm and how his disguise was eating at the bone. But when he looked into the specialist’s eyes, she could see that he didn’t want her to bring anything up about it. She decided she would comply. For now. “You mend bones?” asked the king. How many times does something have to be explained to him? Ed nodded, serving another helping of some sort of dry salad to the older Guard. “I do, sir, yes. I mend bones, pots, minds, and hearts.” He then flashed a gummy grin that was unevenly pocked with blank spots and black teeth. The site suddenly made Tuette conscious of her own teeth and she felt like washing them thoroughly after the meal. “You mend minds and hearts? Like, if someone doesn’t think straight, or falls out of love or something?” Tuette suppressed a sigh, remembering that he truly didn’t know any better. “Celester, he was joking about the last part.” The king’s eyes flashed and she could see his jaw set firmly underneath his beard. His nostrils flared once, and then again. Tuette guessed it might’ve been about noon then as tolo’s were known to get hot when Brill above beat his heat onto the roofs. That or she was, herself, feeling hot under the collar for some reason. She didn’t know why though, but some sort of tension had settled over the interior. Ed then made a loud click with his tongue and then chuckled, drawing everyone’s attention with his brief display of madness. “Ho ho!” “What’s so funny?” she asked, trying to avoid the king’s piercing gaze. Is my Curse showing? Is that what he’s staring about? Valtos, I hope not! “Ho-oh! His name be Sylvester, miss!” “What?” she said, now thoroughly confused. Is he talking about the other Guard? “Him?” she asked while pointing to the older Guard. Ed clicked again and then set about laughing a little more now, his face reddening from the effort. “Actually, yes! He is too! Two Sylvester’s, oh-ho!” In her peripheral, she saw a small look of shock pass over Terry’s face. Apparently, he’s never encountered such a situation before either. “Two? Who’s the first?” “I am!” shouted the king while pounding his fist against the surface of the table… and Tuette felt her face go crimson from the rushing blood of embarrassment. I’ve been calling him Celester. And too his face, no doubt! She could only stammer an attempt at explaining but nothing came to mind. Tuette felt like such a fool. This old man, this Ed-stranger, had been the one to reveal it and no one else had. How many times had I said Celester and nobody attempted to correct me? Tuette realized finally why the king would look so menacing every time she said it. And how, with every iteration, something had caused enough distraction to let her get away with it. Until now. Tuette felt more than just foolish now. She felt just as angry as Celest – Sylvester! – as he felt! “Why didn’t you tell me?” she shouted back at the king, standing a little in an attempt to tower over him. “Or you?” she pointed at Dermy. “Or one of you two?” The king looked at the older Guard. “Your name is also Sylvester?” The older Guard nodded. “Most everyone just calls me Vest though.” Sylvester nodded. “Well, at least that’s part of your name.” He looked back at Tuette, looking up into her heated face. “What’s say, Hooette? Wanna butcher his name too? Maybe call him Test? Or Pest?” Tuette felt a froth building up inside her throat and knew she might spit it out if she tried to speak. So she settled back into the chair and took a forkful of salad into her mouth, hoping the anger-inspired froth went back down with it. Sylvester then looked at Ed. “How did you know my name, Ed?” He gave her a quick sidelong glance. Ed shrugged his shoulders. “It’s something I can do, for some’n other reason. Don’t know why. I look at someone long enough, holdin’ my breath. When my tongue clicks, their full name pops into ma head.” Tuette had never heard of such a thing but didn’t want to comment on it. She was still enraged about the turn of events that caused her to look like such a kriffing idiot. With her silence, she was able to finish off her salad well before anyone else and began on the salted meat that Ed had placed at the table’s center. She knew she might eat it all if someone didn’t stop her. Or if she didn’t cut off a small piece for herself. She didn’t cut off a piece and no one stopped her. They continued conversing without her: Sylvester about their quest and Ed about nothing in general. That is, until he mentioned an even faster means of travel than the seleagles. “See, a bit west of Mokal is a pair o’ big Stones that are part of the Ring of Ten Minus Two.” “The Ring of Eight?” Sylvester asked, a question that actually made Tuette want to confirm his questionable mathematic skills, but she declined because she also feared she might say something more course. Ed finished clearing his own plate and then retrieved a simple Heal Pote from his lowest shelf near the back. “Here. Take that outside. Pour it in a bowl. Add some dirt. Mix it up with your hands… or hand, and rub the mud where it hurts. Be good in no time.” Terry followed orders as quickly as only his kind could. Ed turned to the king and sat down again. “No. The Ring of Ten Minus Two. Everyone knows that ten of ‘em were Charmed centuries ago, during an eclipse, but no one knows were the last two be at.” Sylvester frowned and Tuette felt like throwing her now-empty plate at him. She knew she was a poor thrower through and would probably end up hitting Vest or Dermy or nothing at all. “But you said they were stones. And they’re set into giant rings or something like that?” Ed smiled and Tuette hoped that showed how stupid the question was. She felt like answering for the old man because she already knew of the Ring. She had just assumed they were too inaccessible as she had no knowledge on their locations, except for the pair in Accordia, back west and then some. Still, Ed explained: “King, sir, it’s a Ring, like a network, of large Stones. You can be instantly taken from one spot,” he put his finger against the table and then jumped that same finger to another point on the table,” to another. Straight away.” Sylvester made to look at Tuette first but averted his gaze to look at Dermy; apparently, he still felt uncomfortable about her misunderstanding as well. “Just like the eagle. And Joy.” “Enjoy? Enjoy what?” asked Ed. “Not enjoy. And… Joy.” Sylvester then explained, with Dermy’s assistance, the predicament involving Beverane and Jack’s Spirit daughter. Ed shook his head when they concluded, frowning. “Don’t know nothin’ about that. Didn’t think something like that be possible without big ol’ Stones. But the Stones west should ‘ventually take you to the Seagulf Islands, at least. I know that Schove has one of ‘em. Maybe Boost has the other’n,” he shrugged, not committing to either notion. It didn’t bode much confidence in his words. Tuette thought quietly while they conversed. Can we risk a trip through the Ring? It was said to operate on Battery Magik, which was a type of Magik that built itself up over time and was usually required for larger Charms as a means of charging it for eventual use. The problem was that Tuette wasn’t sure if each conduit in the Ring operated on its own Battery Magik or if it was the whole Ring as one, another reason she had never bothered to bring it up. She decided she’d ask Ed shortly before they left, when she wasn’t in earshot of the king. She stewed for a minute longer on the subject of the king and the mistaken identity. Why hadn’t he thought to correct me already? Why had it essentially taken a stranger to inform me? He had plenty of opportunities to do so when she hadn’t just said his name. Perhaps he forgot as soon as something else came up? That doesn’t speak highly of his mental prowess. Tuette looked at Dermy. Why hadn’t he at least informed me? Had he tried? Maybe he‘s feeling depressed about his own predicament and thought to spite me? She might understand that, but it was a stretch. She felt herself getting flustered again at the situation and thought that the only way to get over it was to either embrace it with humor or ignore it. A mixture of both was what she decided on. Knowing that she could push the king’s buttons by merely misstating his name was indeed a plus on her part. Deciding to go ahead and ask Ed about the Ring, she sat up, the motion drawing the men into a silent state. “Ed, you mentioned the Ring. I thought it worked on Battery Magik.” “What’s that?” asked Sylvester, suddenly more suspicious than he had a right to be. The old man smiled again. “Not the whole network, nah. Each Stone does though. But you needn’t worry ‘bout them runnin’ out of juice on ya. No one uses them.” “And why not?” asked Sylvester, still carrying a hint of suspicion. Sighing only slightly, Ed sat up in his chair. “Being straight with you, they can be a bit dangerous.” Sylvester’s jaw opened slightly and he looked between Ed and Tuette. “Dangerous? Dangerous how?” Tuette said, “They’ve been known to throw travelers a good distance from the Stone, when traveling alone.” “But see? You are a good sized group! Ya’ll won’t be chucked too far! Certainly not far enough to cause problems.” He stood up again, a notion seeming to have come about. “And if ya do, I got more Heal Pote you can use to fix yourselves up, yes!” Indeed, he did have many vials, all filled with the milky white substance. The king squinted a little. “And you think there’s a pair near Boost? At least among the Seagulf Islands?” Ed set the vials on the table – they clattered and rolled around – while he retrieved something else from the lower shelf on the back wall. This was a map weave. When he unrolled it, it showed a more up-to-date version of Decennia, with Uv-Hren and Jint clearly marked. The Seagulf Islands were also present; each island wasn’t labeled but a list of islands that made up the chain was underneath the printing of Seagulf Islands. Reaching into a bag that he also had withdrawn with the weave, Ed pulled out what was probably fig fur, but Tuette didn’t ask. He sprinkled it lightly on the top half of Decennia, pulled out another amount and sprinkled a smaller amount on the bottom half. While he was spreading the furs, he was muttering something that Tuette didn’t hear completely but she knew it had to be some kind of Locator Spell. It ended with Ed saying “Ring of Ten” and the furs began to faintly glow in four hazy points on the map, each of the points ovular in nature. “See? That be where each pair of the Stones in the Ring are.” Sure enough, Tuette saw an oval over Accordia and another amidst the Seagulf Islands. There was a third set close to where they presumably were and one way up in the northeast of Decennia. The placement for the Ring seemed very odd to Tuette. They weren’t equally distributed over the whole mass of the kingdom but only brought together three relatively close locations and one distant location. It would make sense that the missing pair in the Ring of Ten Minus Two would be somewhere in the northwest of Decennia, as that would mean it had purpose. But that section of the map was decently covered with tufts of fur, probably because Ed was silently hoping that the final pair would, at least, reveal itself to the aged man. But it hadn’t. A brief frown played out but was instantly replaced when he clucked out a chuckle. “Ya see? You can get from here, close by, straight to the Islands.” Dermy seemed dubious. “Straigh’ too? No’ on’ o’ dese other’n places?” Ed smiled more broadly. “Well, that be the gamble. But if you go to the wrong place, just hop to the next Stone in the Ring and you’ll ‘ventually be in the right.” “Seems simple enough,” said the king. Vest nodded and Tuette immediately thought of Terry outside. She excused herself to check on him. * ~ * ~ * His bruised or broken arm was caked in mud that had quickly dried under the sun. He was leaning against a post in the garden from which he had garnished the dirt and he flashed a weak smile when he saw her approach. It quickly vanished and he reverted to looking into the distance. “What’s wrong?” asked Tuette, though she imagined she knew. “Nothing, madam.” She moved her head slightly, smiling and drawing his eyes towards hers. “Call me Tuette, please. And I think I know what’s wrong.” She tenderly touched the hand connected to his damaged arm. If it hurt, he didn’t show it. “You’re thinking that if something like an Artificial can take you over, what kind of weakness does that show?” She paused. “Yes?” Terry looked down at where their hands met and he nodded once. Tugging away slightly, he started talking, averting his gaze. “It’s just, I’m a Gousherall. Best of the best, up on the mountain and back in Fortright. And a fake dacking spirit got me to… well, it could’ve made me do anything, right?” She nodded, thinking back to Reefetta first and then to that poor messenger that Voidet had sent after her to formally inform her she had been Cursed. “And I just caved.” “Hey, it’s not your fault. You’re not protected from that kind of thing. You may be a Gousherall but you’re still human.” She shook her head, looking at the simple garden. “The king should just have you guys shielded from that kind of stuff. Why doesn’t he?” “There’s not many people who dole out Magik on the mountain. And even fewer up in the Isles.” “But, still. You guys protect the kingdom’s leader. If any one of you can be taken by an Artificial, you could easily get rid of the king!” She thought of the implications behind that and was suddenly very curious in what happened to the previous king. And if he really had also suffered the same condition as Sylvester. “There’s such a protection?” he asked, bringing her back to focus. She nodded. “A Barrier or Block Charm. Usually used to protect ‘gainst Curses, because of their invasiveness. But also stops Artificial.” “Could you make one?” he asked timidly. Tuette was reminded of a young child asking his mother to check under the bed for creatures. It made her want to laugh a little. She chose to smile instead. “Not with any of my stuff now, no. But when this is all done, I can try.” That brought out a smile on Terry and she felt a tingle at the base of her spine. Because she liked to think that she had brought it out. That made her feel good. Standing and readjusting her hood, she was reminded again of her Curse as the large bundle of hair on her neck shifted beneath the thin fabric. “Why don’t you wear something besides that dingy hood?” Flashing a smile, she began to walk away while playing with her hood’s drawstrings. “Because I’m making a fashion statement, silly.” She suddenly felt very aware of her backside and she wondered if he was watching her walk away. “What kind of statement?” he called back, a smile heard on his breath. Tuette didn’t turn completely to answer but shouted over her shoulder “The kind that makes you ask questions. And not about me.” She turned around completely, smiling because he had been watching her. “About your own sense of fashion.” Letting a genuine giggle escape, she completed her turn and entered Ed’s tolo. |
| I grow tired of that Cursed fly’s devious shenanigans. First, it had been that bawdy looking plant that somehow continued to flourish despite Roost’s best efforts of neglect. Then it was the lei cat that had caused quite a bit of damage to the workshop, though nothing of irreplaceable value had been lost. Then it was a rare but equally annoying chicken that still continued to announce the impending approach of dawn every morning in that shriek of a caw. Now it was a seleagle. And the creatures weren’t known to be gentle under bouts of captivity. As it was, the giant bird had been flapping about madly inside the workshop, Puze buzzing a cackle from somewhere nearby. Now it was perched just at the doorway and had said it would snap at any who dare intrude. It then began speaking in lower tones and Count Roost could only assume it was talking to Puze, conspiring against the Cursed count. Instantly, Roost was speaking ill of his own advanced abilities with manipulating Curses. It wasn’t everybody that could bring about instantaneous transport from one point to another but he had done it. The problem was he had given the potentially phenomenal power to someone that would very much like to see the count dead. He knew it wasn’t a new power, just one that usually required a large tether. Like when applying a Magik disguise. As it turned out, altering the fruit fly’s Curse was proving to be somewhat disastrous. He tried overhearing the words that the large seleagle spoke and what Puze might be saying but the bird’s speech was too low to be intelligible and he couldn’t even hear Puze. He tried putting his head around the corner. Like a flash, the large beak of the seleagle darted forward, grazing against stone. Roost felt his heart hammer in his head as he stumbled back and nearly fell down the stairwell, mentally reeling about the situation. To be restricted from realms of one’s own castle! The chicken sounded off again and Roost was reminded the he was still in his bedclothes. He desperately desired to change. Maybe, since the bird can speak and understand language, it can understand logic and reason. “Bird! Seleagle!” he called around the corner. The murmuring stopped but the bird didn’t say anything. “Might I pass by the room? To reach my bedroom further up the stairwell?” It was a tense silence that followed, broken by the seleagle’s reply: “Mooove quickly.” That was all Count Roost needed when he darted for the other side of the entryway, glancing in to the workshop. The view startled him and made him trip, causing him to bang his knee against the firm edge of the first step off the landing. With the seleagle was the chicken, perched in the window, as usual, and Puze on the bird’s head. And the young girl that hosted as representative of the World Spirit. The scene was limited as the large flyer’s piercing gaze chilled the count’s blood. It looked like it might actually attack Roost, had he been able to fit into the narrow stairwell. As it was, it could probably bird-walk its way up the awkward steps and get at Roost anyway. He didn’t feel like risking that chance. Count Roost ascended the stairs, clambering with hands and feet. The moans of Voidet drifting sharply up after him brought attention to the fact that Botch was in the castle. After he handled the old man, he’d be ready to head up with the count’s washing basin. He felt fearful for the young boy. He didn’t want the overeager seleagle to snap at Botch, possibly killing him if not causing him to fall down the harsh steps. Roost stepped into his room, quickly donning knew clothes and running a toothy comb through his hair. He left his stubble unkempt and briefly paused, thinking about his perfect disguise. Why don’t I alter it so I don’t grow facial hair? Roost knew the answer immediately: if he didn’t shave, then his true form would just become itchy in a sense, and make him look crazed when he attempted to scratch at fur that wasn’t there. He cursed himself for wasting such seconds on thoughts he had already contemplated long ago. Racing down the stairwell, his hand bracing against a stumble, he came to the landing again, just as Botch was seen on the far side. Steam from the basin indicated the temperature, and the count felt briefly glad that the boy might not have to hold it for too much longer. Motioning madly with his hands, he ordered Botch to stop. The murmurs from within the workshop between the seleagle, the fly, and the Spirit had stopped just before Roost came upon the landing. Standing caused him to remember that he had hit his leg on the stone step: it throbbed slightly. “Seleagle! I require passage again!” He felt like a fool, asking for permission from an intruder, and wondered how he appeared in Botch’s eyes. He didn’t want to lose the boy’s enamored respect. He felt like he might be the son that Roost himself knew he could never have the chance at acquiring. As it was, Botch looked too confused for words. His face was scrunched in a manner that was almost humorous. After a few low utterances from the bird, he emitted what could’ve been a growl – Can avian growl? – and said “Pass, human.” Without looking into the room again, Roost moved by the portal. “What is happening?” asked Botch with fear laced in his speech. “Who is in the workshop? Was that Puze”? Roost grimaced. “No, it is something Puze brought back with him.” He looked down at the basin, the steam rising in gentle curls. An idea popped up and he silently took the basin from Botch. Rounding the corner, he hefted the basin awkwardly, hoping to send the scalding water onto the large bird... but the water instantly turned to snowy fluff and Roost swore, remembering the Spirit and her abilities. He dropped the basin and it shattered, hitting the edge of a table first before crashing to the floor. The seleagle jerked its head backward and began scratching madly at its eye. The count realized instantly what had happened: a ceramic shard had flown into the beast’s eye. The girl shrieked, seeing the seleagle in pain and she obviously didn’t think quickly enough about fixing it. Roost stepped into the room in a dash, pushing at the girl. Her reaction wasn’t expected: she screamed louder when she could’ve done much worse. How could such an old Spirit behave so childishly? Roost was mindful of the blinded bird as it was not ignoring its damaged eye and snapping around the room, hoping to get at Roost. Puze was obviously guiding it by voice. The Spirit just shrieked and the count thought to invite her to disappear but instead embraced it: the screams seemed to disorient the bird. He ducked himself underneath the nearest table and began moving against the wall towards the other side of the room. It being a circular room, he knew he didn’t have the best options for hiding, but he had to try if he was going to be rid of this larger-than-life menace. When he got a quarter of the way around, he looked back and saw Botch staring into the room in amazement. The boy then disappeared and Roost felt a little shame, hoping the boy might be able to face such a situation. The shrieking Spirit also disappeared finally, probably not able to take the excitement. Suddenly, the seleagle stopped snapping madly about and Roost looked to see why. It was bleeding from both eyes, probably blinded permanently, but it was sending its beak about as if it was sniffing. Roost couldn’t recall if the birds picked up on scents. When the seleagle snapped at the table he was under, the count decided they could. Thankfully, the edge of the table was thick, as most workbenches are, and the seleagle’s beak didn’t have a chance at breaking through it. But that didn’t stop it from trying again. Roost felt coldness envelop his face and he realized that he’d been sweating. This bird was now hunting him, blinded but still quite deadly. It could smell him and by that, knew where he was, and it would hear him if he moved. Puze was most likely guiding him as well and Count Roost thought that he might send congratulations to the pesky fly: he had finally been bested. And by benefit of my own Curses! Without preamble, Botch burst into the room, panting but also holding something inside his fist. He leaped at the seleagle, who had turned at the new noise but didn’t attack, probably out of pure curiosity. He landed wholly against the bird, looking like a tiny doll of straw compared to the oversized avian. The bird flapped its wings once, then again, and finally started to snap and send its talons about. But nothing landed on Botch: he was too small and too close. And then the seleagle fell into a heap with Botch straddling the bird. Puze could be heard buzzing around and then Roost saw the third broken cage: Two left for the dacking pest. But Puze flew out the window and, curiously, the Spirit didn’t reappear. Is she frightened? Or maybe her domain has been redefined? It was becoming obvious that she didn’t understand her powers. And that somehow seemed even more costly to the count. Someone with abilities they don’t understand can be quite dangerous. Then how had she known to turn the hot water into snow then? Had the seleagle suggested it? He looked at the heap, confusion now entering his mind. How had Botch done it? The boy stood up, panting, sweat coating him almost as equally as it was now being donned by Roost. “How’d you do that, my boy?” Botch huffed once and then held out his hand. In it was the Pain-Less Stone. Roost could only beam a smile before he felt his knees falter under the waning rush of excitement. He had intended to reach the pikes on the other side of the room. He had never thought that anything more useful could be elsewhere in the castle if it wasn’t in the workshop. Count Roost felt very proud. He looked at the paralyzed seleagle heap and wondered if he should kill it or attempt to question it when it came out of its Magik-induced coma. He decided on the latter, knowing the former might actually be enjoyable since the bird had caused so much trouble. * ~ * ~ * Using a length of chains brought from a disused portion of the former dungeon, Roost and Botch were able to drag the seleagle down the stairwell and out into the courtyard below the sole tower. With grip juice, they fastened the chains to the stone blocks set into the path that wended though the yard. It was just in time too as they had set the last gripped link when the seleagle’s beak began to slowly snap. Roost imagined the bird was thirsty. And found himself not caring. Botch, to the count’s mild surprise, had not left his side and, indeed, looked pleased with the desired outcome of their actions. They both stepped away from the bird as it began to pull against the chains, which they had haphazardly woven together to make a kind of net. The bird squawked once and tried it’s might against the makeshift net only to find it to be too powerful for the creature to break through. Roost could see that it obviously couldn’t get enough leverage, what with being so close to the ground. The bird snorted once, then again, and then said, “Where?” “You are on the island – my island – of Boost.” The bird inhaled a rasp of air. Its eyes had stopped bleeding but it obviously couldn’t see of out them; whether through dried blood or permanent damage, the count didn’t know. “Then yooo are the count. Rooost.” That registered a mild surprised. “Yes. And yooo know how?” he replied in a decidedly mocking gesture. “Rooost,” wheezed the bird. “Roooster. Yooo possess one.” It paused, its breathing labored by its restrictions. “How fitting. As yooo are a chicken!” Count Roost felt bile rise inside of him, his worst nightmares and actual past slamming into him simultaneously. The bile overtook his vision and the next thing her knew— He was being forcibly hauled off of the unconscious or dead body of the seleagle by Botch. The boy had tears streaming down his face. Roost’s own knuckles felt raw, the muscles in his legs burned as if he had been running or kicking excessively. He looked again at the boy. His own attack on the bird didn’t make him cry. Why does he shed tears now? Roost felt his own lip trembling and licked it, tasting blood. He knew immediately what had happened and felt shame color his entire body in a sunset hue. He had lost control. He had let himself become enraged. It had been years since anyone had actually called him a chicken, or even likened him to the rare birds, but not since adopting the thinner, more muscular disguise had it been uttered even once. Roost knew that his name might invite the comparison but he had always hoped that his fearful rule would inspire a more menacing definition. He lived on the top of a small mountain, in his perch or roost, and put fear into the hearts of those that failed to serve him properly. But this abomination of a bird had brought out the very worst in the count in one smooth stroke. Is he now dead, this descendant of war? Roost looked down on the weakened seleagle. Not much of a warrior. He spit a small build-up of blood at the feathered fiend and it stirred. “Awaken, fowl!” The seleagle gasped, then coughed, and then vomited, its beak forced to remain settled halfway into the mess. “Is this why yooo Curse the king’s land?” it asked, lifting its head as far as it could to avoid having to rest in its own vomit. “Because yooo cannot handle name-calling?” The count turned his neck, feeling a defining pop as joints relieved tension and took on new challenges. Botch, sniffling still but having wiped his face clean, stood just behind and to the left of the count. Obviously, the episode of Roost’s supreme rage had frightened the boy, but he hadn’t fled. And for that, Roost was grateful. “I Curse for my own reasons, bird.” He licked his lips again. “You’ve either encountered the king directly or another ta that has come across my scheme.” He pondered briefly on that, thinking it might not have been so wise to leave his intentions unguarded for anyone to discover them. But that was why he had sent word to the folk in Gale Marsht. He stated plainly what it would take to stop the Curse and now they had somehow convinced the king to come and face the count. Everything was almost going according to plan. Almost. “I’m aligned with the king, foul. He will come here and he will kill yooo.” Count Roost leaned down and got as close as he dared to the bird, which was decidedly close: Botch’s tense form was registered in Roost’s peripheral. “I’m counting on it…” The bird snapped from beneath the chains, causing Roost to stir just slightly. “Why dooo yooo have Joy?” The count frowned. What was the bird talking about? Is it deranged? “Only when I have the kingstone will I have any joy, eagle.” He looked into himself, seeing that glorious future. “Then, my life will be at peace.” Roost imagined a night where he didn’t have to suffer dreadful dreams and days where he didn’t have to remain burdened by invalids like Voidet. “That’s when my life will truly begin.” The bird sighed and settled back down into its small puddle of sickness. “Yooo are unaware. Yooo are blinded—” “You are the blind one, fool!” He felt like kicking the bird again and when he didn’t, he was surprised to see Botch perform the deed as if he had been mentally cued. The bird groaned. “Tiny feet. Yooo must be a proud father, Rooost.” Botch gasped and looked up into Roost’s face. The count looked down at Botch and realized that the boy wasn’t too much shorter than himself. Roost smiled. “I am.” The boy smiled, his eyes glassing over suddenly and he immediately began to wipe them with his sleeve. Roost wondered at the boy’s true parentage then and decided that it might be a good time to arrange a permanent move of Botch to Castle Tigra Lei. He threw his arm around Botch and turned the boy away from the seleagle. Roost quickly decided that the bird would be left to die and rot, ejecting its fluids and eating its own vomit if it wanted a chance at surviving. There was no way it could escape. And even if it did, what could it do? A blind bird is useless. Just like Botch’s true father probably is. Just like my father definitely was. |
| Time with Ed was short and for good cause: they were all running out of it. It was still at least three days, maybe two. It was never decided how long they had spent in Jack’s forest but the common assumption was that it had been only for one night. What delayed them further was Terry’s healing arm. It was proposed that they walk the distance to the supposedly large Stone but that was advised against by Ed. The area was laden with ground serpents. Sylvester inquired as to why they weren’t simply called snakes, a question which drew a small guffaw from the old man. The guffaw which drew a shroud of shame across the king. Ed explained that snakes were usually small and mostly harmless. Ground serpents, also known as tips, were lethal and larger. They burrowed out a good-sized hole in the ground and then went in, turned themselves around, and poked only their head outside of the hole. Opening their jaws to their widest, they flattened their serrated teeth and used their prehensile tongues to draw debris over parts of the mouth. In essence, it was a near-perfect trap as they struck not only against prey that wasn’t watching their step but also one that might be nearby. Tips were usually small enough so they couldn’t swallow a man whole but that wouldn’t stop them from trying, Ed warned. The warning was taken to heart. They waited until Terry was healed, knowing the option of leaving him behind was out of the question. While waiting, Sylvester pondered on the revelation that Tuette truly had not known his actual name. How had such a thing occurred? They had been traveling for days together and she usually had not stated his name unless she was being exceptionally snarky. How often do I state her name for that matter? It seemed like he said it often. When she had said it the last time, he had felt like upending the table. Thankfully, Ed and his odd gift were present. Do more people have particular gifts like Ed? If so, what kinds are there? But now, at last, she finally could state his name correctly. Looking at the others as they tried to doze during this interim of destinations, Sylvester could only wonder as to why none of them had bothered to correct Tuette, just like she asked. It seemed peculiar. Have they been trying to make a fool of her because they recognize how haughty she is? That she needed to be taken down a notch? The incident did seem to settle harshly on her, even to the point that Sylvester felt sorry for her. Glancing at the two Guards, Sylvester found himself practically staring at the older one. His name was also Sylvester, but he went my Vest. And Sylvester thought Vest, in some way, resembled himself. Is there a closer connection than either of us realize? Vest certainly looked more than twice Sylvester’s age but was in far better shape. But the idea that he could be some paternal figure never entered his mind as a serious notion. My true father was King Gould, and he’s dead. Isn’t he? Sylvester suddenly became uneasy and he wanted desperately to check the back of Vest’s neck. For all that he didn’t know about the kingstone, he knew that each king carried one, no matter what, until death. But no, it had to be a mere coincidence. Sylvester remembered that both he and Vest grew up in the Fortright Isles, where beards were considered fashionable and ideal: the cold sea winds tended to cause freezing temperatures that beards naturally protected against. And even if they hadn’t been born in the same region, they were raised there as all kings and Gousheralls had been. The bond they were supposed to form as children tended to solidify their stances as the protectors and the protected. The fact that Terry didn’t have a beard just said he didn’t enjoy them. Sylvester often didn’t relish his, finding it to itch between odd intervals of time. Recalling the first time he met Vest, he remembering silently wondering if the man was actually Sylvester sent from the future. The idea seemed comic at the time, but now… Well, Tuette often stated that anything was possible with Magik. He shook his head once, trying to force the thoughts to dissipate. Ed was still sitting at the table, poring over the map weave. Sylvester joined the old man, sitting next to him. Ed smelled of herbs and they made the king’s nose wrinkle. “Whatcha lookin’ for?” asked Sylvester as he leaned forward in the manner that Ed was. Ed scowled quickly and then displayed a smile. “Just lookin’. Tis was I do.” “Lookin’ for what, though?” The old man’s smile quivered slightly and he paused, blinking rapidly, and then raised both his arms as if to pound them into the table. Sylvester jumped at the motion but Ed desisted just before he was to strike the table’s surface. Looking around at the others to check if they had seen the display, Sylvester saw they were in their various states of dozing or, in Tuette’s case, thumbing through Dermy’s small tome, nearly hunched into a frumpy ball in the corner. Ed then leaned close to Sylvester. His breath was rancid. Ed whispered “I be lookin’ fer the las’ Stones!” He spit a little on the map and wiped it up with his fingertips, drawing some animal furs with it. Ed then swore and wiped the furs on his ragged tunic. Sylvester felt like he should offer some advice: to tell Ed to keep at it or stop looking for a while and it’ll show itself in time. Or even that he should enjoy loftier pursuits, like someone to help him around his tolo which. But the trinkets and stuff on the shelves, which seemed to cover every wall space, were dusty and possessed no sense of order. Sylvester’s eye was caught by an intricately carved little stone statute which depicted a creature of some kind. Probably something of Magik origin. He recalled how, a couple hours before, it had drawn Tuette’s attention. Drawing Ed away from the map, Sylvester pointed at the statue and asked in a murmur “What’s that?” Ed didn’t even look up. “Carving of a kigla. Tiny rodent that doesn’t exist anymore. It’s a Burtle original.” “What do you mean?” “Burtle. He carved it. Only he can carve something so detailed. It’s his gift. And curse.” “He’s Cursed?” “Not in the sense of... Roost, or whoever. But he just has a problem, with his head energies. Like me.” Sylvester pondered. So others can possess more useful gifts than name-knowledge! “Does he have to hold his breath, like you?” Ed sighed. It seemed like he didn’t want to answer any questions, and that made Sylvester curious enough to want to ask more. “People… People like Burtle an’ me, we just have these energy blocks, in our heads. Some people are jus’ born with ‘em. We get to excel at one thing – Burtle with carving Constructs, me with name-knowing – and we have to give up somethin’ else.” Ed made the motion of whistling but didn’t make the noise, making Sylvester wonder if he couldn’t properly do it. Like me. And he smiled briefly. “Burtle’s case is pretty severe, compared to mine.” “What conditions your blockage?” Ed smiled but his eyes looked pained, like he didn’t want to say. “Nah children. Not for me.” “You can’t have kids?” Ed shook his head, emphatically pouting out his lip. “Are you sure this isn’t a Curse?” “Oh ho!” he exclaimed in hushed tones. “If only! If I’n could Curse up folk like the count be doin’ down south, you think I be livin’ alone? Not even a welcome mat to my once and future Mokel?” His face dulled then, his eyes staring through everything. “Naw. Nah kids. Jus’ me, a name-knowin’ mule.” Sylvester felt sad for Ed and wondered at the unfortunate trade-off. And he wondered if he would ever make the choice like that, knowing that Ed and the Burtle character didn’t have such a choice. Would I choose children over innately knowing someone’s name or vice versa? But Sylvester remembered: Burtle’s stipulation was different, and somehow worse. Sylvester began to ask Ed when Terry stood up and patted at the flesh of his arm, grinning. “I think it’s fixed up, people! Sir!” Tuette was drawn out of her word-induced gaze while the other two pulled out of their light naps. “Time for us to head out.” It is, indeed. Sylvester gave Ed one final glance. Standing up, he could only think of his own situation: he knew he could have kids. And he knew that he eventually would have to sire the next king. But will I be ready? He cast the thought away, almost as soon as it formulated, knowing that he needed to worry about actually saving the kingdom before he could even think about the next king. Another idea formulated in his mind, and it was just as misgiving and one that Penson had failed to answer before. If I die out in the midlands or by Roost’s maniacal hand, who will be Decennia’s king? * ~ * ~ * It had been a very short flight to the large Stone that Sylvester was told was part of something called the Ring of Ten Minus Two. But it was long enough to converse with Penson though the Comgem. Though it was a difficult procedure of Sylvester having to pull his hand to his mouth and then back to his ear, most of the words got through to each other. Penson had actually been approached by Trisden Fellowes and, through anything but coincidence, it was the tent of Fortright Isles that would become the next king in the extremely unlikely event that a monarch died before conceiving an heir. Penson constantly reassured Sylvester that his kingstone would protect him but the king was anything but assured by the notion. After saying goodbye to his dear friend and landing, Dermy scooped the Comgem back from Sylvester, saying that it had been dangerous to use it in broad daylight. He was also angry that Sylvester had taken it without his permission. All Sylvester had said was “You said it’s for talking to Penson. I needed to talk to him.” Dermy screwed up his face into a menacingly wide smile but said nothing more. He didn’t need to: the smile was disturbing enough, as if the specialist’s disguise was intending to make him look comical. The seleagles didn’t leave right away. “We are making certain that yooo traverse well tooo your next destination,” said Burrin. Tuette hugged him and Sylvester patted his mount on the neck, stroking a few feathers as well. Passage via the large birds had been unexpected, to say the least. And at first, Sylvester had been fearful to stand near the towering creatures but he had gotten used to it. The five approached the nearest large Stone as the sun began to set. The moon was already visible and Sylvester absently noted it was nearly full. It will be a full moon in a matter of days. He stopped, attempting to think as someone with Magik might, meaning he wasn’t sure he knew what to think. “Wha’ stoppin’, Kingasir?” Sylvester pointed up to the moon. “It’s nearly full.” Tuette looked up. “Yeah, so?” “The Curse of the Thumb that Roost cast. Could it be coming to fruition when the moon is full? It seems like it’s going to coincide. Terry and Vest both looked up now. Tuette merely shrugged and kept moving. “Maybe. It’s possible.” Well that’s a pretty flippant answer. “Well, if it’s possible, doesn’t that mean we know something else?” She stopped again, swinging herself around fully, her face looking a little tired. “So what if it is, Sylvester?” The way she said his name made the king feel like he was being pounded with rocks. But he persisted, not wanting to drop it. “Well, doesn’t that mean anything? I mean, I don’t know much about Magiks—“ “You’re kriffing right ‘bout that.” “—but it seems that since we might’ve solved one facet of the Curse—“ “Then we’ll what, king?” she all but shouted, throwing her hands wide while shrugging her shoulders. “Then we’ll… What? Stop the moon from becoming full?” A silence settled coldly on all of them. Sylvester realized the issue: whether the Curse was tied to the moon becoming full or not didn’t matter because either way, they couldn’t stop it. But with Magik… “Is there such a way to do that?” Tuette rolled her eyes and looked like she wanted to spit. She actually did spit and approached Sylvester. “Yeah,” she said, he lips buttery with sarcasm. “Yeah, there’s a big ol’ Spell that we like to do every so often to stop Estella from fillin’ up. Because we crazy women of the night just don’t like it when we see a face prettier ‘an ours up in the sky!” He didn’t feel angry, just a little sad. Sylvester had hoped this type of behavior was behind and beyond them. All misunderstandings were complete and he was just posing an honest question about something he didn’t wholly understand. Sylvester honestly felt like crying, but didn’t, though he knew that the desire too was playing out on his face. Not shedding tears became his new, immediate goal. Did this register for Tuette? He looked her in the eye and she, after a handful of heartbeats, backed down, turned towards Terry, and her face flushed red. Tuette turned around with a heavy sigh, and continued towards the Stone. The others made to let it go and he knew that was the only thing he could do. She seemed stressed over something and he wanted to ask but realized that wasn’t the correct course of action. In front of the Stone was a wooden sign that was carved with traditional lettering. It looked fairly new, which only told Sylvester that someone was tasked with its upkeep, but who? Looking around, there was no one who lived immediately nearby and, like Jack had said, the fields between this point and Mokel were pocked with tips. Sylvester guessed that it didn’t truly matter. The words on the sign didn’t comfort him though, beginning with a bold Travel At Your Life’s Own Risk at the top. Below that were instructions on how to travel in the Ring though each line ended with implications that only negative results will come about, the worst of which was death: After the line Wait for an insufferable amount of time… only to arrive on the other end to suffer for some time was most ominous. “It seems like someone really doesn’t want us to use the Ring of Ten Minus Two, yeah?” said Vest. Tuette snorted. “If they really didn’t want us to use it, they would have more than some carved words set up to scare us.” “Th’ trip’s ‘pposed ta bein’ scar-ee,” said Dermy. Tuette shrugged her shoulders, ignoring the specialist. Sylvester felt like he might comfort the man because of her currently-callous attitude, but she walked up to the Stone and placed both of her hands against the smooth surface, her reactions making him think twice about doing that. She pulled them both away just as quickly, wincing, as if it hurt to touch it. Is it like shrent? “Is it hot or something.” “Or something,” she began, putting her hands to the Stone again and withstanding whatever was occurring. “It’s cold. Really cold.” Sylvester approached and placed his own hands to the monolith. The Stone was impossibly chilling, almost to the point of actually burning. Sylvester pulled away as Tuette had but didn’t want to put them back. He looked behind the group, watching the seleagles mill about while watching the outcome. He couldn’t relish the idea that they might carry the group all the way to the Seagulf Islands. It would’ve been ludicrous to ask, seeing as a more expedient means of travel was right at hand. Would the birds even be able to make it across the sea to reach the nearest island? It seemed doubtful: it was a considerable distance and they seemed winded just flying from Jack’s forest to Mokel. Looking again at the Stone, he motioned for the others to join. Tuette hadn’t removed her hands again and it looked like they had taken on a bluish tinge. Is this some perversion of Magik? Do the Stones ask an operator to risk losing their hands to extreme cold just to show how much they want or need to travel elsewhere so quickly? If so, it seems like a cruel game. But no, the sign said that all who wished to travel through the Ring had to, as one, quote the last line printed on the sign. All of them standing there, their hands all finally against the Stone, it was Terry who pointed out the obvious: “I can’t remember the exact phrase.” Tuette sighed, but not as loudly as she might’ve had Sylvester stated the predicament. She let go of the Stone, walked to the sign, stood there and read it for a few moments, her lips moving quickly, and she joined the men again. The action was clearly an indication that she also hadn’t been able to remember the exact recitation but Sylvester didn’t dare point that out; he wanted to get things between Tuette and he on a better course and it seemed like now was as good a time as any to start. Placing her hands again with a smaller wince, she said, “It’s ‘Traveling far, riding the Ring, quicker indeed, won’t cost a thing’.” Tuette was then quickly ensnared by little white, lightning-like tendrils. And then she was gone. Dermy shrieked in a manner that Sylvester had never heard uttered by an adult male. The Gousheralls were wide-eyed but that was about it. Sylvester felt a lump rise in his throat, recalling the dangers not only presented by the nearby sign but by what had to practically be yanked out of Ed regarding the nature of traveling alone through the Ring: that it was dangerous because the traveler was typically thrown from the Ring entirely. Probably even smashed against the next Stone in the network. “Okay, men!” he said quickly, drawing their focus. “We need to hurry! We need to follow her. The Stone could’ve…” He didn’t want to say what they were all obviously thinking. “So, yes! Let’s say it, as one. Do we all remember it?” Dermy looked white as a bank of snow, which surprised Sylvester because it seemed like the disguise should accommodate for that type of physical change. He was obviously worried for Tuette. “Dermy? Hands on the Stone! Remember the line?” Absently, Dermy returned to his position, nodding the whole time, mouthing something. “No!” shouted Sylvester, feeling ire rise inside himself. “Together! Don’t even mouth it! We don’t know how…” He swallowed, licking his lips. “We don’t know if that’s all it takes. Or not.” Looking to both Gousheralls, he said, “Ready?” They nodded in unison and Sylvester counted them down and they all four repeated the line that had taken Tuette away from them. Nothing happened. Sylvester felt like retching. “What the crap?!” said Terry. Sylvester looked at the Guard. Is he going to lose it? “Why isn’t it working?” The three looked at Dermy, who looked genuinely confused. Sylvester remembered something. “Dermy, what’s Battery Magik? How’s it work exactly?” Dermy shrugged. “Like a charg’, oh.” He licked his lips, sounding hoarse. “It takin’ time ta be refillin’. Oh.” Feeling dizzy, Sylvester thought of the possibilities. We could get the seleagles to take us to the closest set of Stones within the Ring and see if Tuette landed there. But where’s that? He mentally swore, remembering that the Seagulf Islands was the closest, next to that Accordia place. His hands ached form the cold, the pain they caused distracting him. Sylvester pulled them off… or tried too. They remained firmly fastened. He pulled again and immediately thought that some type of Magiked frostbite had taken form. The other men could easily be seen to struggle, grunting away their useless efforts. Vest said, “Maybe—“ And the last thing Sylvester saw was the white energy explode at him from the towering Stone, only to engulf him and pull him towards the rock and into it. The movements made him feel like retching again and he thought he might actually have done so. His vision blurred red at the edges, just before blackness swallowed him up. His stomach leaped into his chest and he fell into the oblivion of his own head energies. * ~ * ~ * Sylvester landed with a wind-stealing thud. His chest felt compressed and he knew that not enough air was being taken in. Opening his mouth wider, Sylvester tried gasping and, after a few efforts, became successful. But where am I? And where’s everyone else? This area, be it Schove, Accordia, or that remote location in he northeast, was pitch black. In standing, he immediately tripped, feeling very dizzy, like he might fall again. Putting his hand to his head, he felt soreness there. Pulling it away, he felt moisture on his fingertips and immediately imagined it to be blood. A scream was uttered from beyond his inky surroundings. It sounded like a woman, like… Tuette? Sylvester was very nervous and even afraid. His stomach was knotting itself, which in turn made him feel even weaker in the knees. A dull thud sounded in the further distance, accompanied shortly by a subtle tremor rumbling beneath Sylvester’s boots. What could’ve caused it? Looking up, Sylvester thought he saw a broad shape pass by, silhouetted against the dark-but-visible clouds, and immediately thought of the seleagles. Have they arrived at this place before us? Another thud sounded close by and was followed more quickly by an even stronger tremor. It seemed like some creature – creatures? – like they were jumping around in the dark, but he couldn’t be sure. And the uncertainty made him feel a deeper sense of terror. Should I move about in the dark? Should I call for the Guards or Dermy even? A heavy mass slammed into him and he fell over, his face landing in something wet. He groaned and turned his head to see mostly blackness. But he could smell Terry, as distinguished by the scent of the milky-muddy stuff he had used on his arm. “Terry, what’s happening?” “Sir? Sylvester?” He nodded into the dark, his eyes adjusting to his surroundings finally. The nod apparently didn’t register because Terry said nothing. “Yes, it’s me, Terry.” “Thank the forgers! I thought either you were gone or I was blind or we were somehow stuck inside the big Stone—“ That thought had never occurred to Sylvester: he assumed they had come through without trouble. Well, with some trouble. “—or maybe we were in transit too long and now it’s night, or next week. Oh col, what if we didn’t get back out in time to stop the Curse?!” He asked, sounding frantic. Sylvester finally scrambled up, pushing Terry off and then helping him up. A small sense of pride began to fill him as he was relatively maintaining some kind of composure. He then began to feel a little embarrassed, thinking he just wasn’t smart enough to come up with as many differing conclusions as Terry, a Gousherall, had. He bunched his fingers around his thumbs, nervously squeezing gently… and realized he still had thumbs. “Terry, it can’t be that last thought. We still have our thumbs. Remember? The Curse was designed to take them away.” “Then what if we were sent to that missing location? You know, the one that Ed couldn’t find on his map?” That thought settled coldly inside Sylvester. Perhaps the Magik of the Ring has recognized my kingstone and landed us in the unknown region? It certainly seemed a stranger location than anything they’ve yet encountered in Decennia so far. Thinking that made Sylvester feel oddly proud once more: he had actually seen the countryside and a few towns of his beloved kingdom. The kingdom he was aching to save. “While that might be possible, I don’t think so.” In the distance, two round points of light appeared and Sylvester felt relief: he recognized them as lit windows. Meaning it was a home. Meaning someone lived nearby. But what caused the tremors? In stark surprise, Sylvester saw the two round windows disappear and then reappear, but not in the manner of someone closing a shutter or putting out a light and then relighting it. It looked like someone had drawn two shade rolls, simultaneously, and then released them. Sylvester was wholly reminded of... a blinking eye. The experience sent a shiver down his spine. He didn’t know of any animal whose eyes glowed in the dark, resembled window panes, and were at least two-stories tall. Then the window-eyes disappeared altogether and another tremor was eventually felt. Terry seemed to be shaking. “Terry, we need to remain calm. We need to find the others and get to the other Stone. That is, if this isn’t the Seagulf Islands.” He doubted it was: he knew he should be smelling at least a light tinge of salt on the air, wafted in from the surrounding sea. And, though we could be in the unknown location, we’re most likely in Accordia… or in northeast Decennia, inside the Broze region. Both locations called for the immediate finding of the next Stone in the Ring. He knew they didn’t need to waste too much time in this area. Looking into the sky, Sylvester realized that it most likely was night, but there was no nearly-full moon. That told it was just cloudy in this region, and not that they hadn’t been instantly transported. Surely, it’s the same day as… today. With clouds usually came rain. Living on Mount Reign, the atmosphere seemed thick with moisture almost all the time so Sylvester had a good idea when it could start raining and when it was just cloudy. This seemed like a case of overcast and nothing more. But it was night while they had left Mokel well before the sun was entirely ready to settle down for the day. An odd wonder came to the front of his mind. If we had found a means of even faster travel between Mokel and this place, might we have arrived even before Tuette? In that vein of thinking, Sylvester thought it might’ve been grand to arrive by alternative means, only to catch Tuette and save her from a head-smacking doom. Especially since she had been so careless. Maybe foolish, too. No, I wouldn’t say she was foolish, just mildly forgetful. It had something to do with Terry. He recalled how she had been less enthused about verbally admonishing him earlier. Sylvester also thought back to instances in the close past, where Tuette seemed to have been possibly staring at Terry. And she had even left Ed’s Magik-item-filled tolo to see if Terry’s arm had been mending nicely. Yes, it’s something about Terry. And for an unfathomable reason, Sylvester didn’t like it. He looked around in the dark, his eyes adjusting more to the area. Terry stood next to Sylvester but the most noticeable aspect was his labored breathing. He had either been running or he was in shock about the situation. Terry is a young Gousherall. Even though they’re trained from birth, the younger ones most likely don’t have as much field experience as the older ones, like Vest. Sending his gaze around, Sylvester wondered about Vest’s whereabouts. And Dermy’s. “According to what Ed said, we should’ve landed in relatively the same area while Tuette might’ve been thrown.” Sylvester shook his head, knowing he couldn’t comprehend many things when Magik was involved. But what if Tuette, traveling singularly, had arrived instantaneously and the rest, traveling in a group, were held back for a time because we’re in a group? He hoped that wasn’t the case. That meant they would have an even more difficult time finding Tuette, especially if she wandered off. A tapping was heard somewhere to their right. Terry shut his mouth and audibly swallowed. Even in the pale light, Sylvester could detect a sheen of sweat over the younger Guard as if it was a second skin. And another thought occurred to him: Terry’s probably the same age as me, if not younger. He certainly maintained a youthful physique but Sylvester recalled that he hadn’t grown up with the king in the Fortright Isles, which meant he must’ve started his training after the king was withdrawn to claim his throne. So, yes, Terry had to be younger and Vest must be serving as some sort of teacher or leader. That would explain why Terry had lost almost his entire composure upon getting separated from Vest in a dark and unfamiliar place. The tapping was heard again; it was a rapid succession that sounded almost identical to the first. Terry then withdrew his sword, the twang of metal evident in the dark. Terry then began repeating the taps, mimicking the first iteration, by hitting his forearm armor plates against the weapon. “What’re you doing, Terry? We don’t know…” “It’s Vest, sir,” he said, finally sounding calm. “He’s just over there.” A vague direction was pointed out but it was where the taps had come from. Terry sheathed his sword and grabbed Sylvester’s arm. The king’s first reaction was to throw Terry’s grip from himself but he acquiesced and let Terry lead him through the dark, ever mindful of the fact that it was the Guard who had been running blindly in the dark and crashed into the king. In a few moments, they came across Vest and Dermy. They must have landed close to each other. A series of sniffs came from Dermy. “I smellin’ somethin’, oh.” “Well, Terry still has a hint of that muddy, healing stuff on his arm.” “Nah,” said Dermy, sniffing again and getting closer to the king. “Eggs, oh.” “Eggs? You smell eggs? Are you okay, Dermy?” But Vest began to sniff too. “No, you do smell like an egg yolk. Or something.” He was getting close, sniffing more empathically. “It’s in your hair!” This doesn’t make sense. He put his hand to his head to touch the blood and inhaled the aroma personally… and was immediately reminded of any random breakfast back in Fyse Castle that might consist of smoked meats and bird eggs. “What’s this about? What’s happening? Where did we land?” Dermy licked his lips in the dark. “No’ bein’ in th’ ‘gulf Isles, oh. An’ it bein’ too warm to bein’ up in Broze.” “So that leaves Accordia, then.” “You think so, Vest?” He seemed very competent, like he had handled this situation before. Or at least something similar, though both instances seemed unlikely. “I do.” “Oh k’iff,” whispered Dermy. “What is it?” Another tremor was felt, the vibrations lingering, and all Sylvester could think about was how Dermy should discard his disguise and make understanding him all the easier. The idea to pull on his wrist with necessary force in order to disable the disguise occurred to Sylvester, but he wasn’t sure he could accomplish such a feat. And besides, that would leave Dermy more communicative but he’d be short one arm. “Th’ fra’s.” “The what?” Terry sounded a little impatient and Sylvester wondered if Vest would admonish him in the dark some how. “Th’ f-r-ogs! An’ th’ eggs! ‘member T’ette’s Lif’ Spell? To be bringin’ her swan to lif’?” The image of that swan-shaped structure came to mind and Sylvester remembered being afraid that it might attack the group. How long ago was that? It felt like months to Sylvester. “What about it?” “Th’ eggs bein’ used for a Lif’ Spell. ‘ccordia be known fer havin’ ‘olos build up shaped ‘ike f-r-ogs! If th’ eggs bein’ ‘ffected, wit’ th’ Spell, an’ landin’ on th’ fra’s, th’ fra’s be comin’ ta lif’!” Sylvester, unfortunately, didn’t follow much of what Dermy had said and the urge to pull on the farmer’s wrist built ever stronger. Instead, he asked Terry and Vest, “What? What is he talking about?” “He says that Accordia is known to have some tolos or homes built in the likeness of giant frogs. I can’t imagine why, though. But he’s worried that the reason you have egg on your head is because they’re Magiked somehow to give life to objects. Like Tuette’s swan?” Terry spoke up. “Uh, yeah, she said she used to fly by night in that thing to get around.” “By night?” He sensed Terry shrugging. “Her words.” Dermy huffed. “She canna be flyin’ ba dayligh’ ‘ours, oh! Th’ eggs on’y be workin’ ba nigh’time! If’n th’ fra’s be livin’, we bein’ in trouble ‘ntil sun’ise!” That Sylvester understood. “Well, how can we tell if, first, we’re definitely in Accordia and secondly, that the frog-houses have—“ Suddenly, the ground shook as something landed nearly on top of the men. They fell with Sylvester on his back and when he looked up, the only things he could see was… nothing. Whatever had nearly landed on them blocked the sky out. A quick flash came from above, like someone opening a door quickly and shedding light onto the ground outside. Dermy was lit by the glow, his face nothing but a strained smile and tears streaming down his face. Unrecognizable words were falling out of his mouth as, without warning, someone shot a string of linens at Dermy. He was then taken by them, drawn straight over Sylvester’s head, as if he was stuck to a mess of blankets! Then the massive thing took away the light and leaped away. With the recent introduction and taking away of the light, the king was having a hard time readjusting his sight again. He stood up and began groping around in the dark. Sylvester then swore when he knocked his unguarded hand against the light plating of one of the Gousheralls. “Sir,” came Vest’s voice. “I guess that confirms it.” “That was one of the frogs, then?” “Didn’t you see it?” “I guess I was under its mouth. I saw Dermy get taken though.” Terry’s gasps could be heard nearby and they both approached him in the dark. He was still on the ground, by the sound of it, and they helped him up, Sylvester knocking him in the mouth on accident. “A giant frog! Like Dermy was talkin’ about!” He all but shrieked. Vest shushed him, quick and stern like. “We still have a mission.” “We do, but we can’t leave Tuette and Dermy.” “Sir, the other Stone should be very close. We can end this in maybe a matter of hours and come back for them when we’re finished.” Sylvester was shaking his head before Vest even finished the sentence, his cold rationale not finding footing on the king’s heart. “No, no. We can’t. They have the Magik. Or know how to work it. We’re going after a count who is crazy enough to send fake spirits after us to try and kill some of us and who is bold enough to make a move against my kingdom. To try and put a Curse on everybody. No. We need them. I need them.” He hadn’t realized that it was such a strong truth inside of himself, that he actually didn’t just need Tuette and Dermy, but cared about them to the point of nearly being fearful for their wellbeing. Dermy was just taken by a large frog-house and Tuette was… Tuette wasn’t anywhere, just yet. Thinking that made Sylvester feel very uneasy. And afraid. “So, we need them. Both. I’m a little concerned for Decennia, yes, but right now, I can’t tell you I don’t care about them.” He sighed, his breathing nearly faltering, revealing his haggard insides. “We’re gonna get ‘em back,” was the last that fell out and he felt an itchiness around his eyes and began trying to rub it out of both of them. “I’ve never been so proud to serve a king, sir,” was all Vest said before he clapped Sylvester on the shoulder. In the bleak surroundings, all he could see was the Guard’s broad smile. Sylvester almost felt like weeping and knew he probably already was. Switching from rubbing to wiping his eyes, she sniffed once and said, “So what’s our plan? What do we do?” They exchanged blind glances in the dark, though vision was slowly returning. Another tremor was felt. “Well, Dermy said that this’ll stop at sunrise. We might have to wait it out until then. And go into the different houses to find ‘em both.” For Sylvester, that sounded like the only viable plan. “Then we do that. But where? Where do we go until then?” “Not all of these buildings are supposed to be built to resemble frogs. Maybe in one of them?” suggested Vest. “Yes,” chimed in Terry, though Sylvester felt like he would’ve said yes to anything that his superior recommended. So that’s what they did, after their eyes became reacquainted with the darkness. * ~ * ~ * They found the Ring Stone that dropped them first but discovered it was not as cold as it was before. “That’ll be how we can tell one Stone from another, I guess. Since the other’n should be around here somewhere.” The logic made sense to Sylvester at least, so he didn’t object to Vest’s statement. Groping around in the dark, with the king between both Guards, as if they had been back atop the splints, Vest came against a form in the dark. Sylvester’s immediate thought was that they had stumbled into one of the large and Magiked frogs. But it didn’t move and, in feeling around the exterior, they finally came to an entryway and let themselves in. Calling into the dark, Vest identified the trio and their intentions. Sylvester thought it made them sound cowardly, but he also couldn’t help but feel a little cowardly, seeing as they were waiting until day for the monsters outside to stop moving about. A tremor was heard that caused some loose items inside to rattle a little. Nothing broke though. Vest continued leading the way into the structure and, before too long, Vest forcibly brushed his hip into a table. Items on the table clattered and one began to roll towards Sylvester. Instinctively, he caught it before it could fall and, upon touching it, realized it felt like a candle. Groping the waxy shaft, he found and held onto the wick. “Either of you two have a way to light a candle?” Terry then stretched over the table and slid his hands around until he caused a clatter. “Hold it up,” he said and Sylvester, with curiosity, did. Terry then made a quick motion and there was a clack and a sudden spark. In the brief light, he had seen the candle and Terry and one thing in each of Terry’s hands. He made the noise again, this time closer to candle’s wick and the sparks weakly caught the material at first but they remained mutely present. In no time, the flame grew and Sylvester settled the candle down on the table and looked at Terry’s hands. “What’re those?” Terry seemed baffled. “You never seen effet rocks?” Sylvester shook his head, feeling foolish for asking yet another seemingly-useless question. “I figured they’d be near the candle. Most people keep candles and effet rocks in the same place. Strike the rocks, get a spark, then a flame. Easy.” Terry looked dubious but continued. “Don’t they have these in the castle, sir?” Sylvester blushed and hoped the scarlet coloring he felt didn’t show as easily in the poor light. But he answered as honestly as he could. “I just enter a room and the candles are already lit.” This was another silent realization, he deduced. Sylvester knew that cooks and maids worked inside Fyse Castle. But, apparently, there was also someone who washed the clothing and even had the duty of striking rocks together to light all the candles. Thinking further, Sylvester recalled that some rooms seemed like they owned dozens of candles. Whoever is the candle lighter of Fyse Castle has quite a chore! Refocusing on the present, Sylvester looked around the room. It seemed like a kitchen in the same vein as Jirra and Yuka had owned: it was lacking in suitable space. “How does anyone prepare meals in such a tiny area?” “It probably helps that they’re tiny meals.” Sylvester couldn’t tell if Vest was demonstrating dry wit or bold truth. Either way, it did make a small amount of sense to Sylvester, so he let it go. In the next room, a long cushioned bench was against one wall and a fireplace on the opposite side. There was a mantel about the ashy alcove and upon that were small, stone carvings. No frogs but a few small-bodied creatures with large, flat wings. “Butterflies. Neat,” said Terry with some enthusiasm. Vest let a humph out. Looking at the wall, Sylvester saw it opened onto a short hallway that, judging by the shadows, contained two doorways. “We don’t need to invade their privacy, sir. Just stay in here until dawn. Maybe catch some sleep.” Sylvester nodded, letting the idea of seeing a bedroom that differed from his own slip away. Bodily, he sat on the cushioned bench. It was soft in some places but overall, not very comfortable. The wood did creak though, like it might break. “Where are these people?” Sylvester asked finally, a tremor adding tension to his words. “Where are the Accordians?” Terry only shrugged, going to a window on the far side of the room and looking out. Vest returned to the kitchen, apparently to keep a watch at the door there. Sylvester had the idea to light a fire to provide the room with a little more light. Inside the fireplace, he had noticed a few logs that hadn’t burned completely. One even had some thin bark peeling away that might catch fire quickly. Standing and looking again at the mantel, he saw more easily the effet rocks. Apparently, wherever you might need a flame, they would probably be there. He made a mental note that, if he ever returned to the castle, he would keep an eye out for the rocks. With some exertion and after hitting a rock against each of his thumbs a couple times, he managed to light the bark on fire which, in turn, brought the wood to a slow burn. Warm light bathed the room and Sylvester actually felt accomplished for being able to ignite his own fire. Standing with a groan and wiping the sweat from his forehead, he resumed sitting on the bench and enjoyed the brightness of the room. And then he noticed something peculiar; there was an uneven line running around the entire room. Below it, the building’s stone and mortar was a shade darker than what continued above it. Sylvester recognized what kind of line it was from his childhood at Majramdic. Lessons in shallow-water boating had been given to him and he remembered thinking how odd it was that older boats tended to get marked permanently: a ring denoting their submersion points becoming more apparent over time. The line he had learned, when on land, was considered a flood line. Are we, after all, on the Seagulf Islands? That or we’re near a large lek that floods with heavy rains. He was glad it wouldn’t be raining. A hope lightened his heart at possibly being that much closer to truly ending the quest. He didn’t relish confronting Roost but the desired ends were the true prize. “Terry,” he called. “Sir?” “I think this area is prone to flooding.” Terry only pondered the statement, looking around the room to notice that the flood line was everywhere, at the same height. For him, it was just above the kneecap, but Sylvester didn’t hold that against the Gousherall. As if the pair thinking about it was some sort of Magik cue, a gurgle of water was heard outside. Vest entered the sitting area, stating that water had entered the structure from beneath the door. “We really don’t have to worry. The flood line is right there,” said the king while pointing at the wall. “That should be as high as it goes.” Vest asked, “Why would these Accordians build their homes and places of business in an area that was prone to flooding?” Sylvester shrugged as the water began climbing high enough to began dousing the flame in the fireplace. “Maybe it only started after they moved here?” Terry shook his head. “No, Tuette said that old towns like Zharinna and probably even Accordia were centered around… Talking Plants. Or Talking Poles. Or Trees, or something. If that was the case, it would’ve been flooding for many years and these structures should be on stilts or somethin’.” “Maybe Accordia isn’t like the other towns,” offered Sylvester, feeling confident with his supposition. “Maybe with the Ring-Stones, the people orientated on them centuries ago.” “Then that still means they should already have preventive or precautionary measures. Those flood lines are relatively new. No telling how recently the flooding began.” A piercing shriek, like a large bird dying, cracked through the outside world like an explosion. Then a powerful pounding sounded just outside, along with a splash that sent water into the house. Dermy’s unmistakable voice drifted in sharply, making Sylvester’s heartbeat accelerate. Now’s our chance! “Dermy’s just out there—“ he started when they all saw, with the candle’s diminished clarity, the frog-house leap again and land somewhere with a distant splash and a subtle tremor. “Come on!” said Sylvester while heading back the way they came in. “King, sir!” began Vest as he grabbed Sylvester’s arm. “We needn’t be foolish right away. Those living buildings, however many there actually are, are out there, hopping like crazy persons. Suppose one crushes us?” Sylvester hadn’t thought of that and again felt admonished. “And it’s flooding out there for some reason, even though it’s not raining. Those are unknown variables that I really don’t like.” Feeling his pumping heart, Sylvester felt a little dizzy and he couldn’t tell if he was becoming disorientated or if he was excited for the chance to save Dermy, even when the odds and unknown variables were stacked against them all. “But,” he began, not knowing what to say after that. “But, shouldn’t we try?” It felt like a weak plea when it left his lips and he immediately wondered if he’d lost whatever respect he had gained from these Gousherall Guardsmen. Terry looked like he was getting excited by the prospect as well, his eyes darting quickly between Vest and Sylvester. Vest finally let out a sigh and said, “Well, at least let experience go before exuberance.” He huffed once, his eyes suddenly looking twenty years tired. “I’ve a bad feeling about this,” he muttered under his breath. * ~ * ~ * Outside, the water wasn’t sloshing around like it might on a river or lek or lake. It was just slowly rising. Sylvester found himself immediately wondering if they were standing at a high point or a low point in Accordia. It then dawned on Sylvester that this flood might be one of the reasons the Accordians were hiding, or had simply left. Or maybe their frog houses ate them up. Dermy’s shriek was heard in the distance again, accompanied with some wild sloshing. Has he escaped? How could a man disguised as Dermy sound so terrified while shrieking? The possibility occurred that Dermy’s wrist might’ve been accidentally jerked, breaking his disguise. If that was the case, and if the trio was indeed standing on a higher point in Accordia, that meant Dermy might be desperately trying to swim for his life. And trying to do so with only one hand. Sylvester darted forward, the rising water – it smelled like a swamp – making progress difficult. Vest was quick to grab the king by his dirty and somewhat tattered cape. His momentum brought to a halt, Sylvester nearly fell backwards; he was caught by Terry. “Sir,” stated Vest. “I will lead. We don’t know if there’s any deeper portions of water up ahead. We’re dealing with unknown topography.” Indeed, looking around, everything was still fairly dark but the water level was consistent throughout. Looking up, Sylvester saw that the cloud cover had thinned somewhat: the burgeoning moon, almost full, was finally starting to make an appearance. The area wasn’t lightened by much but it did help. The sloshing could be seen in the immediate distance. “Dermy’s there! Won’t your armor keep you bogged down? If you have to swim out to him?” Apparently, neither Vest nor Terry had thought of that. Vest reluctantly began stripping away the heavier pieces of his outfit. “I’ll retrieve him.” With his upper torso exposed, Sylvester suddenly worried that Vest might become chilled and suffer a sickness. But he seemed adamant to perform what Sylvester was glad to have otherwise done. Silently, in the deep of his heart, Sylvester did wish that Vest would catch at least a small cold, if only to teach the stubborn Guard some sort of lesson. Vest, without hesitation, leaped into the water – the surrounding structures revealed it to be deep enough to not touch the bottom in this area – and began swimming expertly out towards Dermy. The farmer, on the other hand, was producing weaker and weaker water slaps. “Hurry!” shouted Sylvester though he seriously doubted that Vest heard him over his splashes. In almost no time, Dermy was underneath Vest’s arm, the whole scene witnessed clearly as the moon was being allowed access to the flooded scene. When the pair reached the shallows that Sylvester and Terry stood in, the king reached down to discover that Dermy was still in his guise. But he was cradling his right arm, as if he had broken it. In a matter of seconds, with Vest dressing himself and explaining what Dermy was actually saying, the brief story was dictated: After Dermy had been snatched by the frog-house, the frog had landed inside the southern marshes. More of the large creatures joined Dermy’s and this was what was causing the flooding: the overflowing marshlands. Dermy panicked though and attacked the linen-tongue, tearing it. This alarmed the Magiked frog and he immediately left the swamp and literally spat Dermy out, just outside the house the trio had been inside. But Dermy had fallen beneath the massive frog and, in trying to find adequate footing in the shallow water, stumbled, and the frog, shifting its weight for a leap, stepped on Dermy’s arm, breaking it. Dermy had grabbed the frog’s webbed foot in utter surprise and was still connected when the thing leapt. In midair, Dermy had only but let go and he found himself splashing around, nearly drowning, before Vest had rescued him. Sylvester could only wonder about Dermy’s arm though: it had been broken, the bones shattered under the literal weight of a house. “Nah!” Dermy corrected the king when he made this statement of concern. “Not th’ weigh’ o’ the ‘ouse, jus’ weigh’ o’ th’ fra’.” Sylvester understood: a frog of even that size would undoubtedly weigh a large amount. Which meant that a densely heavy stone could be made light if carved into a small animal and brought to life. But his arm is broken. We have the Healing Pote, yes, but that will probably take days or even weeks to fully heal. He looked at Terry and then his arm that had broken in his fall. The Guard was still unconsciously shielding it, not letting others touch it lest the true pain be revealed. That means the healing process isn’t complete and he’s placed his own welfare behind that of the group, this quest. Dermy’s broken arm would take longer. And Sylvester felt sorry for Dermy. In his Magiked disguise, he had one useless arm and in reality, he had two. Well, assuming the arm-break seeped through to the real Dermy. Could the disguise have taken the brunt of the damage and left his other arm fine? He’d ask Dermy while the Guards were occupied with something else. His lack of trust had to be the only reason he hadn’t told them about his disguise, and Sylvester was trying his best to honor that decision. Some splashes were heard in the distance. Heavy splashes. And Sylvester could only imagine the frog-homes hopping about before settling in for a rest in the swamp. Sylvester then wondered if that’s what had happened to Tuette. Has she been taken by a frog-shaped structure and dragged underwater? Dermy confirmed that if that had been the case, it didn’t mean that she was gone. “Fra’s bein’ wa’tigh-t, oh. Even if they’re’n big an’ Magiked, they’n still wa’tigh-t.” Sylvester realized he had to only accept that and hope that any frog that had possibly taken Tuette hadn’t decided to ingest a bunch of water. Looking at the water, another sickening thought bubbled up in his head. Suppose when she landed, she struck something blunt and remained unconscious, even after water was swallowing her up? She might drown! He voiced his concern. “It’s more likely she was abducted, or was cast a good distance from the Stone. The former would mean she was still a prisoner of the homes. The latter could mean that she’s still in Accordia and just lost. Or even waiting until daybreak, like we had tried a short while ago.” Both notions didn’t ease Sylvester’s worry. Suppose the frog-homes turn into regular homes come sunrise: will they remain underwater then? And after the change-back, will they still hold the water out? Tuette might survive the night only to drown when the sun comes up. “We have to find her!” exclaimed Sylvester. He thought of the problem regarding the frog-shaped homes that might remain in the water. “The ones in the swamp: we have to get ‘em out. We have to get them back to the actual land. Otherwise…” He didn’t want to say the possibility, though he couldn’t help but mentally focus on it. * ~ * ~ * The moon was fully exposed now with the area lit almost as if it were daytime. Dermy explained that the abundant light would keep the frogs from moving around too much. They chose to make their way along the northern side of Accordia, mindful that they still hadn’t encountered anyone. Where are the citizens? Do they abandon the town every year when it begins to flood? It was no question that the frog-shaped homes coming to life would be the only thing to cause the flood. Are the Accordians being subjected to some form of Magik terrorism? The idea made Sylvester shiver: if that were the case, whoever might’ve caused this disaster – and had been causing it for some time – was in the same league as Count Roost. But who’d do such a thing? Threatening the whole of the kingdom was one thing, but performing potentially-dangerous acts against one little village was a different branch of the tree. Keeping to the shallows as denoted by the water level in comparison to the buildings, they found even further confusion when they came to a wall. Literally. A large, black-stone wall reached into the sky. The face was sheer and smooth. The water sloshed at its base, now only ankle deep. “This is a rather large structure. Perhaps several families live inside?” Dermy might’ve groaned had he not been clutching his arm to his chest as a means of protecting it until they could do something about it. Until then, Dermy was made to bare and grin it. “I think it’s merely a wall, not the side of a house or anything like that. Maybe a dividing barrier, built by the Accordians to keep a group of people out?” “Or,” added Sylvester, “someone built it to keep them in.” “That seems unlikely, sir,” said Terry. “How could someone build a wall like this without the Accordians trying to stop them or at least send for help?” “The same people who’ve been bringing these odd forms of architecture to life, I would assume: Magikals. And maybe the Accordians are now being held prisoner somewhere, or they’re all holed up in their homes.” Sylvester sighed, sensing that a greater wrong was being perpetrated. But he also knew they couldn’t honestly tackle it until after Tuette was rescued. And after Count Roost has been dealt with. Vest was looking around, between the wall and the large Stone that they had arrived through. As they had traveled on the north edge of Accordia, they had come back across it, deducing that the wall formed the western border of Accordia and the swamplands obviously had to be to the south. “What’s to the east?” inquired Terry. Sylvester had Dermy present his rucksack and he reached in to take the old map weave of Decennia. Sure enough, Accordia was represented finely on it. According to the weave, the eastern boundary was a cliff or possibly even a plateau of some kind, considering that no mountainous prospects were around. Of course, the plateau didn’t make much sense either and when Sylvester pictured in his mind’s eye what a plateau might actually look like, all he could think of was a lek that was truly the opposite. Do raised grounds like the one to the east of Accordia pop up as frequently as leks? If so, that might indicate the two kinds of landmarks are connected. But, yet again, that had to save the speculations for another day. Maybe Tuette will know. Sylvester, in the very least, was quietly priding himself over being able to jump to such logical conclusions all on his own. That much alone made him feel prepared to handle the throne, once he returned home. Home. Mount Reign and Fyse Castle, in one. He suddenly but briefly missed home. Sylvester felt himself almost on the verge of tears over such thoughts but he quickly dabbed his eyes with his sleeve; a useless gesture as nearly his entire outfit had become damp in one way or another. And he realized that the odors from the swamp water did nothing to decrease his own potent scent. He nearly gagged when he brought his sleeve to his face and Sylvester was suddenly aware that he smelled. The thought actually embarrassed him, but also allowed him to focus on the present and not worry about home just yet. As soon as we find Tuette, I’m going to learn how to wash my clothes, at least. “So, the Accordians are now blocked in with only north to go. Maybe that’s where they are? Maybe they have means of drawing the frog’s out of the swamp?” Vest wasn’t paying attention though and it was Terry who said, “Uh, I think the frogs might actually come out on their own. After they all soak for a while, they probably leave the water and go back to their original stances.” The younger Guard shrugged his shoulders. “I mean, maybe something in the water drives them back out of the water anyway. I’d worry more if the flood line that you pointed out, sir, had several levels, but it only had one, meaning it reaches the same level every year. Meaning the frogs all go in to occupy the swamps entirely and then they leave. I couldn’t guess why, but—“ “Vest,” Sylvester finally had to say. The older man should’ve known better than to let his gaze fall around so lazily, especially when his junior officer was trying to verbally stake a claim on a viable, if not shaky, hypothesis. “Are you paying attention?” “Sir,” said Vest. In the dark, his face had gone sheet-white though Sylvester assumed it was the moon reflecting off the water in a splendid manner. “What is it? Terry was explaining—“ “Sir, I think we’re in trouble.” Sylvester felt like sighing, but he didn’t. Has he not heard anything Terry said? “But that’s what Terry was talking about. He thinks the frog-homes come out of the water on their own accord. If Tuette’s been taken, we don’t have to worry about her drowning, at least.” Gulping once, then twice, Vest shook his head slowly, his wet hair letting loose some stray drops that landed soundlessly on the water’s surface. “Not that, sir. That’s nothing.” He felt his face grow hot. “Tuette’s not nothing, Ves—“ “I think the next Stone in the Ring… the Ring of Ten… I think…” He looked like he was about to loose composure. Sylvester stepped forward, put his hand on the Guards shoulder, and said, “What is it?” He could detect urgency even in his own voice and Dermy might’ve swore but the king couldn’t be sure. “The Stone. That we need to get to our next destination. I really think it’s on the other side of this wall.” As one, the four looked up to check if the wall’s zenith could be seen. It was dizzying, like the wall was actually leaning over them but he knew it was an optical illusion. The top was seen: it was several times taller than the Accordian structures. “Oh col!” spat Terry, who fell back under the sway of dizziness. That splash was loud but not as loud as the night-piercing scream, somewhere from above and obviously from as far as the other side of Accordia. It unmistakably belonged to Tuette. It sounded like she was afraid. Or was in a great deal of pain. |
| Tuette was terrified with a cold sheen of sweat seeming to exist entirely on her body. Her clothing soaked up some of it, leaving her feeling frigid as the cool night air tousled her with each movement. And not her own movement: the frog’s. Upon first arriving in Accordia, she had been taken in by one of the large structures come to life, a string of blankets acting as an extended tongue. The properties of the oversized frog had made the tongue-blanket sticky to the touch and she had no hope of escaping from her prison-styled bed. She knew that in the history of the Life Spell that no creature had successfully digested anything meant to be ingested, but Tuette still felt very fearful. Also, the frog-shaped home kept hopping around madly and it was any wonder that no one else was trying to stop it. A question arose inside her head. Where are the Accordians? Why isn’t there at least one other person inside the frog with me? She couldn’t imagine that she had been the only tasty morsel available. Tuette then thought about Dermy and the others. Have they been taken by other houses as well or is mine the only active one? Tuette wished she had answers but she was thoroughly in a position to do nothing but wait. If anything, the Spell would break at sunset, assuming that whoever had cast it was using snake eggs or another type of inferior egg. Perhaps she should be trying to sleep— The frog leaped again, causing Tuette’s stomach to lurch. And resettle oddly inside her abdomen. She knew it felt odd because she could see the dark and cloudy sky straight ahead, through the window-eyes. Meaning the frog had to be on the sheer plateau wall that bordered the southwestern edge of Accordia, where the swamps terminated. She knew that the townsfolk were happy to celebrate the fact that they had found viable profit in the local amphibians, but Tuette just didn’t understand why the Accordians had chosen to build the frog-shaped structures. Don’t they understand that something like the current situation was always a possible risk? Why not just rename their town to remind everyone that the best frogs are found here? Thinking back to her swan-home, Tuette still had no idea where it had come from. But it had been Craspone who had ultimately led her and Dermy to the Grechy Pools. Had he known it was there? It was obvious it hadn’t been built there: someone with Life Spell knowledge had landed it there or had persuaded the swan to fly until daybreak, where it would undoubtedly revert to inanimate status and plummet into the swampy pools— The frog leaped, this time landing with a watery thunk. Outside, Tuette saw water and immediately panicked, thinking how her swan would often inject lake or lek water and cause her to run out of Dehydro Stones because of it. But the water did not enter through the glassless window panes. The Magik of the Life Spell made sure of that. The frog seemed content to sitting in the dark water, leaving Tuette in the dark, alone with her thoughts. And when she thought about it, Tuette felt like an utter fool. I should’ve known better about using the Ring of Ten Minus Two! And traveling with those men and their forgetful minds was oftentimes infuriating! She was surprised that she hadn’t arrived and landed bodily against any structure. Of course, it was being thrown so far from the Ring’s Stone that had put her in this situation in the first place. If she had arrived at the same time as the others, chances were that no frog-shaped house would’ve selected her from the group as a morsel. And they could’ve quickly found their way to the next Stone because Accordia was not their destination. Far from it! But it hadn’t been Sylvester’s fault. Terry had mentioned forgetting what that sign read. And that was something she found she could easily forgive, even if it did mean that the others might cut her as a casualty and travel on ahead without her. At least one Curse would be destroyed, and she still had her Freezing Pote. She could locate Menginal and see if he had a lead on any other chicken flocks. But should I return to Zharinna and retrieve my swan or go back for that some other time? Tuette recognized that, in the end, it would be easier to go back to Mokel and then attempt to persuade the seleagles for a lift to Menginal’s Attitarry. Tuette didn’t relish seeing Menginal again but she also couldn’t help but wonder if, perhaps, he was somehow involved. She remembered, grimly, the long days working in Gimble Valley. She could’ve sworn that there was at least one guide who was over a flock of chickens. If there had been, it would’ve been a heavily protected flock, due to their rarity. She wondered silently at the coincidences. If she hadn’t been traveling with the troupe, could they have handled the situation with the large frogs? Surely Dermy would understand the theories behind handling such Potentially dangerous Magik but he had fled Tuette’s company when she had begun experimenting with her swan house years ago. The whole situation reeked of puppetry. And she hated being dangled around under someone else’s bidding. Still, she had to admit that it was mostly working in her favor, so whoever had orchestrated for her to join the company of Sylvester for a quest to save the kingdom was, in the end, helping her. She had a fresh supply of Freezing Pote still, had garnished a wealth of information concerning World Spirits and the like that she otherwise would’ve avoided, and she would not only be helping rid the world of a terrible menace, but she’d also be one step closer to discovering a flock of chickens so as to eventually destroy her own Curse of the Hood. Or maybe even help finish what Count Roost had committed against Corunny Voidet. But Tuette could only guess at the motif. Someone is obviously trying to please me, to keep me happy. And they know I’m Cursed. They have too. It wasn’t public knowledge, but someone had figured it out. She had actually even started believing that Corunny Voidet himself was playing out the whole situation. It would be easy for him to give his private tome of Curses to some maniac and then cultivate knowledge of her whereabouts. It wasn’t the man’s style though. He was a traveler, like Tuette, and he would sometimes take apprentices and sometimes move about singularly. That still didn’t explain how he had lost his collected knowledge to some menial count. Unless he had only fed the count what he wanted to know ad moved on, intending to toy with Tuette from a safe distance. She thought again to the Artificial-from-Afar Charm that had been employed twice against the group already. Tuette still didn’t understand how a man as physically imposing and mentally apt as Voidet had been taken and had somehow lost his tome. Tuette realized, even back at Ta Speebie’s, that she could’ve asked the old ta to locate Corunny Voidet but that would’ve given away… well, she hadn’t known what. Only now did she realize how harmless it would’ve appeared to the group: she was looking for her old teacher. Of course, it would’ve come out eventually that Count Roost was using Voidet’s Magik knowledge and that would indicate that Tuette believed she could find Roost through Voidet. But in truth, she just needed to find Voidet because she desperately wanted to be rid of her Curse. If Roost had put Voidet into some type of coma or maybe even imprisoned him, that made at least a little sense: it was the scenario that Tuette was actually clutching too. Finding Roost meant, hopefully, finding Voidet. But where did Roost come from? She’d never heard of him before. Usually, when a perryta or even a freelancer reached the status of power the likes of which Roost was displaying, the people in Gale Marsht tried their best to keep on his good side. There were too many instances, Voidet had told Tuette long ago, where Cafeglian Dormaset had sent Welcore Guardsmen to dispatch of maniacs like Roost. That only made Tuette have more questions. Why is the king performing this quest? Why isn’t Dormaset doing anything about it? A dread thought revealed itself: what if Dormaset had been secretly “taken care of”, in borrowing a phrase that Sylvester liked to use when referring to the dirty work of killing a ruffian? The idea didn’t seem unlikely, and it actually seemed to fit as long as Tuette believed herself to being manipulated into accompanying the king on his arduous journey. As a Freezer from a Freezing Clan, no less! She thought over the last few days and decided that Sylvester had already deduced that the clanswoman title had been a sham. How could he not? She behaved nothing like a Freezer. It was that or he didn’t worry. Or he had forgotten that she was supposed to be a Freezer. Just because she clutched the Freezing Pote every now and then didn’t actually mean she was trying too hard to insure that everyone believed her. It was settled then: as soon as she was out of danger, she would reveal that she wasn’t a Freezer. And maybe even tell him and the Guards that she was Cursed. A display of my Curse might be requested. But maybe I don’t have to tell them all I’m Cursed she thought while simultaneously thinking of how big the swan-hair was, since an aspect of the Curse made sure that she couldn’t cut her hair. Having settled the notion, Tuette decided that since the frog-house was in a prone position, she might as well chance napping at least. She needed her sleep. * ~ * ~ * The frog leaped again, resettling itself on the cliff. The situation marveled Tuette, who was groggily coming out of her bout of sleep. How long have I been asleep? Assuming the frog had returned to the same location – for what purpose, she couldn’t deduce – the cloud cover from earlier was gone and the moon was roughly past the zenith. Perhaps… a couple hours after midnight? Tuette groaned. Then, with a sadness that descended from nowhere, she realized that Ed could’ve told her her full name. She didn’t realize it at the time and she didn’t understand why the thought was bubbling up in this moment, but she felt like it was a missed opportunity. The familial logos obviously etched into Sylvester’s soles would only be a decorative first letter, a large D, but that could stand for anything. And she didn’t want to have to resort to asking the king what the name of the man who created his footwear was. Odds are he doesn’t know anyway. Putting that out of her mind, she attempted to focus again on sleeping, even though the nearly-vertical stance was rather awkward for Tuette. The bedclothes, sticky through Magik, insured that she wouldn’t fall, though that didn’t exactly keep her at ease. She was even becoming queasy from the frog-home’s sudden movements. Why did it leave the water? Why’s it on the plateau’s side? Her thoughts drifted to the others as she wondered about their safety. Dermy could handle himself. The Guards too. King Sylvester is another matter. He wasn’t sure he was protected through the kingstone, so he was possibly at risk. And he was foolhardy enough to take the dangerous risks. What is he trying to prove? Why did he bother leaving the mountain if he knew he wasn’t one hundred percent protected? Did he assume a pair of Gousheralls was going to be enough to stop someone determined enough to kill the monarch? Tuette found herself feeling sorry for the man. She knew that his father had died roughly a decade ago and that Sylvester had essentially been thrust upon the throne. And that the malignant Malforcrent pretty much acted as the governing body that Sylvester answered to. Thinking along those lines, she was getting a hint of why he had left the mountain. Who wants to stay in a place where you’re told you have power and realize, late in the game, that you have none? Yes, Tuette felt— The frog shifted its weight, repositioning it’s stance for some reason. Tuette’s attention was drawn to the windows that served as the animal’s eyes. Something moved against the starry night, seen somewhat through the eye-windows above. At first, Tuette thought it was a bug flying relatively close by that couldn’t get into the window like the water hadn’t been able to: because of the Magik. Then she realized that the creature was actually far away. As she was shifted through the large bed’s linens to rest against one side of the bed, she realized that whatever it was, the frog intended to snap at it and bring it into itself. Too her horror, Tuette realized exactly what the creature was and knew she could do nothing to stop the frog from sending its tongue out; only hope and pray that the other animal didn’t have a chance at getting her. Because it was, indeed, another animal and more: The frog’s flying morsel was none other than a night dragon. In a second, she was being held to the bed by the barest of blankets while the rest of the bedclothes impossibly shot out, stretched to their limits, and stuck wholly against the night dragon in the immediately distance. She saw the animal begin to writhe about even during the trip into the frog. And with as little grace as possible, it zipped towards the open maw, a cool breeze coming in its wake, growling and possibly shouting swears. Tuette saw the animal strike its head against the bedpost furthest from her, knocking the animal out cold. Still, she couldn’t help but feel terrified. The beast was massive, taller than the bed from head to toe, excluding its powerful tail and lengthy wings. Tuette knew her level of trouble had just escalated because, should the night dragon come around with a strong sense of consciousness, it could easily tear through the frog-home’s tongue-linens and eat her straight away. Whatever grogginess she had felt only minutes ago was suddenly gone, vanquished by the presence of the terrible dragon. She deeply prayed that that was all that would end up being vanquished. * ~ * ~ * Like most good apprentices, Tuette had learned the basics of night dragons, starting with sketches of the dread animals. Of course, she knew it wasn’t fair to say that they were animals because in truth, they were Cursed humans. Unable to recall the exact passage that detailed the Night Dragon Curse, Tuette did recognize that they partially resembled a standing man. Their arms and legs, though flexible, did basically look like a human’s. The resemblance was easily foiled once the wings and lengthy tail were spied. And, of course, the lizard-like snout that housed a healthy set of wicked teeth. The most peculiar feature of a night dragon’s mouth, Tuette presently noted while staring at the unconscious dragon, was the incredibly long spike of a tooth that extended from the front and center of the upper jaw and fit perfectly into a corresponding hole in the lower jaw. It was believed that what drew a night dragon to eat was the innate desire to keep the spike-tooth wrapped in warm flesh as the creature itself was nothing but sinew and cool muscles. What made a night dragon most dangerous, of course, were the scales. They were impenetrable to even the strongest of blades or arrowheads. The scales made the night dragons almost impossible to kill. And they didn’t die of old age either, as they didn’t age at all: being derived from Demonic death dragons originally, they were destined to live forever. If one could be killed, that only meant that any who were infected by that particular dragon’s Curse would revert to their human selves, but no known cases had ever been documented regarding a night dragon’s corpse just showing up. They were essentially unkillable and they knew it. And since they lived long lives, they also grew more intelligent over time. Tuette had only seen them from a distance. Back in New Opal, a small group would migrate over the moonlit skies during the spring season. This had played a small a part in sparking her curiosity for the Magik arts. They shed their scales during those migratory trips, though Tuette couldn’t wonder or remember why. It seemed like she was forgetting something else. She did know that she wouldn’t dare take her eyes of the creature. It was during her extended stay, here on the plateau’s wall, sharing a bed with a night dragon, that she felt her wrist begin to warm. She thought it was the beginnings of an itch but realized that it was merely her Comgem bracelet. Tuette’s heart raced. She had realized over the course of the last few days that she wore it but mostly didn’t think about it. It was made of lightweight, forgettable substance. But now it was warming, after she had put it on days and days ago in hopes that she would receive contact or that she might muster up the courage to make contact. Dermy was finally calling her. Or Sylvester. It had been four days ago when he had been rummaging through Dermy’s effects and came across his ring that was linked to her bracelet. In attempting to contact someone named Penson, Sylvester had revealed that Dermy still kept hold of his Comgem. Of course, the conversation that followed between her and the king had been most unpleasant, but it had started with a positive note. Tuette was confined to the bed by the frog’s innate desire to try and digesting her, but she wasn’t wholly imprisoned. She could still shift her weight around and move her hands. The night dragon actually had more of the linens allocated to hold it down, despite its lack of movement. As such, Tuette was free to rub her Comgem and open the link. “—ette? Tuette, are you—“ It was Sylvester then, and his voice sounded impossibly loud inside the frog-shaped home. She kept an eye on the dragon though, ever wary of the possibility that the voices might wake it. “I’m here. I’m here.” She breathed a sigh of relief as she didn’t have to ask if they were all okay: it was Dermy’s ring and Sylvester as speaking. And the Gousheralls never left the king’s sight, unless they were checking out safety precautions. “Where are you guys? And please keep it quiet!” She was whispering harshly now because the dragon’s lip began to twitch. She instantly wondered at its age as that would denote its intelligence. “Keep quiet? Are you in danger?” Could he be any louder? “Just… Where are you? Are you in the Seagulf Islands?” She hadn’t truly known what to ask. At least this way, she’d get a direct answer about the king’s commitment to Reversing the Curse. Or at least to her well being. “What? Of course not!” The dragon twitched again. “We’re in Accordia. We came up against a wall. Literally.” “A wall? Like, for a structure?” “No, a large, black wall. It’s dividing the town. We’ve realized that the other Stone in the Ring must be on the other side of the wall.” Oh dack. If that was the case, how would they get over the wall? Maybe they could swim through the swamps, or travel the length of it? Maybe employ one of the frog-homes to merely jump over it? That would imply she knew where the Accordians were, and she didn’t. “Is anyone else down there with you?” “Down here? Where are you, on top of the wall?” She briefly explained her situation with the plateau but decided to omit the part about the night dragon because that would just cause them alarm. And then they’d get loud and she’d have to break the connection with hopes that the night dragon hadn’t already been stirred. Still, the creature slept but its head began to twitch more every now and then. In turn, they explained how there were many frog-homes hopping about and how it was affecting the swamp’s water level. And how it seemed to happen often enough to leave telling stains. “If that’s the case,” she finally said, “the Accordians might leave town when they think this event may come about. If there’s a wall to the west, swamps to the south, and this plateau in the east, they can only travel north.” She shook her head, more out of reflex than anything. “Whoever built that wall really screwed the eastern half of Accordia. They’re essentially trapped. And if they ever come under attack by some other warring town or even a group of Biijwen Nomads, they’ll be easily wiped out with nowhere to go.” “So do you think the Accordians can help us?” She bit her lip. Why would the Accordians bring their own frog homes to life? And who would build such a wall? It didn’t make any sense. Unless someone on the other side of the wall was doing it. That answer would depend on how long the wall had been up and if it was of mutual construction. No, it didn’t make sense to assume the Accordians did this on an annual basis. And if they couldn’t cross the wall, they could only go north. “Maybe,” she finally spit out. The noise seemed to make the dragon gently close its jaws. “If you can’t find them in the town, they’re most likely north of it, in the fields. Camping out or… something, I don’t know.” She hated admitting such a thing but it wouldn’t help to conjecture while the overall situation was entirely too bizarre. The frog leaped again, leaving Tuette feel like she might vomit. This time, it landed on level ground, out of the swamps, possibly even in a spot that it was meant for. The desire to retch was accompanied further by a reminder that she hadn’t eaten for quite some time. Ed had sent them off with some food in their stomachs, but not much. If the others had found meals during their overnight raid of Accordian dwellings, they hadn’t shared the information. The night dragon stirred. Tuette realized that she was only out of secondary danger with the frog-home remaining on the plateau wall. The more immediate threat, the night dragon, was now also becoming more of a viable threat. She could see its tail hanging off the other side of the bed as it began to swing about in large circles. “Tuette,” came Sylvester’s voice from her wrist. “Was that last thud you? It was loud, like it was jumping from a high point.” “Yeah, that’s me.” She groaned, her neck feeling sore from so many leaps. “It can’t seem to make non-rough landings.” “We’re coming to get you.” “No,” she said, instantly wary of the night dragon seeing even more tempting morsels in the king and the others. “Go find the Accordians. They should be in the fields. Brill rises soon, right?” There was a pause. “What?” “Brill. The sun. Sunrise is soon, right?” She wished she didn’t sound so irritated, but who didn’t know the sun’s name? There was another pause and then Tuette heard some distant murmurs. “Yes, in an hour or so.” He paused again and Tuette imagined him gazing into the sky like he had lost a fishing sail and didn’t know where to look. “Um, in about an hour or so.” “Okay, find them. The frog-home should stay still now. It knows the Spell will end soon, or it should. And it knows that it would destroy itself if it remained on a vertical surface. I’ll catch up with you in the fields,” she said, hoping that was true. Tuette’s earlier idea flashed across her thoughts: the one where she could Curse one of the men with Truth to deduce if she had, in fact, discovered part of the plot. She realized, yet again, that she probably already should’ve done it. They could’ve gotten further along in their journey. But doing so would reveal her Cursed status. And she still wasn’t sure if, when it came to long-distance scenarios, the Curse made the Truth happen or if the words produced were stirred in a Truthful direction. Time passed in a way that made her sleepy, yet alert. The dragon seemed to only become more alert. Tuette wondered how it had taken such a blow to the skull and survived. She knew the answer though: they were tough creatures, with tougher scales. Without thinking about it or really wanting to, Tuette began to doze. It wasn’t deliberate but she couldn’t help it. She instantly wished she had a Refreshment Pote. At least she’d be wary for the next hour or so. But she didn’t, and dreamlike images began to dance through her mind. * ~ * ~ * In no time at all, she was awakened by a strange sound. The image that came to mind first was her tearing her skirt when she mounted her splint. With a frown, she tried to remember when she last rode that splint. The rip continued and her vision swam, blurry at the edges. She was soon going to expose more worldy parts of her anatomy to sunlight and display her Curse in a lude manner! Tuette hurriedly moved her hands down to hold the ripped seam, but her hands were bound tight against her torso. Another rip sounded and Tuette, with her head energies aligning properly, realized what the dread sound was: the night dragon was trying to cut through its bonds. The small rips must’ve made the frog-home clench its tongue, accounting for her limited movement. Instantly, she regretted sending Terry and the others to the fields when she should’ve admitted, outright, that she might not be able to handle such a deadly creature. Unseen through the rumpled mass of blankets, Tuette heard a snort. Her heartbeat compounded. The night dragon must’ve heard it. How can he not! It felt deafening to her. Tuette screamed, the sound almost overriding the tearing sound the dragon was making when ripping its claws through the tongue-blankets. They were both finally jolted, the movement stifling the night dragon for a moment or two. With a sickening realization, the frog-home landed back in a vertical position. Tuette could only wonder why it had the sick fixation to remain off the ground like this. Is this frog’s spirit dredged up from a dead frog that committed suicide? But she realized that it was on the black stone wall this time and not the plateau’s. Suddenly, Tuette was fearful for her life and more than just from the night dragon’s menacing direction. If the frog-home’s Life Spell broke at sunset, like she suspected it would, then she and the dragon would plummet. And probably not unharmed. Most likely, the house would crumble around them or on them, crushing them under a mass of debris. Tuette didn’t enjoy the thought. And, through the same eye-windows as before, she could see the sky lightening too quickly for her to think about enjoying the natural beauty of a sun rising. Instead, she could only think of her Potential demise. The frog chose to stay in this position. Its natural survival instincts should’ve told it to land in a safer position, possibly even the original one that it was built upon. That didn’t make sense though because her swan-home never insisted on returning to its point of origins. Tuette realized then that the night dragon was attempting to maneuver against her but the reflexes of the tongue-blankets kept it more restricted than before. The pain caused the frog to leap! She knew the Magik of the Life Spell made the frog-home almost real. It’s reacting as if it’s just had its tongue cut to ribbons! As soon as she came on that realization, Tuette began trying to cause as much pain as the dragon did, watching and listening to the creature snarl in her peripheral and letting that motivate her more than nothing. Surprisingly, the blankets were easy to tear: the Magik itself didn’t preserve the material, just animated it. With each tear, the frog shifted its weight. Dermy had said that he had managed to get deposited easy enough but Tuette imagined that with two treats inside, this frog wasn’t going to be so quick to let go of its meal, no matter how much it couldn’t enjoy it in the end. The dragon snarled again, snapping its jaws with a localized chomp. Tuette saw the tooth spike tear through the blankets and everything inside the frog began to vibrate, though it wasn’t much. Tuette finally noticed that there were sparse materials in the house, probably a precaution of the Accordians as they knew their giant frogs would be hopping around for a while. After the dragon let go, the frog leaped again, this time a considerable distance… towards the north. It had been some time since she had talked to Terry, Sylvester and the others, she couldn’t guess how long, but she suddenly feared that the frog might crush them. That fear coupled with her stomach becoming physically displaced once again finally caused Tuette to purge her stomach’s contents. Most of it sailed through the air to land on the ceiling while some stuck to her chin. She tried wiping it away but the frog was tensing its tongue during the impromptu flight again. It then reverted to a horizontal stance and… she saw the sun peak over the horizon and land with a gentle yet damning touch on the false creature’s hide. Tuette knew the blankets and her hood were covering most of her body hair from view, but she knew she would feel better when she wasn’t being imprisoned. With a sick realization, she discovered that she wasn’t anymore, not with the frog-shaped home back to being a simple home. With her freedom came the night dragon’s. Tuette looked at the beast. It was flopped over the side of the bed, its back to her. She finally got a glimpse of its wings, folded up in a very compact manner against its shoulder blades. Tuette had actually hoped that the frog’s tongue had snatched too quickly, maybe damaging one of the wings on impact. Without examining the beast any further, Tuette exited the Magiked bed-prison, thankful to be rid of her dangerous bedfellow. Her movement rippled subtly through the padding and the night dragon snapped its head back up, looking around and sniffing madly. In less then a second, it spotted her and prepared to leap— When it suddenly began to hiss and scratch at its face. Tuette, standing firm due to paralyzing fear rather than actual heroics, saw what had caused it. Looking at the ceiling and thankful that she had gotten sick: the vomit up there had finally detached itself to land squarely in the animal’s eyes. She didn’t want to think of it as an animal but she couldn’t help it; it thrashed about wildly, as if losing control of its body. The night dragon then yelled and she knew she wasn’t dealing with a young creature. “Yooo flicking bitch!” it shouted, distantly reminding Tuette of the seleagles. Not wanting to waste anymore time, Tuette ran. She prayed to Valtos to remember what it was that she was forgetting about the Cursed beasts. It might ultimately save her. Or, if she made the wrong move, destroy her. The entrance was not barred. She easily forced her way through. The night dragon was still thrashing about in the room as she absently tightened her hood about herself. The door, after passing through it, fell off its hinges. It had apparently had one too many leaps to deal with. Does this happen to all the frog-shaped homes? No time to find out. Not yet. Tuette ran, bunching her skirts in one hand and holding down her hood with the other. She didn’t dare look back. And suddenly, as she crested a hillock a short distance away, there was Terry. And Sylvester. And… it looked like everyone! And not just the four she knew, but probably every Accordian, out there in the fields like she had guessed. But the night dragon was still on her tail. She knew it. Looking back finally, she saw… nothing. “Tuette,” said Sylvester and she instantly felt like throwing her arms around him, hugging him fiercely and not caring that he smelled like a feral fig. But she didn’t. Any moment, he would say something that would remind her just how inept he was during most instances of his life. And how sorry she felt for it. He continued though. “You’re here! We were worr—“ “There’s a night dragon. Dermy. Back there.” He seized up for a second, looked where she was pointing, and did nothing. Of course, he couldn’t see it, and that would account for his reaction. She looked back once again and saw the frog-shaped home. It looked… innocent. The front entry was cut into the frog’s lower lip. The windows looked lifeless. It appeared wholly benign. But it had caused so many problems. And it had abducted a night dragon. Dermy recognizes the danger. He tensed at my mentioning the dread beast! “It’s not right behind me. It’s in the house. Inside.” Dermy did nothing but shrug. He shrugged?! “So? It’s trap’, then, oh.” “It’s…” and then she felt like she had been smacked in the face, forgetting the most fundamental principle of night dragons. It was why they were called night dragons. They can’t live under the watchful eye of Brill. That’s why they fly by night! Tuette started laughing. And crying. And she felt her shoulders sob uncontrollably. And her stomach hurt, reminding her that she desperately needed to eat. “What’s a night dragon?” That was Sylvester, always asking the dumb… No. It wasn’t a dumb question, but one that he regrettably has to ask. Has his ancestors encountered such a threat? They must have. But he still wouldn’t know that the question was unnecessary. She didn’t feel like explaining the whole of it though, so she simply said, “A black-scaled beast that can only fly at night. They will kill you or turn you without hesitance.” Sylvester frowned, looking a little shaken, probably because he had just been told that such a creature was nearby. And she hadn’t mentioned the part about the sun. “Turn you? How?” “’urn ya inta on’ o’ dem, oh. Dang’rous killas they’n be.” Dermy then licked his lips. Tuette couldn’t recall if Dermy had every encountered one but she was thankful to have him right here, right now, as he could help with educating the king and his Guards. “But,” and she actually giggled. “But, they can’t come out during the day. They can’t be exposed to the sun. It hurts them. And eventually will kill them.” Sylvester scrunched his face, looking comical. “How peculiar. Did the frog eat it?” She nodded, looking at the still distant Accordians. “Or rather, it snapped it up, like the one that got Dermy.” She nodded again, seeing that some people had baskets with them. And in baskets, there were usually provisions, like food. Then the king said, “And it doesn’t like sunlight. Like you.” That drew her attention and her hunger was temporarily forgotten. “What?” she asked, immediately thinking how Dermy might’ve blabbed her truth. “I just noticed that you always wear that hood. And the lengthier clothes. Like you’re afraid of the sun. Or maybe sunburns. I don’t know.” He shrugged and Tuette realized they Dermy hadn’t revealed anything. Sylvester was just that observant. A trait that usually comes from sitting by and letting other people run the show. Tuette felt like stating as much but knew it’d be a low-strike against the king and she didn’t want to start any verbal dispute. “Yeah,” she finally said. “The sunburns.” She smiled tightly but didn’t hold it. “Can’t stand ‘em.” “I understand. When I was younger…” He then started off on some nonsense story that ended more briefly than it should’ve. “So the sun has trapped it in that home?” A trio of persons was approaching the group, two women and a man. They also carried a basked and some folded blankets. The women looked bedraggled and Tuette instantly wondered how such people bathed. The frog-home that held her all night didn’t contain an ice block holster. She thought she would ask Dermy later, or just investigate one of the homes herself. The three stopped on the top of the knoll that Tuette had climbed minutes before. “Our home!” exclaimed the younger woman. Tuette would’ve pegged her at being in her late teens or early twenties but the manner of her expression dictated a more youthful demeanor. “Sir,” began Sylvester while talking to the new man. “I am Sylvester, King of Decennia. We were wondering about, well… What’s been going on here?” Tuette was mildly surprised by the question. She assumed he would ask the man about how they were to get to the next Stone. The man introduced himself as Herb Tee and said, with a resigned tone, “This is the third year it’s happened.” He then went on to explain how, a little over three years ago, the Accordians have been having disputes over the swamps. Some said they wanted to pull back on capturing so many frogs to be used by Mages – in Accordia but mostly elsewhere. And some, mainly the non-Magikals, said they should exploit the swamps to their fullest extent and then pull up stakes and move to a swamp that was rumored to be roughly one hundred and eighty clicks to the north, in central Serres Mor. The Magikals, upset with the rest of the Accordians, had a fit and forcibly segregated the town. The eastern side was where the non-Magikals were told to live and the western side was for the Magikals. But not everyone was happy with it and when ordinary folk were discovered on the western side of town, the Mages became angry. Gilly Tee, Herb’s wife, explained that the Magikals insisted they be allowed to build a barrier. Without further explanation, Tuette realized that was where the wall had come from. But she still didn’t recognize the material. A snarl was heard from the distance, coming from the Tee’s house. It brought the local history lesson to a brief pause and reminded Tuette of the night dragon. He was trapped inside, at least until Brill was on the other side of the home. At that point, it could sulk in the shadows produced by the structure. She immediately felt terrible for bringing the dragon into these people’s lives, still knowing that she wasn’t directly responsible exactly. But she knew she could’ve tried harder to destroy it. Or at least to distract the frog from snatching up the dragon. The third woman, the Tee’s daughter named Cherry, stepped forward, apparently drawn to the snarls heard from her home. She brushed past Tuette before she decided to stop the younger woman. “Whoa,” said Tuette. “You can’t be goin’ in there. The night dragon is too dangerous.” Cherry looked directly into Tuette’s eyes and the Cursed woman wondered if the younger woman was slightly stupid. Her eyes looked a little vacant, like she was permanently looking just over Tuette’s left shoulder. “What’s that?” Tuette instantly felt like looking over her own shoulder to see if Cherry was asking about something behind the sorceress but realized that she was asking about the night dragon. “It’s something that can kill you.” Cherry eyes widened slightly, but not by much, making Tuette wonder how often she was truly put into any danger. She then wondered about something else: Cherry had stated that the frog-home belonged to all of them, but with only one bed big enough to accommodate two full grown adults – or one adult and one slightly larger night dragon – that didn’t leave a lot of room for Cherry to sleep. Again, she’d have to find the answer later. A shadow from above landed on them and Tuette instantly thought a flock of birds was flying overhead. Looking up, a sense of dread took her heart as she saw a length of thin clouds in the sky bleed from the lip of the plateau and nearly cross the gap to the black wall. The night dragon, which must’ve been pacing just inside the front door, leaped out and headed directly for them all. The tooth spike gleamed with salivation. Cherry didn’t scream or even flinch. Tuette tensed but didn’t think she could move. Everyone else behind the pair of women was forgotten. Maybe forever. The night dragon was nearly leaping, keeping its wings folded so the wind didn’t drag at its sleek form. Tuette hadn’t realized she had covered so much ground in such a little time. With a couple dozen meters to go, the cloud cover over them disappeared and Tuette never felt so thankful to be bathed in sunlight. The dragon wasn’t so fortunate. The rays gleamed against its scaly hide and it snarled, writhing in pain as the clouds still covered the beast, but in an inconsistent manner. When a more protective cloud remained just for the night dragon, it found its balance, swore in a toothy dialect, and took off in the opposite direction, where the clouds hovered like a deadly halo. In moments, it was past the Tee’s house and flying towards the plateau. Tuette wondered why it hadn’t headed towards the lip of the wall as the clouds were traveling in that direction. She then realized it was probably fearful of the Magikals. She was one herself but she didn’t have the measures for taking care of a night dragon. And it was true that they couldn’t be easily killed, but with Magik, they could be sufficiently deterred and filled with fearful respect. Does it roost somewhere on the other side of the plateau? This was probably an ample hunting ground now that half of the Accordians were defenseless against such threats. Yet another problem caused by that damned wall, which only made Tuette pause with greater concern. Magikals reportedly erected the wall. Looking behind her briefly, seeing the Accordians coming out of their fear-inspired stupors, she saw the wall continued for a good distance. Maybe as much as a kilometer or two. But this was a localized problem that would have to be handled at a later date. Currently, Tuette knew she had to assist in getting the king to Count Roost. Or she might even go there alone. Not for the first time, that idea wrapped around her bones and felt… non-conflictive. No, a maniac like Roost will have to be handled by a Magikal touch with some muscle backing it. I only have the Magik. Tuette knew that Sylvester and his Guards would have to provide the muscle. The Accordians, who had apparently camped in small clumps around the fields, were gathering there items. None carried a large amount and Tuette deduced that the knickknacks that might’ve remained in the frog-home had been stored inside another. Dermy looked very sad, his arm held close to his chest. Tuette sighed, pursing her lips. In his guise, he had one broken arm and in his true form, the other was probably broken. He can’t win. She still didn’t understand why he insisted on disguising himself. Does he want to appear ineffective towards any potential enemies? That might be the only reason, she decided. Otherwise, now with his Magiked arm broken, he was almost the same, except it was still difficult to understand his speech. The nearest Accordians began the slow hike back to their town, the annual event having subsided and the immediate dangers gone. She was still worried about the night dragon but couldn’t understand why. The Cursed beast was surely well away right now. No creature that had to live under such constrictions would be foolish enough to attack. Still, something lingered… Cherry started forward once more, into the darkness provided by the clouds. Sylvester stepped up to Tuette’s side. “W-Was that the dagon? The night dagon?” “Night dragon. And yes, it was.” Cherry stopped and looked down where the beast had writhed about in pain. She then bent over and begin picking through something on the ground. Tuette moved forward then, curious about what she was looking at, mindful that sooner or later, she’d have to Curse one of the guys to learn the Truth about Roost. Herb arrived at Cherry’s side first, having jogged quickly past Tuette. “Piddle, what’re you doing? What do you have there? Let me see, now.” Tuette finally came up and the other fact concerning night dragons finally hit her. Dermy would’ve remembered, obviously, but he was too wrapped up in his own damaged pride to be of any use. In Cherry’s hands were a few night dragon scales. They were shiny but didn’t reflect. Instead, they swallowed any image that fell upon them. Tuette instantly hit Cherry’s hand, knocking the scales to the ground and making sure none had gotten tangled into first her own skirt and then Cherry’s. “Wha…?” began Cherry, sounding like she might’ve been struck for cleaning her clothes. “But they’re pretty!” Shaking her head, Tuette said, “Yes, they are, but they’re dangerous!” “Dangerous how?” asked Herb, making a fist. Is he going to strike me? “If you have one on your person, you could—“ Herb Tee than doubled over and sounded like he was trying to toss his insides out for all to see. He then began to scream while going fetal and Tuette realized too late what was happening. In asking to see what Cherry had picked up, he had taken one as well and that was what was clutched in his palm. Cherry and Tuette instantly backed away but Gilly ran forward. Her husband knocked her backward, his skin becoming pebbled in places. What thin, blondish hair he had fell out quickly, resting limply on the ground near his knees. Tuette stopped Gilly. “What’s happening? What’s wrong?!” Tuette didn’t know how to say it. The scene was too horrific and she knew she would never forget it, silently hoping that she never had to see another like it. As Herb screamed, clutching his stomach, two bulges tore violently through the back of his shirt. They were wings, black as the nearby wall and flecked in blood and bone. Herb tried reaching around to grab at them and only ended up rubbing the top of his head, putting a few scratches there with his lengthened fingernail. A black and scaly tail finally broke through his trousers to lie limply on the ground. Herb Tee then fell forward to scream and moan into the dirt. Dermy had stepped up then, looking at the scene as calmly as only a Magiked disguise could perform. “He bein’ a nigh’ ‘ragon now. Oh.” Tuette couldn’t have put it any other way. Gilly began to sob, losing her footing and leaning completely on Tuette. Cherry looked on dispassionately. Does she even understand? Maybe. Maybe not. Tuette couldn’t look anymore. She turned away, bringing Gilly with her. Dermy stood near Cherry. Herb had stifled his moans, the worst of his pain gone. In no time— As if cued by her thoughts, a shriek was heard from the ground. Tuette had to look back. Gilly only sobbed. Running like a newborn nit straight out of the womb, Herb Tee, as a uncoordinated night dragon, bolted towards his frog-home with smoke trailing him as Brill looked on unkindly, uncaringly. The sight made Tuette feel sickened, especially as Herb’s wings were flopping about wildly, as if he couldn’t control them. The other Accordians stared on in amazement, or disgust, or wonder. Tuette couldn’t help but feel totally responsible. I should’ve remembered how the Curse was passed on. I should’ve known! After a short while, with the aid of additional cloud cover, Herb Tee scrambled from his home and headed in the direction of the other night dragon. Gilly gasped at the movement, silently sobbing into weathered hands. Cherry remained quiet and Tuette began to seriously question the alignment of the girl’s head energies. Does she not realize that her father has just essentially died? * ~ * ~ * It was a long time before Gilly calmed down, but the rest of the Accordians didn’t. They viewed the situation as yet another example of why the large wall was a good thing: it kept vicious Magiks away from their town and their lives. Tuette couldn’t help but see the hypocrisy. This half of Accordia wanted to increase the capture of swamp frogs to undoubtedly be used by Mages elsewhere. Their economy is almost rigidly based on Magik! But she didn’t say anything. Porlyen, the town’s acting mayor, made it clear that it would be best if Tuette and the others left Cordia, as he had called it. “We’ve been Magik free, ‘cept the annual Life Spell events, for three years. And now this,” he said while gesturing to the spot where Herb Tee had forcibly ejected his clothing. The five travelers had been forced to stay there, along with the remaining Tee women. “So it’s best if you left now and let the rest of us get on with our lives.” He then looked into Sylvester’s face. “I’m not meaning to sound disrespectful, King, sir, but you’re companion has brought a bit too much trouble for us to cope with.” Sylvester looked like he didn’t know what to say. Finally, he blurted out something. “We don’t wish to stay here any longer either. We just need to get to the other Stone. In the Ring. But it’s on the other side of the wall, is it not?” Porlyen nodded. “We don’t usually get much travelers across the Ring these days. Mainly because of the wall. But also because it’s dangerous. Last year, we found a body one morning. Tossed from the Stone. Slammed into the black wall itself. Broke his neck.” The mayor shook his head. “Was a young one, too.” Tuette gulped, feeling dizzy. She had come singly as well. She had understood the risks though. Had the boy? Where’d he come form? Ed hadn’t mentioned anything about such an incident. No one will ever travel with Ed and the fear of dying is what keeps him from going through the Ring alone. But surely he might try the other Stone near Mokel? It actually occurred to Tuette that they might have to traverse back that way and come through the other Stone. Odd were that they wouldn’t end up in Ac, as Porlyen had unimaginatively called it, but maybe even directly on one of the Seagulf Islands. She put the suggestion first to Sylvester, since it seemed like the mayor wanted only to deal with him. If only he knew of the monarch’s Magik roots. Sylvester, talking to Porlyen, relayed the idea. Porlyen considered as it meant the foreigners would have to go back into the town if only for a short while. In a short while, though, they were walking back towards Cordia. Terry and Vest were wary of their surroundings though. Tuette imagined that the night dragon had put them on their guard, so to speak. It was most likely the first time they had encountered such a monster. Terry especially looked shaken, his face having developed a fare amount of scruff though not as much as most men might accumulate over a series of razorless days. Tuette made the mental note to try and comfort him later. * ~ * ~ * Back in Cordia, people were resettling into the town. By day, it looked extremely mundane, which was probably how the people liked it. The roadways were muddy though and many small frogs and toads hopped about in such a way that Tuette was almost fearful she would crush a few on accident. Or that they would jump up her skirt. Gilly and Cherry left the others and entered a humble looking shelter. Tuette felt sorry for the mother because whatever Herb Tee did to help make the family unit function, Gilly was all alone to care for her decidedly beautiful but otherwise dull daughter. At the Stone, Porlyen gave them no time to organize themselves. He didn’t even offer a meal. Tuette felt resigned to the notion and decided they could forage for food near Mokel or even return to Ed. But that was all going to take time. The Curse of the Thumb would be realizing itself soon, in a matter of days, and they were stuck following the orders of smalltime town folk. Tuette instantly wished for a stronger figure in Sylvester. Had he inflicted his crowning status on the Cordians, they might be made to appear more accommodating. She thought back to Jirra and Yuka, thinking how one half of that pair had been deceitful while both were highly helpful with the king’s comfort. Perhaps that’s it. With a level of deceit, with a notion that you don’t want to be discovered, you hide that unpleasant truth behind a pleasant façade. She herself had the Curse of the Hood to keep hidden for however long it took, but she still didn’t feel like she had to put on a show to please those around her. But that was due to her own personal experiences. Either these people were like her and didn’t care to be blunt with their demands or they had nothing to hide and therefore felt they didn’t owe anything to anybody, not even the king. They were stationed around the Stone, all with hands upon it, except Dermy who still had not been healed and only rested one hand. She decided that when they got to the other Stone, she would apply the Healing Pote as best she could, though she wasn’t sure how it would interact with a Magik disguise. Should I do it before we leave? He could be damaged even more when we land. “Porlyen, I think I should at least try and put a Pote on my friend’s arm. The trip could cause more—“ “No!” he barked, which was chorused by one or two other people. Looking around, Tuette saw that a small crowd had gathered to see them off. Some still held their baskets and blankets, having come straight with their mayor to show support. “Okay, okay,” she said silently, glowering a little at Sylvester for not backing her up. Dermy was, after all, under his employ but that didn’t matter, she guessed. “I guess he’ll be fine until we get there.” She looked at Dermy then and he smiled brightly, but his eyes looked very pained. Why hasn’t the king thought to help Dermy before this? She decided she’d ask later. She put her hands back against the Stone as they had come away from it during her question, and her mind went blank as to what the activation line was. “What’s the… the line?” Tuette asked tentatively. Terry cleared his throat and said, “I remember! ‘Traveling far, riding the…’” He stopped. Why? Has he actually forgotten? If none remembered, they would be out of luck as the Cordians had righteously destroyed whatever sign had been present to inform would-be travelers on how to use the Ring of Ten Minus Two. But Terry just withdrew his hands, smiling big. “It’s ‘Traveling far, riding the Ring, quicker indeed, won’t cost a thing’” He then replaced his hands, grinning too widely to actually enjoy. He had remembered and learned from Tuette’s own mistake. Porlyen looked annoyed that they were still there though. “Okay, all,” said Tuette. “The line, on three.” She counted and they all repeated. But nothing happened. How anticlimactic. Sylvester explained. “This happened after you were drawn through. We waited for a good many seconds before we were pulled through and deposited here.” But the answer didn’t please Tuette. She realized then that she had been feeling weird ever since touching the Stone and finally understood why. The towering Stone was not cold to the touch. It wasn’t even cool. It was warm, as if bathed by Brill recently. “Kriff,” she said, instantly looking at the king’s boots and seeing that some chicken droppings still rested on the edge of the soles. After standing with their hands to the Stone for a better part of ten minutes, they withdrew them and were forced to stand in awkward silence. “You put yer hands up, folken!” screamed Porlyen. Other Cordians joined in the cause and Tuette wondered if they might start pelting Tuette and her companions with rocks or frogs. “Porlyen, sir, this Stone isn’t going to take us away. We need to get to the other one.” She stepped forward, seeing a menace behind the mayor’s subtle glare. “Is there a way to cross the wall quickly? We need to advance in—“ “Silence, foul woman!” “Now listen to me,” Sylvester said finally, drawing a shock from Porlyen. “I am the king, your king, and we are on an important quest to save all of Decennia from one little Curse. Just one. And if we can’t leave via this big Stone,” he said while jabbing at the solid monolith, “then we need another path. Can we cross the wall or not?” Porlyen didn’t answer immediately. Sylvester set his jaw firmly. “Do I have to have Terry and Vest here show you what a Gousherall can really do?” The uncooperative mayor suddenly decided to cooperate and Tuette felt mildly proud to be on the same side as Sylvester, even if he was using a fairly insubstantial bluff. “W-we don’t know,” he said finally. “We’ve tried climbing the wall but its slick. Some vines and stuff will grow against it, closer to the swamps, but those’ll be years before they reach the top.” He sighed. “I’m-I’m sorry that I wasn’t bein’ helpful. It’s just, since the wall went up, we’ve had it rough!” He sounded like he might start crying and Tuette wondered if Sylvester was going to break his newly found hard edge. Sylvester sighed heavily but still managed to just look stern. “The stuff with the night dragon wasn’t our fault,” he got out, which drew a silent nod from Porlyen. “It’s jus’,” began the mayor, “since we ‘came Cordia, the frog-catchin’ got harder, and a couple night dragons harass us every now and then, sometimes taken a kid and such, and, I don’t know.” He rubbed the back of his neck, looking embarrassed. “It’s just easier to tell people to go away. All the stuff that’s been happenin’ make me feel ashamed to be these people’s leader.” He gestured to the other Cordians. Sylvester stepped forward and clapped a hand on his shoulder. Porlyen sniffed once and his face soured at the closeness of the king. But he didn’t say anything and Sylvester didn’t notice. “I know what you mean, Porlyen. Now, show us those vines. If we can’t make something work, then we’ll have to travel around the wall and get to Ac that way.” The thought made her heart sink. “The wall’s a couple clicks long,” said one of the bystanders, a revelation that made Tuette feel even worse. The entire length to the edge of the wall and then back along it to Ac might take a while, especially since they had no splints. Porylen explained that they only had small skiffs for catching frogs and a few carts that they hauled by hand to Di’Jokoot. “In Di’Jokoot, their Freezers take our frogs and give us ice blocks, which we gotta bring back ourselves. It’s worth it, to have a few houses with clean and piped water at least. But most everyone bathes in the swamp or washes their clothes with Wash Stones.” So they don’t have modes of transportation. She didn’t understand what they were to accomplish with the blasted vines and thought to say something, but decided against it. Even though more time spent here meant less time to deal with Roost when they confronted him, they still needed to eat. And Dermy’s rations weren’t going to cut it this time. As if it was an afterthought, Vest made a suggestion. “Can we get to Ac by going north, around the plateau?” Porlyen only shook his head. “The plateau goes longer than the wall. And there’s underground caverns that lead to the other side. But where do you think the local night dragons live?” A shiver ran visibly through Vest as the group headed towards the swamplands. “Porlyen,” started Sylvester as they passed what might’ve been a bakery. “We don’t intend to delay our departure anymore than we have to. But could you arrange for me and my companions to be coupled with some meals? Preferably something to eat while on our feet?” Without breaking stride, Porlyen gave commands to some nearby townsfolk. Those people immediately rushed into the bakery and weren’t seen until the small group arrived near the swamps. Tuette didn’t recognize it as a place where her abducting frog-home had taken her because it looked totally harmless. But she knew that such lands were prone to be deceiving. The food brought to them was an interesting assortment of meats wrapped up in flat, dried plants. Tuette assumed they were lily pads, straight from the swamp, but didn’t care because it was delicious and quite filling. The others ate almost as quickly as she did and it wasn’t only because of their hunger: flies and other such bugs flitted around like they also wanted a taste. The vines Porlyen had been talking about were actually thick and sturdy bin’vines. They normally grew against trees inside thicker swamps; the types of trees that had no bark and were therefore more difficult to cling to. Bin’vines were great for reaching new heights but these were, as Porylen said, quite shy of their ultimate goal. Without thinking and with much practice, she pulled a hair from Terry’s head. He was the closest. He bellowed once, grabbing at his scalp. She said that she had saved him from yet another insect and he seemed grateful. As her growling stomach no longer distracted her, she was of sound mind to cast the Curse of Truth. Using the hair, she performed the small and simple ritual that would cull the desired Curse against Terry. The only person who would notice what she was doing was Dermy and he was still in a state of self-depreciation. All the better that Terry be chosen, then. Quickly picking up a brittle twig, she then mouthed the Curse Reverse: Break this twig. Usually, a Reverse was more rigidly set as it was actually performed so the Audience Members could recognize it. But Tuette knew she didn’t ever need to do be lavish with her castings for some reason. Her Curses, though minimal compared to Roost’s and Voidet’s, always hit their target. Dwelling for a moment more, she realized that there was even a chance that the Reverse of Freezing chickens might not even work for Sylvester. Unless the count had a ready supply of chickens for himself to Freeze when he cast the Curse, he was most likely hoping that merely stating the desired Reverse would enough. If that’s the case, it’s a good thing we decided to go after Count Roost. “Terry,” she said, drawing his attention. “What’s the most expedient way to Ac?” He didn’t even blink. “Over the wall.” Tuette frowned, as did Sylvester. “Well, yes, Terry. But is that the route we should take?” “Yes.” “How?” asked Sylvester. “I don’t know.” Tuette groaned. The problem with the Curse of Truth was that it was very literal and though it could be used to find pertinent information, it could be quite frustrating to finally come across the desired answer. “Then why did you say it?” asked Sylvester, sounding a little angrier than he otherwise should have. Terry frowned and Dermy looked up, first at the Guard, then at Tuette. “I don’t know,” he finally said, which was true: he didn’t. Dermy’s eyes went wide with surprise but he didn’t say anything. Long ago, Tuette had discovered that yes and no questions never left room for the Curse of Truth to trouble the subject so she decided to stick with those. “But we should go over the wall?” “Yes.” “Should we use the vines?” “Yes.” “How?” asked Sylvester, almost shouting it. Tuette felt bad for Terry as he looked a little afraid of his master when he said, “I don’t know!” like he might start crying. “Sylvester, King, just give me a moment. I’ll figure this out.” “Well, what’s wrong with him?” She felt a little cold at the question and she assumed it was only because she knew that Terry was Cursed, as she was, and that somehow meant there was something wrong with him. But Sylvester couldn’t know that so she didn’t say anything. “Nothing, I think.” Terry then frowned a little deeper, his eyes looking panicked. “Just, give me a moment. A minute.” Sylvester scowled but quieted himself, looking away into the crowd. In that span of time, Tuette had asked how they were to use the vines, which brought an “I don’t know” out of Terry. She confirmed that they were to use them though, twice over. She pondered silently. “Is it someone in Cordia that can help us with this?” “Yes.” Terry was beginning to look very frazzled, like he wanted to be alone with this thoughts but Tuette wouldn’t let him alone. Not yet. “Terry, please focus. Can you focus?” “It’s possible, but hard. I’m saying things but they aren’t making sense with what I want to be saying.” He swallowed. “I get to say ‘I don’t know’ when I want to but not every time.” “I understand. I’ll explain later.” He became red around his eyes, which began to glass over. “What’s wrong with me?” he asked. Tuette bit her lip, knowing that she was under quite a different Curse than Terry. “I don’t know. Not yet. But we have to figure something else out first.” Terry nodded but only once. Vest was beginning to look concerned in place of the anger the king had been building up a moment before, but said nothing. “Now, it’s someone in Cordia that can help us.” “Yes,” he said, a little too quickly. “That wasn’t a question,” she said just as quickly, though she couldn’t wonder why he would say it. “Is it the mayor? It is Porylen?” “No. No.” “Someone we talked to? Maybe whoever brought us the food?” “Yes. No.” Terry began to shed actual tears and Tuette almost gave him the twig with an order to break it, feeling wholly sorry for the young Guard. But this is important! Someone we talked to? “Is it Herb Tee? Or Gilly?” “No. No!” Thankfully, Dermy kept his mouth shut. He finally recognized the necessity. Sylvester, who had been pacing near the wall, paused, looked behind Tuette and said, “Cherry.” Terry said “Yes!” while wiping his face and looking at Vest. Tuette looked at Sylvester. Looking where the king was, she also saw Cherry Tee, standing silently at the edge of the sparse crowd that had formed, her face almost expressionless. “Cherry Tee,” said Tuette, which was further acknowledged by Terry through a series of sobs. Begrudgingly, Tuette absently recalled that it was Terry who had been possessed by the Artificial. This was only furthering his negative associations of Magik. But the Curse of Truth doesn’t falter. Cherry Tee was to somehow help them. “Hello,” she said weakly. |
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