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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." |
| It had been quite a shock to find the seleagle, once again, inside the workshop. Count Roost might’ve been afraid. Except the bird was dead. Puze is certainly a tenacious little dacker. Evidence of the fly’s actions only reminded Roost of why he had altered the Curse of the Fruit Fly for the little buzzer in the first place: because he had been working for months at finding discrete ways of acquiring the kingstone. Using the traditionally reliable Artificial-from-Afar Charm, he learned that King Sylvester was immune to the effect. No malignant Curse could touch him either, and Roost had tried them all, using hairs from a brush brought to the count by the insensible Puze. Had the fly known the king couldn’t be altered in such a manner? That had to be the case, though Count Roost couldn’t see how. It had led to Roost questioning the fly and the questions had only produced annoying answers which had turned the count’s mood sour and murderous. The original glass-mesh cage that had been lost had been because of the brush landing inside with the fly. The first reproduced one lost had been that large and ugly plant. Yes, the plant. Roost was becoming more and more certain with the notion that the World Spirit was not tethered in the stones – Though that has happened – but inside the odd stalk and tangle of roots. The plant itself warranted closer attention and the count was baffled about its origins; he had never seen anything like it. The stalk was lean in some areas and broad in others, forming a symmetry that was more commonly associated with fine vases. And the root system acted like it didn’t need nutrients commonly found in soil but like it fed on sunlight. A couple of times, Roost spied the topmost bud open, revealing a flourishing flower that seemed to funnel in on itself in deep purple waves. Upon realizing the possibly true nature of the plant, Roost immediately thought to cut it down and harvest any Potential Magik properties. But he didn’t know where any of the plant’s seeds might exist. He wondered if the bulbous portions in the center of the stalk might contain them but that might’ve meant that the only way another plant could be born was to breach the existing plant. And that looked like it might bring about the rare plant’s death. He shook his head, seeing the similarities between that one plant, that World Spirit, expanding itself and how one human could basically sacrifice his or her entire life just to insure there was a future for their bloodline. Roost thought of Botch then and felt relieved to be able to embrace him as a son, especially since he had been able to skip past the child-rearing part. It almost seemed like Botch wanted to finish growing up anyway, what with taking on more responsible tasks in just the little time since he had first used the Pain-Less Stone on Voidet below. A dreadful truth boiled up: Botch was going to suffer the same Curse as everyone else. Roost knew he couldn’t stop it. Not unless he stopped the Curse of the Thumb from coming about. If he did that now, the king might be alerted through some means and return to Mount Reign. There was also no doubt that Roost’s head would be what they were after. Could I convince the king to give up his kingstone without him trying to kill me? Perhaps. But once the king finally did arrive, Count Roost knew he might not have a chance to disable the Curse against Decennia. It has to happen this way. Thinking on his own horrible childhood and how almost all of it was rooted in some form or fashion to his mild deformity, he could only wonder how Botch would fare. But no, Count Roost knew he could be there for the boy, in a way Roost’s own father never had. He wouldn’t ridicule the boy, wouldn’t make fun of him. And he certainly wouldn’t allow anyone else to do such a thing either. In thinking more about Botch’s immediate future, Roost knew it was the right path: Botch’s path towards a greater destiny. They would have so much more in common after that fateful moment when Botch lost his thumbs and became more like Count Roost than he ever might have before. With Voidet’s life coming to an end and the king’s as well, probably, life in Decennia might finally start to turn for the better. Roost ascended to the rooftop, accessibly only through his bedroom. Once there, he opened the small, innocuous box that rested in the corner. Inside were the pieces of bone from King Gould that, when reassembled, would denote their origins as that man’s thumb. Count Roost hadn’t been certain he could make the Curse of the Thumb work in the manner he had chosen, but it had worked. He had first curbed the effect of the Curse onto Sylvester himself, but sources told him he had been unsuccessful. He then changed the target to any that answered to the current possessor of the kingstone. The Audience Members obviously recognized what he was talking about because he held the bone fragments when he called for their attention. They had unerringly obliged. Instead of directing the Curse towards the current owner of the kingstone, they fashioned it to become attached to all that answered to the king. And since they were aware that the kingstone was designed to serve Decennia, every citizen of the kingdom fell under its blanket. He couldn’t have been more pleased. To think that an entire nation was going to be without thumbs, just as he had been for his whole life, made him feel ecstatic. Thrilled! Naturally, his first thought was why it hadn’t been done before. It didn’t take long to realize the answer: no one in Decennia even cared about the king. His younger days were filled with balking notions that fed into the idea that a monarch was obsolete in this country. Coming from a Gor Pyron-settled land had truly provided the count with a better notion for how a country should operate. And if he could easily place the entire nation under one Curse, that nation could learn to fear him; respect him, even. Because, through his short-yet-long life, Count Roost had come to realize that respect was truly another facet of fear itself. Botch didn’t fear him though. He liked him. And Roost liked Botch. Liked him enough to treat him like a son. But it only made him question his capacity for love. Parents were supposed to have within them an unconditional love for their offspring. Botch isn’t my genuine sire, but could I come to love the boy? Could I raise him to be a man? Through Cursing him with the rest of the kingdom, I’m damning him. But essentially saving him. It’s best that children learn, while young, that life is filled with cruel events and crueler people. I can protect him from those people, at least. And maybe, in time, find that notion of fatherly love that I might never have known before. That idea chilled him though. If I never felt I was properly loved, even by my accursed parents, would I even know if what I felt was love? It seemed like he might as one of those moments might define itself, but Roost knew he wasn’t so sure. And he hated dealing with uncertainties. It occurred to him that he might have to test Botch’s stance on the subject. Returning the box to its original position, Roost descended into his bedroom and continued down to the ground floor. He actively sought Botch, knowing if he didn’t come clean now, he might not have the courage later. Botch was exiting the infirmary when Roost found him. He asked the boy to follow him up to the workshop, thinking the whole time that only weeks before, with any other incompetent servant, he would’ve bellowed and shouted for the servant to come to him. But this boy was decidedly different. Following Roost, Botch looked a little fearful, like he might think he was receiving a punishment of some kind. Roost knew he could accidentally intimidate in that manner, but he didn’t want the lad to feel that way. In the workshop, Roost sat down on a stool, took a deep breath, and said to Botch, “I’m not entirely what my form has suggested. I am strong, yes, but I look… different.” Botch looked confused. “What do you mean? You can change your shape?” Smiling tightly, he said, “Not exactly. I just have a… false one covering my true face.” “And you’re deformed somehow? Did you have an accident or something?” Briefly, Count Roost drifted back to a time when an older child taunted him by stating his entire life was an accident. It wasn’t difficult to come out of it though: the flashbacks never ended pleasantly. “No, everything about it was… aptly designed.” Seeing that Botch wasn’t understanding completely, the count extended his feet, leaning against the sturdy workbench, the claw marks from the dead lei cat still evident. “Botch, grab my feet. Pull upward. Make my knees bend forward as far as possible.” “Bend forward, sir?” He could only nod and, almost reluctantly, grabbed Roost’s ankles. With a quick grunt, he jerked upward and Roost knew it wasn’t enough; the boy wasn’t strong enough just yet. He was trying to have the boy temporarily dislocate the joints that were strapped on the backside of his true legs. The disguise hid them, obviously, but he knew now he’d have to use some of his invaluable Truvis Pote. Standing with a groan, he reached to a shelf above the marked bench and withdrew a small vial. Without anymore words and with his heart hammering in his ears – he had never been this nervous before, not about someone whose opinion he actually valued – he unstopped the vial and drank the contents entirely. In moments, he was groaning and shaking audibly and he saw, through clenched eyes, Botch back away, his face miming fear or panic. Roost hoped he wasn’t making a mistake. Finally, after the pain subsided, Count Roost was slumped backwards on the stool, countering the threat that his sagging gut put on him in trying to pull him forward. The disguise had only masked his physical enormity. He still weighed the same and felt large, but not seeing all of his own extra mass always made it easier to get through the day; made it easier to maintain his labored breathing, his heavy steps. Absently, he thought he looked a little thinner, what with walking up and down the stairwell every single dacking day, but he couldn’t ask Botch for verification: he’d never seen the count this way. Botch. The boy was leaning against the furthest bookcase, his mouth hung open only slightly. When Roost leaned forward – nearly toppling in the process – to find his footing, he finally stood and felt disgusted with himself. “You…” sputtered Botch. But then Roost realized that the boy might remember the count from years before, when he had first arrived at Boost, before he had adopted the Magik disguise. “You really are him!” That hadn’t been expected. “What?” Botch took a moment more to find his voice while staring at the extra flesh. “Many… Lots of people, around Boost, they said that you came and then, well, they were all wrong.” He still hadn’t met Roost’s eyes. That made Roost a little sad, and maybe even a little angry, but he wasn’t sure witch emotion was winning out. “Wrong about what?” “They said that you, the other you, they said that he came in and killed you one night and demanded that he – you – was our leader.” Count Roost remembered the day he had come to the island and, a few months later, when he revealed himself to be of a much more acceptable physique. He told them he had been the same man, Magiked to look more presentable: he never assumed they hadn’t believed him. In the months between them seeing his bulbous form and his trimmed form, they had already erected a statute out of dutiful respect and fear. The statue depicted him as bulbous. And thumbless. “Yes, I am the one and same person. You didn’t believe me?” Botch didn’t shake his head or nod it. He was just staring in amazement and Roost was beginning to feel like this was a mistake, like Botch couldn’t handle it. “How’s it work?” he asked earnestly, moving forward by a step. That question was enough to make the count believe this was right. Turning, he showed the bones that were attached to the back of his legs. “This is a method that comes from Gor Pyron.” He realized then that he hadn’t explained his own background too carefully so the boy probably didn’t know what he was talking about. He continued. “I’ve noticed that here in Decennia, most disguises are tethered to small boulders, even though everyone knows that human bones make the best tethers: they last a long time.” He took a breath and licked his lips. “In Gor Pyron, a land far, far away from here, they had warriors that would go into battle with bones from their enemies strapped to their limbs. They would then tether Magik disguises – they called them doseken or ‘second skin’ – well, they would tether them and if they came to harm in battle, they would reveal that they were wearing dosekens and the true form beneath would be unharmed. “Here in Decennia, they consider a dead human’s bones sacred for some reason. But when we die, we’re gone. The bones don’t matter. Valtos ordered that, when we die, our bones be left behind for those of us who would wish to use them to truly tap into the Magiks that he offers us firm and most devoted of believers. “So I can be harmed, but as long as it’s all taken by the disguise, the real me, all of this,” he felt a little sick for having to motion how much of this there was, and that it was the real him, “will be just fine. And I’ll live to fight another day.” Botch’s look of horror or disgust or whatever it was had finally subsided and now he looked genuinely curious. But what Roost noticed most of all was that he hadn’t run away. He also hadn’t looked Roost in the— “What’s Gor Pyron? Or where is it?” he asked, looking Roost in the eyes finally. The question made Roost’s heart swell a little as the boy was curious enough to still learn from the count. But it was the eye contact that made Roost feel like something that could be respected. In starting to explain about Gor Pyron and how it was quite literally on the other side of the world, Botch noticed Roost’s hands. And how he had no thumbs. Roost, being emboldened by how the boy had taken part of the truth, revealed his precon Curse and the real reason he had Cursed Decennia. Botch took it all in even stride. And he stayed. That’s the part Count Roost was most proud of: after seeing his master’s true form, Botch hadn’t left him alone. Absently, Roost realized that he had never taken the first hair samples from Botch for an eventual Cursing. After this revelatory episode, he knew he’d never need to. |
| It had been a truly horrendous night and subsequent morning and Sylvester was raggedly exhausted. But they still had a ways to go. And, for some reason, Terry, currently distraught, though that Cherry Tee could help them. Cordia, as it had been termed by the locals, wasn’t a place for them to remain for too much longer. Seeing Cherry, Sylvester could only think of that poor man, and father, and husband. Herb Tee was his name and Sylvester was fairly certain he might never forget it. Herb had literally been transformed from a human into something else: a dread terror known as a night dragon. Tuette had explained it to Sylvester during their quick trip to the wall. The black scales dropped by the other night dragon were the key. It was the only reason the night dragons shed scales: so they could transform others. Tuette said that the dragon had muttered some words of activation to no one in particular. Incidentally, they were heard by some people called Audience Members, which Dermy had mentioned once before but never explained, and they made it so that whoever possessed that dragon’s scales would also become a night dragon. Sylvester recalled that Cherry had been enamored by the scale’s attractiveness. It seemed like a hearty lesson for any who would look to steal or acquire an item of beauty. He realized then that that must be why the folk of Cordia didn’t openly possess such material items. Everything he had seen in the few homes he had invaded – there was no other word for it, he knew – was limited in value but still served basic purposes. How many of these people have been lost to night dragons, then? Porlyen said they lived in a nearby cave system but the Cordians didn’t focus on that death toll: just the one that was tallied against the Ring of Ten Minus Two. But that had failed them and, on an odd whim, Sylvester had suggested they inspect the possibilities that might rest in the bin’vines that Cordia’s leader had mentioned. It had actually seemed like a means of getting some free food, which they desperately had needed, but now with Terry’s equally odd actions, it had seemed like an almost divinely inspired suggestion. Of course, his attitude only made Sylvester think, in the back of his mind, that Terry had been taken by one of those Artificials again. The ones that Count Roost kept sending Sylvester’s way. He had thought from time to time about it and decided that it might be beneficial to ask Tuette if something could be done to block such takings. But Terry was acting in a different manner of oddness. He was coherent and had even told Tuette that he wanted to say one thing but only managed to say another. It was usually a bunch of yes’s, no’s, or I don’t know’s but they seemed to somehow provide a direction that the group should take. Until he singled Cherry out, after Sylvester had uttered her name. What she was doing here, the king had no clue. Her mother seemed wholly distraught. But Cherry... wasn’t. Sylvester remembered, long ago, when he had learned of his own father’s death. He couldn’t help but still feel guilty because he had behaved almost like Cherry was now. How could any other reaction have been expected? He was born and the earliest memories were from Majramdic. Still, he couldn’t help but feel terrible for not feeling for his own predecessor. Lately, all he ever thought of was King Gould. The fact that his kingstone had been similarly limited did make things easier. But the unease over his death only compounded because he had been in the very same situation as Sylvester himself might now be. Minus the impending Curse, of course. Cherry stepped away from the crowd finally. Tuette asked Terry again if she was the one who could help with the bin’vines. He confirmed with Vest embracing the man as a father might embrace a child. Surely Terry wasn’t Vest’s child? Thinking on that, Sylvester recalled learning that the Gousheralls loosely followed the example set by the king in that their bloodlines usually remained consistent with protecting the king when he needed it. Of course, they don’t have kingstones or even guardstones. I think. No, he was the only one in that situation. It somehow saddened him to know that. Tuette began to almost interrogate Cherry, apparently forgetting that she had just lost her father to some malicious Curse. Her lack of emotionality might’ve made it easier though. “How can you help us? With the vines, I mean?” Cherry stared at Tuette for a moment and then at the vines against the black wall. “I don’t know,” she said finally, sounding almost featherlike somehow. “Fatha said I shouldn’t climb them.” “Terry,” Tuette called, not taking her eyes off Cherry. “How can Cherry help us?” Terry didn’t know. “Can she help us fly? Can she make us invisible or immaterial? Can she destroy the wall? Can she grow new vines quickly?” “No. No! No! Yes!” Terry himself gasped after that revelation. Tuette wheeled around, looking Terry in the face. “How?” she all but screeched. Instead of Terry spouting off another “I don’t know”, he said one set of words: “Key Phrase.” That apparently didn’t mean anything to Tuette because she looked even more confused. She turned back to Cherry. “Do you know what he means? Do you know what a Key Phrase is?” Cherry shrugged her shoulders, looking more animated than she had before. Sylvester actually caught on before Tuette did, thinking back to Ed and what he had been told of that Burtle fellow. “Tuette, maybe she has a Key Phrase, or says one, to, like Terry suggested, make vines grow. If they grew, we could climb over the wall. Like Terry said.” He only thought to reinforce that Terry came up with the notion first because he was the one that Tuette had been practically mistreating all of a sudden. And it made Sylvester feel a little tingly. He felt bad for Terry though, knowing he shouldn’t have to go through such a thing, especially if he was coming out Artificial possession. Tuette looked at Cherry a moment more, seemed annoyed that Sylvester had thought to suggest such a thing, and asked Terry. Terry said yes. When Tuette asked the Guard what the Key Phrase was, surprise rippled through the group again, only on some deeper level than before. “‘This seed with grow when, on it, I blow’.” Tuette screwed her face, which was red in spots, but not all over. Probably the sunburns that she feared so much. But it was Cherry’s expression that surprised Sylvester. In short, she looked utterly shocked at the words Terry spoke. Tuette gave Terry a twig and told him to break it. Terry was confused, which was only a slight continuation of his current state, but he absently broke the twig. Looking back at Cherry, Tuette almost looked like she was going to smack the young woman. “Is this true, Cherry Tee? Is that the Key Phrase?” Cherry was looking at Terry when she said, “I… I did not know what it meant. Or what it was.” Disconnectedly, Cherry explained as quickly as possible – which was moderately slow by most people’s standards – that she had been dreaming for the past few years about the very words that Terry had uttered. “They do not come often. But when they do,” she huffed once, her eyes finding focus but not on any person. “They are memorable.” “So you’ve heard it before? And it helps you grow bin’vines? Or something?” Cherry shook her head once but quickly. “I was not aware of what the Phrase did. When I told my mother about it, she told me to,” Cherry then coughed as if the words weren’t supposed to be uttered. But the young Tee continued. “She said I should not tell anyone. That it was an assured sign of Magik. That even though I could not help it, the others in Cordia would… condemn me. And maybe harm me.” Sylvester felt appalled. Up until that point, he had understood that the Magik people of this one-time-town had separated themselves from the people who didn’t wholly embrace Magik. But for one group to harm another seems quite outlandish! He instantly wondered if the Cordians had reason to be so fearful as such a harmful response was probably rooted in self-preservation. “Why would your mother say that?” asked Sylvester, stepping to join the small group once again. “Because,” began Porlyen, who had adopted a look of near-disgust. “It’s the Mages who did this. All of this!” He gestured to their surroundings and Sylvester took them in once more. Pools of swamp water dotted the town. Frogs and toads, as well as snakes and a few fish, moved atop the soggy surface of Cordia. There were large indentions as well, spots where frog-homes had originally been built or where they had landed through the night. In short, it was a disaster. “Every year, in the month of Delch, just before the moon is full, they throw eggs over the wall. The eggs bring our structures to Life. In the first year, four people died. Last year, one more person died. This year, we took no chances. We had to vacate our town, our homes, because we feared for our lives “Magiks are not welcome in this town. And I understand that you are the king of everything,” – Hardly everything – “but we don’t take anymore risks than we have to. Mages aren’t welcome here. You and your friends need to leave. Now.” He looked quickly at Cherry Tee. “And take her with you.” “What?” Sylvester couldn’t help but sound incredulous, but Porlyen had just made an outrageous suggestion. “Take her with us? This is her home, you silly fool. You were just expressing to us all that you care so much about your homes and your wellbeing and, what, you’re ordering us to take her?” “Yes,” he said quietly, not making eye contact. “Yes, I am.” He sighed and rubbed the bridge between his eyes. “If your Guard or whatever he really is,” he said with a tone of disgust. “If he’s right, then she can’t stay here. We won’t have her. If we had known before,” he finally made eye contact with the king, “then we would’ve exiled her. Or drowned her in the swamps.” That sent a cold chill up Sylvester’s spine and he instantly felt like punching Porlyen square in the jaw. Such a leader as he puts this entire government to shame. What made it worse was that he believed himself to be right! Does this qualify as a situation of malice? Is Porlyen no better than Jirra or even Count Roost? Surely, if the people of Cordia did fear for their lives because of complications that arose through Magik doers, then precautionary measures might be necessary. But murder? Exile was surely an option, but the mayor had mentioned drowning the innocent Cherry Tee. Sylvester’s heart went out to Cherry, though he knew he didn’t really want it too. It was but a simple stroke of empathy. He felt like sheltering Cherry but he knew that that was why she probably behaved the way she did. That or she really did have a head energy blockage, like Ed. That old man had the odd gift. Maybe Cherry has one too. Approaching Cherry, he could see that she was shaken a little more by the revelation that Porlyen, someone she might’ve otherwise trusted, would so readily dismiss her in one form or another. “Cherry, you said you dream about this… Key Phrase?” She nodded once but didn’t look at Sylvester. She looked at the black wall which only lightened as the sun climbed higher in the sky. “And that means you know the Phrase? By memory?” She nodded once more. Sylvester started guiding her towards the wall, where the bin’vines grew, quietly hoping this wasn’t a waste of time. He looked the vines over, noting how incredibly thick they were, almost like skinny trees even. Tuette had said that they clung to smooth surfaces and were difficult to bring down, causing problems even with older structures that could easily be overtaken by the plant if not tended properly. Plucking at one of the leaves, he saw a small sprig of beadlike objects jutting from the vine itself. He decided that this was probably the seed of the vines and picked a few off. Handing them to Cherry, she looked at them in the palm of her hand. “Well,” Sylvester said. “You know the Phrase. I think it says what you should do.” Cherry only nodded. She muttered something while her face turned a little red, as if she were embarrassed. She then clutched the seeds into her palm end blew into it. But she didn’t drop them. Instead, she looked into Sylvester’s face, her eyes glassy. “I will drop these. And all I have known will end.” Sylvester bit his lip and realized what he had asked of this tragic young woman. A lump formed in his throat. I didn’t ask. I demanded. But life with the Cordians was over, one way or the other. To Cherry, he smiled as best he could and said, “It seemed like it was going to end anyway. At least this way, you get to say it was for something great.” And he truly believed that. Because if she was to come with them, then she would be assisting them in helping save Decennia. Nodding once, Cherry opened her palm and Sylvester caught his breath as the seeds seemingly raced to the watery ground below. Everyone else said nothing, not even Tuette, which surprised the king. Even the frogs and toads had stopped splashing, it seemed. It was a but an instant later when the spot where the seeds had deposited themselves near the base of the black wall began to visibly bubble up, as if some underground creature was digging just beneath the surface. In the next instant, brown bin’vines, thicker and broader than the others, moved with a blur against the surface of the wall. Everyone backed up, except Cherry, who started at a spot on the wall level with her line of sight. All other eyes were on the black barrier’s peak, seeing if the bin’vines would reach that high. Sylvester had no doubt they would and he was right, and then some. Whether they reached past the lip of the wall, he couldn’t tell, but the base of the vines widened evermore, taking over even the original bin’vines that had provided the seeds. Sylvester was utterly amazed. He had witnessed some feats brought on by Magik but this seemed like something more. Are some types of Magik more powerful than others? Even Ed’s Healing stuff took hours to work. Cherry had instantly sprouted a full-fledged vine and provided him and Tuette and the Guards a near-perfect route out of Cordia. Porlyen looked utterly shocked, like he had been spit on. Tuette stepped forward to grab the vines. With a grunt and a tug, she said, “It’s real.” “Did you expect something else?” asked Sylvester, because he honestly hadn’t. At a loss for words, Tuette just stared up again and shook her head. She almost looked like Cherry. Sylvester then looked at Dermy, who was also staring up at the wall but grinning. His arm was still held close to his chest. How is he to climb? “Tuette, we should put that Healing stuff on Dermy’s arm. To heal him.” Tuette frowned, drawn from the spectacle that everyone else was just staring at. “I’m not sure it’ll work. His…” She looked around. Dermy stepped forward. “I be needin’ a momen’. By meself, oh.” Porlyen looked down at Dermy, acting like this was the first time he had seen him. “You can you use the swamp for you personal facilities, little man.” Dermy only smiled wider. “Nah, misty. I be needin’ a momen’ o’ peace.” “For what?” Sylvester had a notion what Dermy had to do but didn’t dare mention it. He said instead “We need to put that Healing stuff on him. Like I was talking about. Not only on his arm but in… other regions.” Seeing Porlyen squirm made Sylvester smile this time. He nodded and pointed to the nearest normal structure, which was a frog-shaped shop. “Tuette, can you watch Cherry while I apply the stuff to Dermy’s areas.” She looked utterly confused but stepped to Cherry’s side, speaking in low tones to her. Terry, who had recovered the moment the bin’vines had sprouted mightily, also stepped forward, judging that Cherry possibly needed extra protection from the Cordians. Vest made to follow the king. “No, Vest. I can handle it. I’ll be fine.” “Sir—“ Gilly Tee then broke through the crowd, first looking up at the vines and then at her daughter. Sylvester desperately wished to stay and hear the conversation that might be had but he needed to stay with Dermy to keep his disguise a secret. “Vest, help watch after Cherry. And Gilly too, if she needs it.” Sylvester doubted she would though. Gilly seemed like a self-determined woman, but not anything like what Sylvester might consider a mother. He then sadly realized that he wouldn’t truly know. However much he knew about King Gould, he knew even less about his own mother. So who am I to judge maternity? * ~ * ~ * Following after Dermy, he entered to see that Dermy was alone and already out of his disguise, his right arm hanging limply as before. “Dermy, did you see that?” he asked, barely able to contain his excitement. The specialist only nodded. “I’ve never seen anything like it, sir.” Sylvester looked at the short man, feeling confused. “Never? As much Magik as you’ve witnessed, you’ve never seen a display like that?” Dermy shook his head. Sylvester had assumed that him or Tuette had witnessed such an event before. That merely speaks of how unique it truly is. And how unique Cherry Tee truly might be. Dermy was beginning to resettle his limp wrist into a groove on the back of a chair, which he braced with one foot on the chair’s seat. “Wait, Dermy. Just a second.” Sylvester had assumed that Dermy had needed a moment alone to discard his disguise and renew it as a reapplication would probably not carry over the broken bone. He had also assumed that Dermy’s other arm would actually be broken too, but that wasn’t the case. It was only the disguise: it had acted as a kind of shield, even. “We need to take a little longer. I’m supposed to have applied that Healing stuff on parts unmentioned.” Dermy shrugged. “These Cordians don’t know anything about Magik. And they just witnessed something that would normally be classified as impossible. I don’t think they’ll worry that I’m fixed up in a matter of seconds.” “But…” He faltered but he knew he had to ask. “But what was wrong with Terry? How did he know that Cherry even had had a specialty about herself?” Dermy froze. Sylvester didn’t miss it and he immediately followed up. “What? What is it?” Dermy only shook his head. “I… don’t know what you’re talkin’ about. King, sir.” It was utterly unconvincing, and the king now knew that something was being hidden from him. Is it about Terry? Do one of the Gousheralls have an affinity for using Magik? Or perhaps he had put the power into Cherry? Sylvester’s mind was suddenly racing at the possibilities. If Terry could tell another person to perform some powerful task, then Sylvester could very quickly be rid of the kingdom-wide Curse of the Thumb! It seems all too easy! “What is it, Dermy?” He looked into the farmer’s face. “What is it about Terry that, that I’m not supposed to know?” With his brow furrowed, Dermy said, “What’re talking about?” as his arm slid from the chair’s notch to land deftly against his side. “There’s nothing secretive, or special, about Terry.” Is he telling the truth, this man who refuses to be without a disguise? Maybe. He was baring his honest side. But that didn’t mean he wasn’t omitting some sort of truth. What Terry was doing, it seemed like all he could do was report the truth. He had said he wanted to say one thing or another but a different answer popped out. Perhaps Terry had been put under a Spell? Or Charmed somehow? He asked Dermy. “Charmed?” Dermy might’ve let out a small chuckle but Sylvester didn’t catch it; his mind was rolling with many more ideas concerning the placement of power onto others. “Sir, Charms can’t be tied to whole humans. A Spell, maybe. But no Charm.” Sylvester made to ask another question and Dermy cut him off. “And, no, he couldn’t have been under a Spell, though I will acquiesce that he was acting peculiar.” Peculiar? He had been sobbing uncontrollably and had to be quieted by his superior! “Of course he was acting peculiar! And if you say that he wasn’t under a Spell and Charms are out…” “Now, they’re not out, because Charms can affect people if they wear one.” Sylvester felt himself huff. Finally, after a moment of boring into the side of Dermy’s face, he said, “Was it a Charm? Was a Charmed item on Terry’s person that made him say those things? Made him act that way?” Dermy didn’t answer, just stared at the wall below, to the right, and behind Sylvester. In a handful of seconds, he finally said, “No. He wasn’t under the affect of any Charm.” “Then, if it’s not a Spell or a Charm, I’d only assume that he was taken by yet another Artificial. A better one. One that could act more human than the others I saw. That, or a Curse.” Dermy lost his focus for a moment and that was all that Sylvester, with his powerful observations, needed to know to deduce that he had finally spouted an answer that made sense. And of course it makes sense, because what else would? “So, he was under a Curse, was he?” Dermy didn’t say anything. He didn’t have to. “Count Roost cast a more direct Curse onto one of my own Guardsmen. A Curse… that makes him tell no lies, then?” Sylvester frowned. “What good is that? Unless he knew that, without discovering Cherry’s ability, we would be delayed too much to actually encounter him.” Yes, that actually makes sense. Dermy didn’t dispute it so it had to be true. But it seemed like Sylvester was forgetting something about the nature of Curses. What was it that Dothel or Trisden had said? He wished he knew. No matter! He had someone who could only tell the truth, as far as he knew. If that were true, though, how did he know the exact wording of Cherry’s Phrase? Maybe it was a general truth and not one that Terry himself had necessarily known but had been able to speak because he had been directly asked. And Cherry had known it anyway, she just hadn’t known what to do with it. It was he, Sylvester, who had taken the initiative to find out exactly what to do. That made him feel pretty good. Suddenly, Cordia wasn’t feeling so dreary. “Dermy, I think it’s time we reappeared with you wholly healed.” Dermy only nodded but he looked like he wanted to say something. “What is it, Dermy?” Dermy took a breath and said, “About Terry. And his Curse…” “Oh, yes!” said Sylvester, remembering what it was he probably had forgotten about Curses. “He has a Reverse to perform, then!” Sylvester then frowned deeply. “I wonder what it could be? How did that Speebie woman find out the Reverse that I was supposed to perform?” “Sir, I don’t know. But that’s not what I was going to say.” Dermy took a couple deep breaths before he finally said, “It wasn’t Count Roost that Cursed Terry. First of all, he didn’t have a hair or anything from Terry for casting a Curse.” Oh, that’s true. But… “But, that fly, it could’ve taken one. That had been on Beverane. Or it took one recently, while we weren’t paying attention.” Dermy only shook his head. “While that’s possible, I know that’s not what happened.” He took another deep breath and it seemed like one too many for a man of his size. “Terry was placed under the Curse of Truth, yes. But not by Roost. By… Tuette.” The farmer froze in place, staring directly into Sylvester’s eyes. The king didn’t readily understand though. Slowly, ever so slowly, it dawned on him. The hair. She got it from Terry. Just a few minutes ago. And the Reverse… was that why he had broken the small stick? Can such a simple task be assigned as a Reverse for a life-altering Curse? If only I could do a Reverse so simple. So Tuette put a Curse on Terry. With it, we discovered a means of getting out of Cordia more quickly than we otherwise could’ve hoped for. Was that such a big deal? And it was Reversed rather… Sylvester finally stopped his head energies, his heart, even his breathing. Something he had already been told about Curses but had either forgotten or didn’t really think about it – though what’s the difference? The only reason that Count Roost could Curse, as Sylvester had been told by Dothel op Prissen, was because he was similarly Cursed. That was the only way Curses could be spread around, much like the instance with the night dragon and Herb Tee. That meant Tuette was Cursed too. Sylvester suddenly felt a little sick and a little nervous and a little betrayed. Tuette’s Cursed! She could Curse me, or Terry, as she just had! And she’d been traveling with us for a handful of days! Feeling a little dizzy, Sylvester sat down in the chair that Dermy was going to use. Dermy stepped around. “You alright, King, sir?” He didn’t look up at Dermy but did look through the squat man’s torso. But why? Why not look at Dermy? I don’t really want to look at anyone… but Dermy… had known! As that sunk in as well, Sylvester looked up and he felt like tackling the man and getting a better sense of what was going on. He couldn’t though. Dermy was sacrificing his own arm for the king’s cause, and had been for years now. “What’s her Curse?” was the only thing Sylvester could think to ask, but he immediately wished to know something else. “How long has she had it?” Dermy squatted down on his haunches, looking up into Sylvester’s face. He thought the shorter man might stumble without use of one of his arms but he remained steady. “She’s been Cursed for about four years now. And it’s really no big deal.” “No big deal?” he suddenly said, feeling his neck reel back slightly. “How’s that? She could’ve done anything to any of us, just like that crazy count is trying to do!” “But she’s not. She doesn’t. The thing with Terry, well, I’m not sure why she did it but it’s proved very beneficial for our cause, hasn’t it?” Sylvester grumbled something noncommittal. “And she had him perform a Reverse straight away.” “What about Cherry?” Dermy frowned in confusion. “What about her, King, sir?” Sylvester sighed once, then again. “If… if Tuette hadn’t… done that, then Cherry would get to stay here, among her people.” He chewed his lip for a small bit, thinking about how Cherry must’ve always felt like an outsider but was now literally being turned into one. “Now she has to leave, because they’re all prejudiced or something.” Dermy looked into Sylvester’s face, his eyes. “And how does that make you feel, sir?” The way he asked it, Sylvester was reminded of Penson and he suddenly and sorely ached to be back home, away from Cordia and in his bed and maybe, just maybe, the Curse of the Thumb wouldn’t even come about. He had been asked a viable question though and the more Sylvester thought about it, the more he became… enraged. He said as much too but with a little too much conviction. “I mean, it’s not Cherry’s fault that she has an energy blockage or whatever it’s called. She can’t help it! But these people, they talk of exiling her… or even drowning her?” He shook his head, feeling something like tears beginning to form. “No. No, that’s not right, Dermy. It isn’t?” In a very quiet voice, Dermy said, “Then how do you think Tuette feels?” Like a punch to the chest, Sylvester understood what he was saying and the tears he thought he might’ve felt finally dropped to moisten his cheeks and roughly clean his beard. It was several moments more before Sylvester felt his face was dry enough when he said to Dermy, “I… I understand.” He nodded. “I do. Now.” He rubbed Dermy’s left shoulder. “Thank you,” he finally said. With a nasal-clearing sniff, he stood up and helped Dermy stand up as well. “Well, we’ve been in here long enough. I think it’s time we get out of here and then out of Cordia.” Dermy looked into Sylvester’s eyes. “Are you going to confront Tuette about her Curse?” Chewing his lip again and rubbing his chin, Sylvester thought it over. She obviously hadn’t told the rest of them for a good reason. And she was ultimately helping them. In time, she’ll reveal her Curse. Shaking his head, he said, “I won’t say anything.” Dermy smiled and gave Sylvester a small vile. “It’s Truvis Pote. It’s something I can also use to break my disguise. It might come in handy for you, if you need me to be… understandable.” Sylvester almost smiled as Dermy settled his wrist into the back of the chair and pushed forward with Sylvester holding the seat. “Tha’kin’ ya, Kinasir!” At that, Sylvester could only smile, hopeful that the day would soon come that Dermy didn’t need his disguise. As it was, the arm that had been broken no longer was, meaning it was time for them to go. * ~ * ~ * Back outside, Sylvester joined the group. Several Cordians had left but, unfortunately, Porlyen wasn’t one of them. Should I attempt to take him into custody for such harsh ideas towards an innocent? He wasn’t sure and it seemed more like a case that had to be dealt with locally. He couldn’t help but think back to Jirra, though, and how she had wanted to bring grave harm to a woman like Reefetta, who was already broken in so many ways. This quest is exposing me to so many things. The problem was that he didn’t like how uneasy it all made him feel. Once he took back full control of Mount Reign and then the eight regions, he knew that local disputes would eventually trickle up to the mountain. The thing was that potential victims like Cherry… and Tuette, too… might fall under someone else’s brand of justice before Sylvester himself could execute a proper form of justice. But that made him think further again. What form of justice is proper in any instance? Surely, someone placing a Curse on someone else could be life-threatening, indeed, but should the caster be treated as a criminal or another victim? They’re Cursed as well, meaning they’ve already been wronged and are merely perpetrating the actions done unto them. It made his mind flex unduly but he knew that he would eventually have to wrap himself up in these unpleasant ideals and situations. Sylvester supposed then that the nature of the Curse would dictate the severity of the punishment. But if I’m to do that in the future, should I start with something as drastic as murdering one count? My title suggests I work within the limits of government but that truly does mean much yet. Because people like Porlyen and Jirra are in the fold. These thoughts battered at his head in the few seconds it took to rejoin the others and reestablish his mild dislike of Porlyen. And in thinking them, he felt like talking to Penson again but knew that the groomer was most likely without the Comgem. In some ways, Penson was like a great teacher and mental mediator for Sylvester, where his professors at Majramdic had… All thoughts stopped as his mind reeled one again at yet another realization: If Tuette was Cursed by her former teacher, and Count Roost has killed that same teacher, how is she still Cursed? The only reason they were going after the count was because killing him was going to be the only way they could save Decennia from chaos. Was that a lie? A lie to hide her Curse? Maybe it had been a different teacher? Sylvester recalled answering to several in his short time at the academy. But he couldn’t ask Tuette. That would betray that he knew and that Dermy had grudgingly betrayed his longtime friend. But I can ask Dermy. And he knew he would, first chance he got. Absently, he realized that Dermy had failed to answer about which Curse Tuette was under, though it obviously had something to do with the sun. Even though sunburns could make someone miserable, he doubted that was her irritation. Yes, he still had more questions for his agricultural specialist. Gilly Tee was walking away from the group as Sylvester and Dermy joined them. The Guards were looking amazedly at Dermy’s arm, Terry in particular. “Slip, you got healed mighty quick, Dermy! And without any dirt to mix the Pote with, too!” Tuette stepped up, realizing what they had done. She might also have been annoyed that she hadn’t suggested it first. “Uh, he mostly likely just had a bone-bruise. The Pote works more quickly for those. And they obviously used dirt from the floor, inside.” Looking back as Tuette pointed to the structure they had left, Sylvester realized that the floor had been wooden planks. But the others, like the ones that they had invaded through the night, those had dirt floors. The two Guards had no way of knowing that the frog-shaped ones were any different so it was easily believed. Terry said, “Well, piss, I wish mine had just been an easy bruise.” He absently rubbed his own arm that had broken – Does it still hurt? – and walked away, keeping an eye on the other Cordians. “Right, so we can go now. And Cherry…” he started and remembered that whatever she and Gilly had talked about, it hadn’t upset Gilly in the least. She had been walking away with almost no emotion whatsoever. “Cherry, you comin’ with us?” Cherry said nothing as she started at the point where her mother rounded a distant corner. Tuette interjected. “Cherry will be coming with us. It’s very clear,” she started while sending a scowl at Porlyen, revealing her true feelings about him as well, “that she’s not welcome her.” Of course she thinks that way. She’s practically in the same arena as Cherry. Then, yet another stray thought entered the king’s head. “Who Cursed Count Roost?” he asked of no one specifically. He looked first to Terry but whatever traumatic event he had been going through earlier while under Tuette’s Curse of Truth had lapsed and he was in Guard-mode. Anyway, he couldn’t answer a question he didn’t know. At least, not one that wasn’t known by someone close, if that’s how the Curse of Truth worked. Tuette shrugged her shoulders, looked at the king then, and said, “Why?” Without knowing it would happen, an idea quickly formed and Sylvester felt very excited to have it. “Because maybe, if we find out, we can get him to perform his own Reverse. And then… would all his Curses stop?” Tuette finally nodded after a moment. “Yes, that would happen. Assuming he isn’t Precon-Cursed.” “What’s that?” asked the king, as the term hadn’t been used. “Precon-Cursed. Preconception-Curse. The Curse that he’s under could’ve been cast before he was even conceived.” She shrugged as if it was no big deal. “If that’s the case, they can’t ever be Reversed. Even if the person who cast it dies well before the victim does.” Victim. She uses that term because it applies to her too. “So, do we just assume that’s the case?” She shrugged again. Cherry was still staring after her absent mother. “We pretty much have to. It’s no problem to find someone that’s cast a Curse against someone else, unless they Block it. And that’s not hard to do. Odds are that we’ll have much better luck stopping Roost’s Curse immediately, which is what needs to be done.” Sylvester instantly wondered what Tuette’s Reverse entailed. Dermy might know. “I guess you’re right,” he said absently. Looking at Cherry, he said, “What’s wrong with her?” Tuette huffed once, looking slightly menacing but Sylvester was pretty sure it wasn’t aimed at him. “Her mother. She heard, and saw, what Cherry can do. And she ordered her to come with us.” She looked at Cherry again and Sylvester realized they had both been talking like she wasn’t right there in front of them. Well, she does make it easy enough for that to happen. “Gill said that either way, she couldn’t come home. That she’d let Porlyen decide what to do with Cherry.” Sylvester was instantly curious. What mother would willingly enforce her child to leave? A bad mother. The king instantly wondered if, with Cherry’s mental defections, Herb had been a primary caretaker of some kind while Gilly maintained the familial income. Judging by Gill’s raw and leathered hands, he deduced that that was the case. It only made him realize his earlier thoughts once again: that he wouldn’t know the difference between a good or bad mother because he didn’t have anyone to compare the sentiments with. “Well, that’s fine with me, Tuette.” He stood in front of Cherry, who gasped slightly at having her line of sight blocked. “Cherry, you’ll be coming with us. We are on a fairly serious quest, for certain, and our lives have already been placed into dangerous situations, but it seems like you’ll be safer with us anyway. Okay?” Cherry only nodded. What else could she do? Deciding to leave Cordia behind immediately, they approached the massive bin’vines that their newest traveling companion had been responsible for and climbed them without preamble. * ~ * ~ * The climb had initially been easy. About halfway up the wall though, Sylvester felt like his arms were going to break off. He imagined that everyone else felt the same way. But, with a strong will to not only make it to the top but also not to plummet to his death, Sylvester and everyone else reached the top. He had voiced a concern that the top might not be wide enough for them to sit on and rest while their muscles quietly healed. Dermy, in his broken-speech way, said it had to be fairly wide in order to be so tall. Otherwise, it might’ve collapsed. When they reached the top, surprise greeted every single one of them. It was the top, truly, but it was actually an edge. The black wall was a sheer cliff with Ac right there for all to see. Somehow, it had been elevated, ground and all, whereas Cordia had remained stationary far below. Relief flooded through Sylvester, starting with his aching arms. Surprisingly, no one had come to see about the new bin’vine growth that had suddenly appeared. Sylvester immediately wanted to ask how such an elevation of land was possible but could only chalk it up to being an obscure or complex form of Magik that he might or might not understand. Tuette was just as surprised as Sylvester. “These Mages have truly done something… different!” she said while licking her lips. “Regardless of what they’ve done,” interjected Vest in his all-business tone, “there’s the next Stone in the Ring. The gods only know where it will actually take us. Considering it might not take us anywhere!” “Nah,” started Dermy. “’hat bein’ on’y th’ otha ‘tone, oh. This’n will be workin’ jus’ fine, I ‘spect.” Sylvester thought he sounded a little doubtful but remembered that Ed told them all that the Battery Magik applied to the Ring and depended solely on the individual Stones, not the Ring as a whole. Suddenly, Sylvester was pulled forward by a force on his shoulder to land on the ground. He was held there and, with his head turned to one side, he saw that everyone else was in a similar situation. Terry looked frantic yet again and the only thing that Sylvester could think was that he or one of the others had finally been possessed by another Artificial and it was doing this to them all. Looking on his other side, he saw that Cherry— He gasped. She wasn’t affected. She was standing there, staring forward, focusing intently on something Sylvester couldn’t see. Is she doing this? The thought raced through his mind at break-neck speed and he realized that if she was, she hadn’t needed their help after all in getting out of Cordia; if she had been attacked, all she had to do was force her assaulters to the ground. Sylvester suddenly felt foolish for feeling sorry for such an assumingly-innocent creature as Cherry Tee. If she could do something like… but no. A length of rope flew at her – or more appropriately floated at her as it couldn’t have angled in the way it did by just a casual toss – and it wrapped itself around her and she too was pulled to the ground. Chiding himself for only a moment, Sylvester wished desperately to know what was going on. Is this some kind of welcoming committee put together by the Magik citizens of Ac? Whatever it was, he immediately felt that they didn’t hold precedence over his own status. “Ruffians!” he shouted, feeling foolish for opening with that word, but he continued. “Unhand us. Let us be. We are travelers. And I am this kingdom’s leader, King Sylvester!” “Save your breath,” yelled Tuette. “These ruffians don’t follow any laws.” “Who are they?” He didn’t really expect her to know but she did have an answer. “Koso.” She all but spat the word, as if it tasted like human waste in her mouth. But that didn’t truly answer the question. How am I supposed to know what a Koso is? He asked, but she didn’t get the chance to answer. “We are Koso,” came a solid voice. “But we are not ruffians, dear King.” With that, the forceful pressure was lifted from Sylvester and he instantly tried to spring up. It didn’t work though because his arms were incredibly sore from the climb. He did manage to lean up and finally stand under his own power. Before him stood a thin man with a tuft of fur beneath his lower lip and a thin moustache above. His hair was black and slicked back. His clothes were simple and he wore fingerless gloves. In his eyes, Sylvester didn’t see any sort of malice that might be generalized onto someone who would assault the king, but he did recognize something else: purpose. And power. He suddenly felt envious of this man, this Koso, and was anxious to learn exactly what Tuette didn’t enjoy about them. She sprang up, or tried, in the same manner as Sylvester but her arms were also sore, if not more so. Tuette, when she finally found her footing, sprang behind the man – men, Sylvester finally noticed: three of them. “Be careful, Sylvester. Koso are killers.” Sylvester suddenly did find himself wary and started rounding about them, but he went the other way and tripped over Cherry’s legs. She let out a gentle groan as he fell again, trying to catch himself and instantly regretting the action as it only made his arms hurt more. Why didn’t she get up? Haven’t they released her too? The Gousheralls finally got up and drew their swords… which were violently shucked from their hands when one of the men made a quick upward-motion with his hands. Vest, who had been clinging two his sword with more force, had stumbled backwards when his sword finally left his hands. His momentum carried him straight to the cliff’s edge. Sylvester felt his throat close up as he saw Vest and knew there was nothing he could do to save him. Vest let out a scream when he fell backward over the cliff’s edge and Sylvester instantly felt like burying his face in the grass or his fist in the men Tuette had said were Koso. His scream died right away, no longer heard as he fell so far… “Sir?” came a question screamed through gasps from the direction that Vest had been. Sylvester turned his head to see… Vest. Vest floating. He was upside down, his face red with blood rushing to it, but he was… he was alive, one foot looking like it was being held by the ankle. Sylvester got up with no additional pain to his arms and saw that another of the Koso was making another raised-fist gesture at Vest. Behind the men stood Tuette, who looked on in amazement. She also looked a little hurt, like a great truth had just been reevaluated. Looking back at Vest, Sylvester saw him move towards the cliff’s edge, imagining what the people below must be thinking about such a spectacle. If they ever think to look up, that is. In another moment, he was settled gently on the grassy surface of the cliff. Terry rushed to his side to inquire about the older man’s health and condition. Looking warily back at the Koso, Sylvester said without question, “You did that.” The men looked solemn but nodded as one. Sylvester’s mind was spun on its side. How? He asked. Tuette answered. “They can control things, move them, with their heads and hands.” That much was evident, but if that was all he was going to get out of her, he decided he might just have to accept that that’s what a Koso does. “It’s not that simple, madam,” said the first man. “Though I gather that you are holding your hostilities because of the unfortunate histories that surround my people.” Your people? He looked normal enough. What makes him exclusive to one group of people? What makes this one man like the other Kosos? Again, he asked. “We are Koso, both and singular and plural. Since birth, our people…” “His people,” bit out Tuette with a grating tone, “train their young, since birth, to move things, touch things, steal things, maim…” “Madam, we do not appreciate your slanderous words,” said the second Koso Sylvester had seen. This man had a deep, solid voice like the first man, but his hair was thinner, shorter, and red. His took a breath before continuing. “You speak not of my kind but of roguish deserters who had mayhem in mind. Who abused the abilities bestowed upon them. Sadly, they have spread a poor message that tends to precede genuine Koso.” “Why should I believe you?” she spat, tensing her body as if she might leap for one of the swords the second man had yanked from the Guards. “We cannot force you to believe…” “But you can force me to the ground, like you did a very short time ago, right?” That’s a good point. They had ascended in a rather unassuming manner. But the lead Koso said, “We apologize and will not do so again. But we saw the bin’vins and immediately thought that someone of Cordia was attempting a quick raze on Ac here.” “This is true,” said the third man, who appeared younger and had a lighter voice. His facial features also appeared more delicate than the two men. “Had we known your identities or intentions, we would not have molested you.” He glanced down at Cherry then and Sylvester noticed that he still held his small hand out, fingers splayed. Is he continuing to hold the ropes around her? “But your friend here, there is something… misaligned with her.” Tuette stepped forward. “She just lost her father and her mother gave her up because her friends and neighbors said they might kill her if she didn’t come with us. Because she’s got an energy blockage.” The third man frowned. “A blockage? Against Magik?” Tuette then frowned and Sylvester felt a sudden shift from overall suspicion to guarded confusion. Vest, Terry, and Sylvester himself were overtly confused and nothing more. Tuette finally said, “What do you mean?” “When I tried grabbing at her, as I grabbed at your king, she resisted, somehow. Like I had misjudged my aim.” “Soka never misses,” added the second man. “He speaks true,” said Soka. “I had to improvise with my rope.” Sylvester looked down at Cherry again. “Then why are you continuing to hold her?” He remembered thinking their incident had been her doing. Now he felt foolish and rather protective again. “Let her up.” Soka faltered. “But, King, sir, she might be dangerous. I still can’t feel her.” Crouching down, Sylvester gently prodded her back with his palms. “Well, Soka, I feel her and that’s good enough for me. Now let her up,” he finally growled. Soka, with approval from the first man, did as he was told. The ropes slackened and he helped Cherry to her feet. “Now, what do you mean that you couldn’t feel her?” The first man stepped forward. “Did you say she had a blockage? Of head energies?” “That’s just what Tuette said. I don’t know what that’s about. I do know that I saw her make that huge bin’vine grow and that’s what brought us up here in the first place.” He looked at Cherry, suddenly wondering if taking pity on her situation had been ideal. “I mean, I saw it with my own eyes.” “We do not doubt that, do we, Koll?” The first man nodded at the second man’s question. “We only wonder about her nature.” Baffled and becoming a little sore in more than just his arms, Sylvester nearly screamed at Koll. “What are you talking about? What are you implying?” Without warning, Koll made a pushing gesture towards Cherry. Sylvester started to dive for her with the intent at trying to save her from the Koso’s gesture, and he did feel a gentle tug on his shoulder, as if he had caught part of the push as well… but Cherry didn’t budge. Koll didn’t do much of anything, just stared at Cherry with his jaw clenched. “I just tried pushing your lady friend off the cliff, and nothing. I shall try…” He then made a plucking gesture that looked like it was aimed at the top of Cherry’s head. “Nothing. Not even the hairs on her head are affected.” “What does that mean?” asked Sylvester. Tuette, her guard finally down as her interest was piqued, said, “It means that Cherry might be invulnerable to Magik. Or at least actions performed through Magik.” “Invulnerable? She can’t be harmed?” “By Magik, maybe not,” said Koll with a frown. “With a sword, I would say that she most likely would fall by the way of death. But other than that, I cannot see us affecting her, unless with outside assistance.” “Like this rope,” Sylvester said while bending over to retrieve it. Soka made a quick gesture and it flew from the king’s hands into his, neatly wound up and ready to be attached to a loop on Soka’s shoulder. Sylvester then looked at Cherry Tee with slight awe. Cherry, in contrast, looked lost and a little afraid. “What about Curses?” asked Sylvester, first looking to Dermy and then to Tuette? Dermy’s eyes flashed briefly but Tuette only shrugged. “Well, they’re centered on Magik so, yeah, she probably can’t be Cursed either. Or possessed by an Artificial.” He almost asked her to demonstrate but realized that would betray the fact that he knew, for certain, that Tuette was Cursed. The Koso, as one, stepped away from the group then. “Again,” started Koll, “we apologize for the misunderstanding. But welcome to Ac.” They then left, going around the large Stone nearby. The structures of Ac, Sylvester finally noticed, were mostly similar to those of Cordia, except it seemed like there were fewer frog-shaped ones. Calling after them, like it mattered, Sylvester said, “No, we cannot stay for long. We just need to use the…” A pained thought arose inside the king. “Um, if Cherry can’t be affected by Magik, can she use it?” Dermy’s eyes widened, as if he understood the implications, but Tuette only asked, “What do you mean? Like, can she cast a Spell or Charm something?” “Or… can she travel through the Ring of Ten Minus Two?” That brought them all to a stand-still. If Cherry couldn’t come with them, she would have to stay in Ac. They, being mostly made up of Magik-bearing people, might enjoy having her due to her peculiar status. But, then again, they might put her through some unkindly experiences just to see the limits of her apparent blockage against Magik. What a trade-off: to appear as if a dullard just so you can’t be touched by Magik. He shook his head, putting a small amount of determination in his mind to find out exactly what caused the odd energy blockage and how it might be avoided. The answer, he realized dreadfully, would most likely be divulged through Magik means and if Cherry couldn’t be analyzed, they might not be able to help her. At least if we fail, she won’t be Cursed like the rest of us. After some brief discussion regarding Cherry’s fate, all the while trying to ask Cherry what she wanted to do, they decided to ask the perryta of Ac. Cherry herself simply repeated how she didn’t want to remain in Ac. It was explained by both Sylvester and Tuette that it might have to be a temporary situation. * ~ * ~ * In a short while, with the sun high overhead and fatigue wearing at their backs, the six found their way to Ac’s center. Along the way, they could see that the town was bustling with activity but Sylvester didn’t let sit the fact that someone in Ac made it an annual event when it came to terrorizing the citizens of Cordia. And be they with Magik on their side or without, Sylvester knew that he had to attempt some judicial settlement to make sure that Cordia didn’t suffer any further. Before they thought to enter what looked like an important building which was titled as Ac’s Exportation Center, a tall, thin man opened the main door and, upon seeing the six, actually flinched when his eyes landed on Cherry. Sylvester, overlooking it for a moment, introduced himself and the group and, in as few words as possible, explained the situation they were in and how they desperately needed to get to the Seagulf Islands. “Yes, yes, uh, come in,” said the tall man, who actually had to stoop to get through the doorway himself. “I am Perryta Fastaire, of Ac. I, uh…” He couldn’t take his eyes off Cherry. Either he already suspects that something is amiss or he’s taken by her beauty. Sylvester had to admit that there was something marginally attractive about her lengthy brown hair and hazel eyes but nothing that would make him gawk. After settling them into a room with chairs that lined the wall, he asked Sylvester and Tuette about conversing in private. Vest, quick to remain dutiful, insisted he joined them. Sylvester found it both touching and queer since Vest was obviously devoted to the job but Dermy still refused to trust him. They were in a small anteroom and seated at a round table that wobbled. Perryta Fastaire looked slightly stressed. How odd he and Fy’tay have similar names but different localizations. Fastaire began speaking bluntly. “Your companion, from Cordia, she is something else.” Sylvester exchanged glances with Tuette. “Yes, I said that, before you let us in. If she can’t accompany us then we were wondering…” “No,” insisted Fastaire. “No, you can’t understand. So, I’ll show you.” With that, he left the room for a few seconds and returned with a rounded rock. “King, sir, this is a Reseeing Stone. I use them around Ac to keep an eye on, well… We have some freelancers living among us that I’m not too trustworthy about. But that’s another matter. I watched you enter the premises…” “I think I know what you’re about to show us,” said Tuette. “You didn’t see Cherry in the scenes captured by the Reseeing Stones.” Fastaire stopped talking and stared. In another moment, he said, “And you are okay with this?” “The… Koso,” started Tuette, though she couldn’t seem to get past her experience with the three men, which only made it seem like she had suffered a sore experience with one in the past. Sylvester glanced back at Vest and decided that his living and breathing form was proof enough that the Koso were decent enough people. Tuette restarted after taking a breath. “The Koso that apparently defend your eastern cliff—“ “Yes, they make great protectors around many parts of the town. Especially since most people have negative associations with them.” That made Tuette stare down Ac’s leader. After he broke away from her gaze to absently stare at the table, she continued. “They said that she most likely suffered from a very bizarre energy blockage, in her head. We actually just left company of a man near Mokel who claimed to suffer from a blockage as well, but of a different nature.” “Ah, yes, Ed.” Fastaire frowned and began to gently pass the Reseeing Stone from one hand to the other. Finally, he said, “Well, I don’t see why they’d think that. Or you, for that matter, as an apprentice.” He hunched forward a little, upsetting the table. “See, we’ve reason to believe that those types of blockages are caused by an odd or disproportionate influx of Magik… or even something else.” Something else? Is there an element at work apart from Magik? This intrigued the king but only briefly as Fastaire continued. “And if Cherry Tee is invisible to Magik, then she couldn’t possibly suffer from that.” “Put she’s not invisible to it. She made those bin’vines shoot straight to the top of the cliff… which, by the way, is a very, very unorthodox means of segregating yourselves from undesirables.” “No, see, Miss Tuette, they wanted us to pretty much leave the town, but we have just as much right to be here as them. Don’t you think?” “Wait a moment,” interrupted Sylvester as he sensed the conversation was going to go off in another direction. “Wait, we’re talking about Cherry. And you think that what she suffers from is not an energy blockage.” He leaned forward but the table didn’t wobble. “Then what is the difference? Why can’t she be seen or affected by Magiks?” Perryta Fastaire only shook his head, looking down at the table’s surface again. “I don’t know. But I can tell you this. She is the second person that I’ve encountered in the exact same situation.” The second? That means… what exactly? As far as Sylvester could guess, it really didn’t mean much except that Fastaire and Tuette both moved by the issue that Ed and the Burtle fellow did not share attributes with Cherry after all. And as Sylvester thought about it, it made a little sense. Ed obviously was not invisible to Magik; he had several artifacts in his possession that were probably used on a regular basis. Cherry had the one talent that she reportedly even dreamed about and she still could not be touched by the Magiks that people like Fastaire and Tuette delved their whole lives into. Of course, looking at what Magik has brought Tuette in the form of being Cursed, it’s any wonder Tuette hasn’t abandoned the religion for something less spiteful. Again, he silently wondered about her Cursed status and why she felt she had to not only lie about it but lie about her own teacher being dead and using that as explanation for why she personally would want to go after Roost. Does she not want to reveal how much she truly cares for Decennia? That seemed like a possibility, albeit a minimal one. But, regaining focus, Sylvester heard Tuette ask, “Well, who was the first? How long ago?” In his eyes, Sylvester saw a pain pass through Fastaire. The memories must’ve been supremely shocking, to say the least. Instead, he got up, left the room, and came back with another Reseeing Stone, this one that was marked with characters and painted a dark purple instead of red. “This is evidence of what he did.” Fastaire rubbed the Reseeing Stone like Sylvester might rub the Comgem and a partially-concave image leaped off the rock to be projected away from the Stone. “See, in this moving picture, you can see the destruction… but that’s about it.” As he spoke, he turned the Stone so that projection was facing Sylvester and Tuette. It displayed a cramped avenue with multicolor buildings on each side. People with rucksacks similar to Tuette’s were running towards the image. Sylvester almost couldn’t get over the incredible device and wondered why such moving pictures weren’t captured on Mount Reign. It’d be very useful in keeping eyes on the Malforcrent! But his idle thoughts were drawn to focus when a building on the left literally crumbled. The right one did almost immediately afterwards. Then two running women fell to the ground with what might’ve been burnt holes in their torsos. They writhed for a minute before one became still after anther hole appeared on her scalp and the other rolled to her side and her face blackened. She became still as well and Sylvester felt like he was going to be sick. He had never witnessed another human’s death like this before. He felt like he was right there but knew it was something of the past. Fastaire wisely halted the projection. Tuette looked… impassive, like Cherry had after seeing her father transform. Has she witnessed such gruesome events before? She didn’t look as queasy as Sylvester felt; that much was for certain. “That happened approximately two years ago, in the month of Bovoto. You obviously cannot see the man because, like Cherry, his image wasn’t captured. And he didn’t fall to even our most powerful Spells and Potes.” Fastaire shook his head. “He murdered four powerful tas and eleven non-Magikals.” After a moment, Sylvester finally had enough moisture built up in his mouth to ask, “How?” without sounding strained. He cleared his throat, rubbing his chin. “I mean, well, I saw how, but what was, uh…” “Lightning,” he answered with his mouth sounding equally as dry. Well, that explains the scorches. “It was reported that he was casting it from his hands. With his eyes closed.” Tuette gulped audibly. “And this is why you have Koso working for you? Incase he comes back, or others like him come back?” Fastaire simply nodded, though how Tuette had assumed that the murderer had escaped, he didn’t know. “He basically held us under siege. We just happened to have a couple Koso traveling through. One of them managed to snare his rucksack with a length of rope. In it, he carried many personal effects, basic rations, and…” he leaned back and reached into his tunic’s pocket. He pulled it out slowly and opened his fist. Inside were three little spheres, much smaller than Stones. They looked to be about the size of Sylvester’s thumb. They weren’t perfect spheres because they had ridge-patterns, as if they were actually… “We call them ashleaf orbs.” “Ashleaf? I can see that they are wrapped leaves, but…” “There are ashes in the center of the orbs, King Sylvester,” he explained. He also almost heard Tuette roll her eyes but couldn’t confirm it. Instead, he looked at one of the small orbs, picked it up, and found it to be surprisingly heavy and firm to the touch. “He had several of these, all of which we now have, minus a few that we’ve attempted to… experiment with.” Unease crept through Sylvester as he remembered his original fears regarding leaving Cherry with these people. Tuette picked up one as well and also seemed surprised by its physical properties. They looked very soft, in contrast to their hard exteriors. “So, what’s so important about these orbs?” Fastaire shook his head. “At first, we didn’t know. They didn’t break open for us, but when the man – who called himself Miskel. Miskel Sociana. Well, when Miskel saw that we had the orbs, he became terrified. The Koso who took them, her name was Sohat, she actually grabbed a handful with her Magik and moved them towards Miskel. “When they came into contact with him, the very first Pote that hit him, a Bone-break Pote, broke his arm. He then shrugged off the rest of our Magiks while fleeing. When we investigated what he had managed to shed of the orbs, we realized then that some sort of ash was inside them. And, for some reason, when they came into contact with him, they broke open.” Tuette shook her head, still starting at the ashleaf orb. “But that’s insane. Why would he be carrying the very things that make him vulnerable to Magiks?” Fastaire only shrugged, opening his palms. “How am I to know? Maybe he likes to play it risky. I’ve no clue. I do know that your friend Cherry has displayed a lot of the symptoms, albeit with a very different Magik focus. Miskel blindly cast about lightning bolts, a feat that I’ve never even heard of existing without extensive aid through Charms or whatnot. But Cherry’s ability seems wholly benign, unless it was to be abused.” “Right,” said Tuette. “There are some plants out there that you just don’t want to be around when they mature.” Sylvester was instantly curious as to what some of those plants were but saved the question. Like I usually do. There never seems to be an apt time for asking questions lately. It was a souring realization. “So… I imagine that you’re sharing this information because…” “We do not want to accommodate your suspicious friend.” Quite blunt, but at least I can respect the blatant honesty. “She is the second we’ve encountered in almost as many years. Miskel Sociana escaped because of the unexpected turn of events. Cherry Tee, once it’s learned that she’s of a similar condition: she would not be so lucky. I speak not for myself but for the family members of victims brought down by Miskel.” Fastaire almost sounded like he was becoming enraged to the point of arranging Cherry’s execution, much in the same manner as Porlyen had been discussing. It’s a wholly different situation but it still feels prejudicial. He gestured at each ashleaf orb in their hands and said, “I want you to use one of those on Cherry Tee and you can take as many as you need. Continue on your quest. I understand that it’s of utmost importance.” Tuette’s eyes squinted slightly. “I’ve a question. About Dormaset.” She leaned forward, the table wobbling gently. “Why isn’t he taking care of this Count Roost business?” Shrugging his shoulders once again, Fastaire said, “I don’t know.” “Who’s Dormaset?” Sylvester asked meekly, feeling left out all of a sudden. It was probably something concerning the Magikal community – A hero among Mages, maybe? – but he still wanted to know. Perryta Fastaire looked from Sylvester to Tuette and then said to Tuette, “The king and the m’p’ta aren’t in contact?” Tuette looked from Sylvester to Fastaire. “Well, not officially, I guess. I’m assuming he wants the king to take care of his own rogues. I was just wondering why he hasn’t been doing something to help Sylvester here. Help all of us.” Fastaire looked for a moment more at Tuette and let a small smirk cross his lips. “Who says he isn’t?” and that was the end of it. They were rushed out of Fastaire’s workspace and accompanied to the large Stone back near the cliff. They were given a total of three ashleaf orbs, plus one to use immediately. Cherry looked worried to have to use the orb. When the alternative was explained, she was more animated about leaving with them via any means necessary. The five of them quickly guzzled Potes that Tuette said were supposed to Refresh someone by making them feel energized. It was sorely needed as none had gotten a good night’s sleep, save Cherry. It was explained that by the time night fell, they’d lose the effects of their Refreshment Potes anyway and Sylvester hoped they found honest bedding by then. Primed and ready to leave, the six of them settled their hands on the painfully cold Stone – a sign, they decided, that the Ring would carry them this time – and Sylvester wondered if this was, in fact, the best path for Cherry Tee. She had been plucked from a hostile living space and dragged through an even more dangerous one, all because of something she couldn’t readily control. He thought of Tuette as well and how, as Dermy had pointed out, Cherry and her were facing very similar discriminations. But Sylvester knew little of Magik, one way or the other, so why did Tuette continue hiding her Curse? He wished he knew. With Cherry supposedly entered into the Magik fold, however temporarily, they all uttered the line that would ferry them from Ac to only the gods knew where. After a few moments, the white tendrils tangled around the six people and Sylvester hoped it would place them all on whatever Seagulf Island held the next Stone in the Ring. Though he did enjoy the worldly experience he was gaining by traveling through Decennia, he knew that he needed to stop Count Roost, if only to insure there was a kingdom worth traveling through in the future. |
| Without so much as a bruise or scraped portion of skin, they landed with their hands still touching the enormous Stone. Tuette marveled at how large the Stone really was, stating out loud that it might be the biggest in the Ring of Ten Minus Two. Sylvester posed a question about how they were all connected if they weren’t identical. Tuette gave a simple answer and tried her best to not make him feel like an oaf. Letting go, Tuette looked around… and saw nothing. It was dark again. She stifled a curse, thinking how they had unintentionally spent so much time between Cordia and Ac and now their travel time had lengthened. She realized that a delay had been almost inevitable but they were literally running out of time. “It smells awful here,” rang Cherry’s flighty voice from somewhere to Tuette’s left. Whatever’s wrong with the dullard, she’s truly right about the overpowering odor. It was wretched, almost drawing forth a gag from one of the Guards. Probably Terry. He was easy on the eyes, to say the least of his appearance, but his experiences within the Gousherall Guard were decidedly limited. “’at bein’ viv’can gas, me thinkin’, oh.” Vivican gas? Tuette wasn’t ashamed to admit she’d never heard of it and asked Dermy about it. “It bein’ flighty gas. Ligh’er ‘an air, oh. Bu’ s’inks somethin’ awfu’, oh!” “I wholly agree. Is it about to rain, though? It’s even darker than when we landed in Cordia.” Sylvester was right but Tuette’s vision was becoming accustomed to the blackness rather quickly. Though there was Nighteye Pote for such an occasion, she had none available because overdependence on such a Pote usually, in time, resulted in only being able to see at night. In the darkness, she saw rocky protrusions and was immediately reminded of a cave. Is the next Stone in the Ring underground? She thought back to what Ed had said about two Stones in the Ring being lost. It wasn’t so obvious that this was one such unknown location, but it did say that the conduits could be under the surface. And anything underground could be too easily shielded from a Finding Spell. With her vision readily improving, she could see other forms of vegetation, which seemed to grow amongst the rocks in impressive amounts. Tuette finally identified one of the underlying odors. The primary one was obviously the gas but the more subtle one was the natural fertilizer of animal droppings, which indicated an abundance of smaller animals… or just a few large one that were hungry because they ate up all the small animals. Tuette then realized that some sort of fertilizer had to be used to make sure that whatever the vivican plant was, it could grow nice and healthy. Judging by the abundant amount of vivican gas, it was truly a prosperous plant in this region. She saw Cherry standing close by with her arms at her sides. She couldn’t see the younger woman’s face but it might’ve been beaming surprise or even anger at ultimately having to come with this group of varied strangers. Thinking on Cherry Tee, Tuette wondered at the continued coincidence of it all. How is it that someone with properties similar to Cherry invaded Ac, murdered a number of people, and was faltered using items he just happened to be carrying? The ashleaf orbs. Such peculiar items. If more time was afforded after killing Roost, and then after ridding herself of her wretched Curse, Tuette hoped to study the orbs further. She had desperately wanted to double the amount given but that Perryta Fastaire was adamant about holding onto most of his stock, and with good reason. If that Miskel Sociana had come back to finish whatever he had in mind, the people of Ac would need as many orbs as possible. Was Miskel in Ac for a specific purpose then? Surely he thought he wasn’t only in Ac but Accordia. If they had allowed him through, he would’ve come across the cliff whose base was relegated as Cordia. Had Miskel been seeking Cherry? That seemed… a possibility. The type of blockages they both suffered were mighty peculiar. Unable to touch or be touched by Magik designs, save one Potent act, unless pacified by a tiny orb made of ash and leaf. But where did the orbs come from? Where is Miskel Sociana now? Questions left unanswered bothered Tuette but she knew she couldn’t do anything about it just yet. Looking into the sky, Tuette didn’t notice any ominous clouds. In fact, it just seemed like a gloomy environment overall. Is it playing tricks on us via a World Spirit? The chance of encountering two World Spirits in such a span of time was still unlikely. Of course, they were literally hopping around the country and it actually wasn’t too far-fetched to believe they’d encountered another one this time. If it rains, it might stifle the strong stench of vivican gas and manure. “ Be hopin’ it not be rainin’ soon, oh. Viv’can gas ‘nitable!” Ignitable? Flammable? She understood then why Dermy might worry. Where there was rain, there could be lightning. If lightning struck, it could ignite the gas. But here, underground, if in fact that’s where we are? Hushing everyone, Tuette strained to listen and detected a faint gurgling of water. It surprised her because, first of all, it was moving water and not a lek or lake, and secondly, because it might signify that they were close to the ocean. That could only mean… “We bein’ o’ the Seagul’ I’lands, oh,” Came Dermy’s clipped voice from the dark side of Tuette’s right. How’d he know? She had deduced it from the moving water. If they had been in northeastern Decennia, they wouldn’t hear any such water and overall, it’d be colder. She even felt a stifled by the humidity. Of course, he might’ve already heard the water. She asked anyway. “Th viv’can gas comin’ from viv’can plan’. Na’ive to th’ sout’ on’y. Oh.” Well, that explains it. It also further proved Dermy’s continued usefulness regarding his knowledge of varied plant life. And that, of course, made her wonder exactly what his life had detailed before joining her company more than three years ago. He was older than her, but not by much, and he was well traveled. With her increasing vision, she saw Sylvester standing next to Dermy while the Guards were flanking the king. They obviously didn’t trust this new and unexplainably dark place. To Dermy, Sylvester said, “So, what conditions does this plant grow under? It looks like we’re underground, but is that possible?” Tuette grabbed Cherry’s arm. She let out a very slight moan of surprise but stifled it and came along with Tuette as she joined the others. The king’s question was obviously in relation to her own misgivings regarding any of the Stones in the Ring network being in caves or maybe even buried. That thought actually made her carry her energies further on the subject. If the two missing Stones are buried, would that be why they’ve been bypassed? Since a Stone might be inaccessible while completely in the ground, does that mean it would be bypassed for the next one in line? Perhaps it’s only the usable Stones in the Ring of Ten Minus Two that show up with searches! Making a mental note, Tuette decided the idea at least had merit but, again, she had to focus on the situation at hand. “Viv’can plan’s be taken up o’ sev’ty-fi’ ‘ears t’ be m-a-turin’, oh!” he said in conclusion. That was quite a lengthy amount of time to pass for a simple plant! A third of a century to grow something that’s simply too smelly to enjoy? It must look absolutely remarkable. She had never heard of such a thing. It must to Potent for Magik properties, at least. She yearned to see that flora. It didn’t really surprise her that she’d never heard of it. For a plant to take so long to grow, how can it actually blossom unmolested? It must have defenses of its own. If that’s the case, are we in some kind of danger? She didn’t even know what it looked like. Dermy might. If they stumbled upon one, would it see them as a threat and attempt to harm them? Terry whistled once at the news of the plant’s maturation time and Tuette saw Sylvester react to the sound like he was jealous of something that he couldn’t do. She recalled the king trying to make a clicking sound with his tongue, and failing. Does he not know how to whistle? Is that something that can even be taught to a full-grown man? Does Sylvester count as a full-grown man? She sniggered at the thought but knew that voicing it would only turn their relationship for yet another sour note. She had embraced enough humilities and verbal spars to last her immediate life. Vest said, “That’s quite a time for a mere plant.” “Oh, bein’ non’ meh plan’, oh! Flamin’ gas bein’ ‘ighter ‘an air?” Dermy then whistled and clicked. “Th’ on’y pro’lem bein’ th’ time it be takin’ t’ growin’ th’ plan’s. Non’ t’ sim’le.” Tuette felt like pulling on Dermy’s wrist to break his disguise. It was very aggravating to listen to him. But he was from Mount Reign whereas she had never been there. There was a reason he didn’t reveal himself to the Guards. She wanted to ask but had no good time just yet. Regarding the vivican plan, of course the ripening time was an issue. If anyone could master… Tuette felt a sudden silence settle over them all as a strange realization came about. Cherry had said nothing but all eyes, Tuette knew, were on the younger woman. It had nothing to do with their mission, but everyone knew that whatever the vivican plant was, Cherry Tee could probably bring it to maturity faster than anyone thought possible. Again, Tuette realized it wasn’t significant right now, but it might prove useful in the future. A distant honk sounded, drawing even more distant memories to boil in Tuette’s mind. Though it was more resonant than the ones she had to deal with under the watch of Menginal, she knew she would always recognize a swan when she heard one. It was joined in sound by a second honk from even further away. That one was deeper still. Though it wasn’t likely they had encountered another World Spirit, the possibility still existed that they might be dealing with another variant of selanimals; particularly, selswans. The idea unconditionally terrified Tuette. She recalled earlier notions that the entire quest was a puppet show of coincidences. And how she had felt like it would result in her benefit. Now she realized she was going to have to go through col and even hell itself to get rid of her Curse, especially if she had to face off against selswans. Light had finally become more apparent and Tuette, looking up to see Estella’s nearly-full face, was disappointed to still see no moon. And the light was more ambient, as if coming from the horizon. If we’re underground, that’d make sense but only if the cave walls are transparent. But that doesn’t seem possible. “What is that honking?” asked Vest, completely wary of the circumstances. “It’s most likely selswans,” chimed Tuette. “What are they doing?” That, Tuette didn’t have an answer for. It was only a possibility, but it seemed like they might have been signaling to each other. About what, she didn’t know. Tuette then noticed that a new odor had entered their presence. It was decidedly foul though not quite fowl. A fluttering of feathers sounded off close by and Tuette felt another constriction of her throat. Back at Menginal’s, she had been attacked by swans on two separate occasions and wished not to have a third. Especially not by a selswan. Perhaps the size and intelligence would make it more conscientious and it wouldn’t attack… “Whazza doin’ downa ‘ere?” came a shrill little voice. They all turned as one and, coming around the edge of the enormous Stone was… not a talking swan, but a short little man. He looked a little like Dermy. In his hand, he held a cord that dragged behind him— And then the towering selswan came into view, attached to the cord that was wrapped around the base of its neck. Tuette’s heart began hammering in her head while the selswan, being much taller than the seleagles, looked from person to person like they were morsels ready to be snatched up and devoured immediately. But the bird did nothing. And the little man looked from one person to another as if surveying them as… Well, morsels isn’t the right word, but the gleam in his eye and sneer under his lip doesn’t bode well. Sylvester stepped forward and Tuette flinched when the selswan paid him unduly attention. What made her feel truly uneasy was the fact that the larger and supposedly intelligent selanimal was on some kind of leash. It wasn’t like the little man had domesticated a fig or anything. Far from it. The intelligence that could be acquired by such a creature was supposed to rival that of traditional humans, testament to the fact that they harbored human-based spirits, no less. Finally speaking, the king said, “We came through this Stone,” he unnecessarily gestured to the rock in question. “And we understand we are amongst the Seagulf Islands, good sir, but we aren’t certain of which island we’re on.” The man looked confused by the king’s words. Sylvester continued anyway. “We desperately need to get to Boost Island.” The little man spit then and licked his toothless gums in a manner that made Tuette lick her own teeth just to make sure she still had them all. “Some’n says dis call Schove ‘land.” He spit again and continued. “We be callin’ if Vica’ Village.” Tuette lightened inside. Schove Island! But she realized that on both maps she had recently seen, neither had named the individual islands. And the only reason they knew which one was Boost was because of the singe mark bore into the map through Ta Speebie’s Locator Spell. “Schove Island,” repeated Sylvester. He had either not noticed that the strange man was looking at the king like a piece of meat ready for eating or was doing his best to maintain composure in such an uncomfortable situation. Hoping it was the latter, Tuette couldn’t help but wonder if it was, in fact, the former. “Okay, that actually… helps us very little.” The king sighed and Tuette might’ve as well, she wasn’t sure. She couldn’t stop worrying about the peculiarities of the situation. And she kept wanting to look up at the selswan’s face but knew she didn’t want the kind of attention such an act might produce. “Can you direct us to Boost Island?” Sylvester look up into the selswan’s face and raised his arm, pointing at the bird. “Perhaps provide us some transportation—“ He ducked his hand back as the bird tried to snap at it. Tuette couldn’t help but jump herself and emit a squeak. Terry and Vest came in front of Sylvester then, their blades at the ready. A passive question floated up in Tuette’s mind then. Has either Gousherall ever been forced to protect the king by killing someone? Is it them that Sylvester expects to kill Roost? “Hozshkue! None fer the eatin’!” said the little man as he yanked on the cord attached to the selswans neck. Tuette then feared for the little man’s life because the bird looked at the man like he might have crossed a line. But the selanimal did nothing. Hozshkue, if that was the creature’s name, was truly tamed. It made Tuette a little sad, and even sick. The little man continued and Tuette realized the stench was coming from him. In the dimness, she thought he might be coated in some kind of oil or cream. He did appear to be greasy and was slightly reflective because of it. He smiled and said, “I bein’ Bittial. This rude little swan is Hozshkue.” He tugged on the cord again and the bird only looked angrier, but still did nothing to retaliate. Is the greasy man not worth the trouble? Bittial certainly didn’t look like much. “You folk bein’ real good to stay here, lo. I goin’ up to fetch a basket. Flyin’ and floatin’ bein’ the only way you getting’ up to the village, lo.” In that same moment, Bittial turned and approached Hozshkue. The selswan still looked angry but did nothing as Bittial hoisted himself into a saddle that hadn’t been readily visible before. At a snap of the cord, Hozshkue lifted himself – or herself – into the air to reveal that some tools were kept under the creature’s wings. It made for a good surprise, Tuette supposed, if you thought you were attacking a rider that had nothing but the selswan he rode. Amongst the tools that she could recognize, Tuette thought she might have seen a net and some bags that looked lumpy, as if stuffed with rocks. But she knew they couldn’t be too heavy, otherwise they would add to the weight of the selswan, if Bittial even cared about that sort of thing. Somehow, I doubt he does. The flaps from the selswan were minimal but it still raised itself up. Tuette remembered that Dermy had stated that the vivican gas was lighter than air. Perhaps that’s what made the lift so easy. Tuette actually felt like jumping up to see if she felt lighter but decided she didn’t want to look so foolish. After Bittial and Hozshkue were out of earshot, Sylvester asked, “Can we trust that man? He smelled very strange. Even worse than…down here?” He frowned then. “I guess that means we are underground.” Tuette shook her head from side to side. “With all the ambient light filtering in here? I don’t think so.” “Then where? Where are we?” asked Terry. He was sounding a little strained, like maybe he wasn’t comfortable with the idea of being in the ground. Tuette, after a fashion, imagined she wasn’t either, to an extent. “That Bittial said we were on Schove. For an island to be big enough to have an underground cavern like this,” Sylvester said while gesturing about a little wildly, “the island itself has to be pretty large.” Tuette nodded, knowing she had thought similarly a very short time ago. Dermy reached into his rucksack and pulled out Ta Speebie’s borrowed map weave. He unrolled it and placed it against the large, warm Stone. Sylvester stood up behind him, pointing out the burned island in the dark. It was the very tip of what looked to be a wing of the seagull shape that the island chain was named for. “That is Boost. And the largest island…” It was obvious that it was the central one, that made up the abdomen of the seagull and stretched down into one of the wings as well. Boost was that wing’s tip. “There! Or… here! We’re on Schove and the very next island in the chain, southeast from us, has to be Boost.” He looked at Tuette. “Right right, Tuette?” The way he asked, it sounded like he needed the reassurance. It was clear he was right too. “Yes, that’s very apparent, Sylvester. Now, we just have to get there. And this Schove… Something isn’t right here.” The king frowned. “What isn’t right? Besides that you don’t think we’re underground?” She looked at him in the dimness. What does he mean by that? I have a legitimate reason for thinking as much. “I just mean that it seems like there is natural moonlight coming from where the cavern walls might be. Like the walls are transparent, or simply aren’t there. That doesn’t seem possible. If it is, what’s holding the sky – or whatever’s up there – up?” Sylvester frowned again. He obviously wasn’t following her reasoning so she didn’t bother voicing her opinion about the selswans being treated as little more than mounts. “I don’t think its right that those swans – selswans – are being treated like slaves. They’re basically just different people, aren’t they?” That was Terry who asked and it made Tuette’s heart melt just a little to know that he worried about the same things as she did. Vest replied to his younger counterpart’s question, even though someone like Dermy or Tuette would know the answer better than he. “They may have human-designed spirits, but they still are just animals. And besides, that... was his name Hoshizukue? Hoshizukue just let Bittial treat him that way. So I say he might deserve it.” Tuette felt a chill then and realized that maybe it wasn’t both of the Guards that Dermy didn’t trust, but just Vest. He does bear enough of a resemblance to Sylvester that I might check to see if he has a kingstone too. His response was extremely basic and spoke of his lack in understanding the situation regarding selanimals fully. At least Sylvester was attempting to understand the natures of Magik in rudimentary forms. Thinking again about the vivican plant, Tuette turned to ask Cherry a question, but the woman wasn’t there. In their waiting and arguing, she had slipped away. “Guys, Cherry’s gone!” “Dack!” spat Vest. “Where? Why?” She looked at the Gousherall and hoped he realized he had asked a stupid question. “I don’t know. It’s not like she left a script detailing her plans or anything.” “Well, we have to find her before that little man gets back,” said Sylvester. “Who knows what other large animals live around here.” Tuette then realized that the selswans had to prey on something besides the insects that would invade their feathers. And several small somethings might easily prey on the group of them, if not individuals who’ve decided to explore for themselves. She then remembered her misgivings regarding the vivican plant and how she worried it might have defensive measures. If they’re Magik-based, Cherry will be fine. If not, she’s a dead woman. Assuming, of course, such plants have defenses. She asked Dermy. “Th’ viv’can plan’ be havin’ means o’ ‘fense, yeah, oh. Be squirtin’ con’trated fumes an’ th’ like. Be knockin’ you out, oh! Other’n beasties come an’ eat ya up!” He was smiling as he said it but Tuette knew he was feeling anything but happy about losing someone like Cherry. Tuette then felt guilty for a moment. She had thought about Cherry Tee as something that could be lost, like an item of interest. Tuette knew that Cherry was more than a mere item, though what it was that made her as special as she was, Dermy, she, or anyone else didn’t know. They just knew that she was quite unique and that someone with similar properties was also in the world, causing problems. Wishing she knew more about the vivican plant and this area in general, Tuette silently wished the plant’s gas was Magik in nature, sparing Cherry from any harm. In the back of her mind, Tuette still felt guilty about Herb Tee being transformed into a night dragon. One reason she had not minded bringing her along was that once she was rid of her own Curse of the Hood, she would be able to help Cherry pursue her father or even just the dragon that Cursed Herb. “Okay, that Bittial guy did say that we should stay still but I’m not too inclined to listen to him. If he’s anything like the other villagers topside, I don’t really want to meet them.” “But the selswans can help us, at least. They can get us to Boost. We can end this today, even!” Sylvester all but shouted at Tuette. He might’ve been angry because Cherry was gone or because Tuette had dismissed the idea of trusting whatever kind of people would enslave selswans. “And Cherry should be able to look after herself anyway.” Has he met her? “She’s… There’s something different about her, Sylvester.” “Yes, I know. We’ve discovered that she can’t use Magik, be touched by it, or whatever.” “No,” she said, feeling warm anger climb up into her throat now. “No, well, yes, she’s different in that respect, but she’s socially different. She doesn’t know how to speak… properly. Or… something. Haven’t you noticed it?” “You’re saying she isn’t using her grammar properly? Is that it?” asked the king while everyone had become quiet and might’ve been backing out of the argument as well. It was an argument she didn’t want to be having, but somehow, here she was, yelling at the king again. “No, I’m not saying that. You have to have noticed the way she talks. It’s so distant, like she’s not sure of where she is… at all times.” “But Bittial said—“ A honk sounded and a few flaps were heard before they saw Bittial approach from the gloom. Tuette had silently hoped that Cherry had been captured by the selswan and rider. At least then, I’d know where she was. But, no, Bittial only carried with him more nets. A second rider flew in as well and Tuette wondered how both selswans were supposed to fit in the immediate area. Bittial dismounted and stopped. “Where be the other lady, lo?” The second rider came in, his selswan landing almost on top of Hozshkue. But the first selswan just sidled over and they both stood right next too each other, their folded wings touching. It looked like a tight fit between the large Ring Stone and the nearest cluster of flora, but it worked for the selswans and they seemed unbothered. The second rider dismounted as Tuette began explaining about how Cherry had wandered off and they were just preparing to go and find her. “Nixo!” shouted the second man. “She wandered off, she be lost to the ‘cans. And then to the critters.” He then shook his head. “Quite a shame, Bittial.” “There’s still the other girl here. Plus these virile men, lo!” At those words, Tuette began to grow very suspicious of the two men: she knew the term virile was more commonly used when discussing the subject of breeding. And she recalled suddenly how Bittial had been quite pleased to have stumbled upon not one but two females. These men definitely have something sinister in mind. She had slipped her hand into her rucksack and clutched the Firedom Expansion Pote but knew it would be useless without an initial spark to build the Pote around. And there was the Freezing Pote… but she really didn’t want to use that. She weighed the outcome of using the Freezing Pote now or saving it and possibly being taken and mistreated by these two short men. I’d most likely survive, but at what cost? Maybe if she revealed she was Cursed, they wouldn’t want to take her or the others, simply because they’re associated with her. Of course, I’m just jumping to conclusions without knowing all the facts. Maybe this is a community that values strong men and reveres women? That was giving them a lot of credit, she knew, but she couldn’t deny them the benefit of the doubt at least. Her hand brushed against the gift that Jack had given her: a script and three acorns. Jack had said they could be used to make a quick forest, whatever that meant. She gripped the package tightly as Bittial approached her, smiling that toothless grin as before. Even in their dim surroundings, that eerie sight was easily seen. “My friend here is called Lopom. We’ll take you folks up to Vica’ Village real soon now. Just mesh up our nets and carry you that way, lo.” He then licked his lips and spit once again. Tuette felt herself back away as Bittial approached and she immediately wondered why no one was attempting to intercept him. Do they not recognize the threat he represents? How uncomfortable I am? Finally, Terry stepped forward. “Please, you’re making her uncomfortable. Can’t you see that?” Bittial put his hand to his chest, like his heart had just been broken. “I’ve no ill intentions for the missus, no, lo. We merely want you all to be our esteemed guests here. Up there. In Vica’ Village.” Tuette nodded but felt little at ease. She found herself drawing her hood and skirts more closely about herself, despite the fact that there was no way that her Curse could be activated. Again, she thought she might simply tell them, all of them, that she was Cursed. They might not be so hospitable then. And we need help to find Cherry, at least. “That’s well and good, Bittial, and Lopom, but we need to find out friend,” said the king. “She really shouldn’t be out there alone.” Lopom and Bittial exchanged a suggestive leer. “Oh, she not be alone for long!” Tuette knew she could take that in several contexts and actually felt better when she thought the pair of skuzzy men were referring to Cherry being hunted by an animal of some kind. “I would hope not,” continued Sylvester. “Because she needs to remain with us. We appreciate your offer of hospitality, but I have a Freezer here,” he gestured to Tuette and that surprised her because that meant he hadn’t forgotten her original cover story. She had let the guide lapse for a couple days now. “And if you take us by whatever forceful means you have in mind, she and my Guards will have to put up a fight. And I don’t imagine it will be beneficial to either of our parties. Or for our cause.” “Your cause?” asked Lopom with genuine interest backing the question. King Sylvester nodded. “Yes. We come from Mount Reign. I am the king of this land and many others, all which make up Decennia. And we have all been put in danger that, unless we can get to Boost and stop the count there, will have drastic results.” Lopom and Bittial exchanged looks again but this time without such a suggestive leer. They actually looked dumbfounded and Tuette thought that maybe a little of their inherent menace had been diminished as well. Lopom then asked “The count of what?” “Of Boost,” she found herself blurting out. Weren’t they listening? “Nah, nah. What you tryin’ to count?” The question didn’t make sense to her. Tuette tried explaining again but in a way they might understand as it was clear they didn’t know what a count was. Absentmindedly, Tuette herself wondered why such a name was given to a title of importance but decided it didn’t really matter. “We need to get to the next island, somehow, and stop… a bad man.” She felt foolish for speaking as she did but it couldn’t be helped. These men were like children in some ways. “We have to stop him before he does a big and horrible thing to the rest of us.” Yes. She felt very foolish. Both men doled out grins again, Lopom with more teeth than Bittial, which might’ve been a status symbol. Or it could be that Lopom is younger or knows how to scrub his teeth every once in a while. Tuette noticed for the first time that Lopom was also slicked up with the grease or whatever it was. Is it the grease they wear that keeps the selswans in check? And why aren’t the creatures taking charge of their own lives? A crash came from somewhere to Tuette’s right, drawing everyone’s attention. A moment later, a rush of pungent vivican gas hit them all and Tuette feared the worst: that Cherry had come across a vivican plant and it had sprayed her, putting her into a near-coma. Bittial and Lopom made some odd sounds as they headed into the flora, leaving their selswans behind and warning the group to remain where they were. Tuette looked at Hozshkue and, judging by the look in the selanimal’s eye, knew that it was the oil on their bodies that allowed them to treat the selswans as they did. It either didn’t taste good or inspired some fledgling-based fear inside the selswan’s minds. A finger poked her in the back and she turned to see Sylvester also looking up at Hozshkue. “Talk to it.” “It? He’s not an it!” She felt a hot sheet of breath blow out with a sigh as Sylvester took a breath. “Fine. Talk to him. Tell him we need to get away. That we need his help.” “You want to steal these people’s mounts? That’d be like someone trying to steal Eaf…” She bit her tongue, but the damage was already done. In the dimness, she saw him stiffen. For his credibility, he took it in stride. “Eafa was different. We couldn’t really talk to each other. Hozzyque—“ “Hozshkue.” “Yes, that. He can understand you and vice versa, right?” When she had said the selanimal’s name, Hozshkue had turned his head towards Tuette abruptly and Tuette had no doubt that the selswan could understand her. But does he comprehend me? It seemed like this particular group of selswans had purposely been denied the fundamental usages of their predisposed talents. She knew Sylvester was right though. She had to try. “Hozshkue?” The selswan’s attention was drawn again. “Can you understand me? Can you…” “Shhhhhz,” uttered the second selswan. “Hozzzshkue haz lozt hiz ‘peech powerz.” He said next in lower tones, ducking his head so close to Tuette that she feared it would be bitten clean off. “I recognizzze that thiz proximity frightenz mozt ‘umanz, but the otherz canna hear.” Tuette nodded, saying nothing but recognizing that she had swallowed two or three lumps that had unexpectedly formed inside her throat. The second selswan continued, telling quickly of how Hozshkue had had his tongue severed for speaking against Bittial. Tuette cringed at the thought of the act. “Why do you let them treat you like that? They are smaller than you.” asked Sylvester. “To nip them iz uncomfortable. Their clothz ‘urt feircly.” Their clothes? Some sense was coming together now, regarding the odd-smelling oils that the short men wore. It had to be a variant of a Pain-Less Stone, though in Pote or oil form. Somehow, the oil took the pain out of the clothes, which were obviously of poorly-handled shrent. The pain a shrent caused human flesh was known to be legendary. For an animals, it must be even worse, especially on their mouths. It was indeed a very effective means for keeping the selswans tamed. Tuette explained the situation to Sylvester. He seemed to understand it already though, at least as far as the part where the oils kept the little men from feeling pain. Tuette then asked the other selswan, “Why don’t you just leave these people then?” The speaking selswan frowned as much as was possible before answering. “We do not know much of the other islandz. But we’re told often enough that our ancestorz came here for refuge during hard timez, when they were hunted and murdered by humanz. We are too… afraid to leave. And they provide food. For the mozt part.” “What does that mean?” asked Sylvester. The second selswan, who had not given his name – nor had it been asked – sighed first, looking towards where Lopom and Bittial departed, and turned back. “We canna ‘unt. They bring uz foodz, if we fly good. Zometimez fish, zometimez rodentz, zometimez… nothingz. They canna always find foodz for uz.” He sighed again and Tuette noticed, regrettably for the first time, that both selswans seemed undernourished. She was basing the observation solely on the smaller swans she dealt with under Menginal, during her stint with Corunny Voidet, but the selswans should’ve been plumper. Tuette sadly realized the reason they were both able to fit in such a cramped space as this. This birds take up less space. The flora rustled and Bittial, Lopom, and Cherry stumbled through. Tuette felt a relief wash through her at seeing Cherry. The two riders looked angry though. “Stupid missus let loose on’ of our vivica’ plants!” “We had nah time to wrap-n-seal it, lo,” chimed Bittial. “Wrap-n-seal?” asked Sylvester. Cherry was forced onto the group and Tuette couldn’t help but notice that she smelled rather horrible all of a sudden. “The large plant squirted me, Tuette. It stinks inside. But it floats, too!” “It floats?” Of course. The plant produced a lighter-than-air gas and could even rise up. Cherry must’ve stumbled upon a mature plant, or a dying one, and caused it to dislodge earlier than expected. She turned to Bittial. “What do you mean by ‘wrap-n-seal’?” Sylvester then looked at her and recalled that he had posed a shorter yet similar question but it hadn’t been answered yet. “The king already asked you.” “We be showin’ you soon ‘nough, folks. We take you up top and show you, lo!” * ~ * ~ * In an impressive amount of time, Bittial and Lopom had meshed together three of their nets with nearby sticks that were questionably slim. They were then reinforced with Sealant Spells and thus made the nets that much stronger. Between the two selswans, the net was attached via notches sticking out from the saddles. Apparently, loads were carried often enough between selswans that the apparatuses were necessarily built. Instead of cargo, the humans were carried in the nets, two at a time. Lopom flew his selswans while Bittial stayed with the remaining four and then two. Tuette and Cherry were the last pair with each trip taking almost half an hour. All that time spent alone with Bittial was very uncomfortable and Tuette even asked what their intentions were. “We just be lookin’ to make you folk feel at home, lo.” The speech pattern is very similar to Craspone. Perhaps he came from this odd assortment of people? Tuette was on the verge of asking when Lopom returned with Hozshkue and the other selswan. They were loaded into the netting and hoisted off. With the time that had passed, more light was filtering through the gloom, revealing that daybreak was nearing. The thought made Tuette a little more disgruntled because they had a day and then some to get to Boost. They were carried straight up and Tuette finally glimpsed what the big mystery was. The group had essentially been deposited inside a cave that really did have no walls. Except it wasn’t a cave, but a land under ground. Or pieces of ground. At its core, Schove was part land-based island and part floating island. There were sparse columns here and there that noted main support points but for the most part, the upper portion, where Vican Village was located, was literally floating on air. And this is what the people centered their lives around: keeping the village up, literally. Beneath the landmass that was in the air were hundreds of wrapped-and-sealed vivican plants. Tuette learned from Cherry’s experience and from asking Bittial that the vivican, upon reaching maturity, detached from its root system and the majority of it, seeds and all, rose into the air. This was how the plant was able to deposit the heavy, hand-sized seeds in the first place: by reaching new heights and locales and dropping them into fresh soils. But what the villagers did was tend to the plants and take seeds off of ripened ones just before they might detach and then wrap them with different assortments of skins and leaves that were sewn together and sealed with the same Sealant Spells that were used to firm up the net sticks. The villagers called them buoys and once they were settled into an area underneath the land mass, they helped keep that section afloat in a more secure fashion. Vines and twine were tied around the root systems, allowing the villagers a chance to reset the buoys under different portions of the island because, apparently, the vivican gas lasted a long time but slowly decreased. It was riders like Bittial and Lopom who kept the vivican plants under close watch. Others made sure that weight distribution was even across the village. Tuette had never seen or heard of anything like it. They traveled so that the twines were nearly hitting the riders in the face and Tuette could see, even from her poor vantage point, that the selswans were becoming exhausted. She felt sorry for the creatures. Even though she knew the trip was destined to last less than half an hour, they had flown under the length of the floating island and were turning about to be deposited in a manner of what felt like minutes. Tuette had seen some other riders tending to the buoys and, looking down, even saw a few more riders on foot, checking on plants and even seeing one being wrapped, sealed, and tied off. It was utterly fascinating and Tuette forgot completely about the sheer uneasiness that these people caused her. That is, until she was greeted by more people of the same type. They resembled Bittial and Lopom in height and stench and Tuette realized that these people had to live lifestyles that demanded lightweight aspects throughout. Their existence was literally in jeopardy. She thought she might be tired but she wasn’t. Neither was the king, his Guards, or Dermy. Cherry looked slung around the eyes but that was most likely attributed to her experiences regarding her father and her unique situation. Not to mention her experiences below the island. What truly drew Tuette’s attention though were the sheer amounts of swan statues. They were large enough to resemble selswans even and Tuette wondered about whether a Life Spell would be used and if it would draw either a swan or selswan spirit from Valtos’ Memory Well of cleansed spirits. If it was a swan spirit, that would make sense, but if it was a selswan, that might indicate that there was some place in the world that harbored frogs as big as the houses in Cordia. And swans as big as her… Tuette’s thought pattern was broken when she abruptly saw such a structure similar to her own swan-shaped home. It was newer and, in truth, shaped to look younger, but the design was too similar to ignore. Everything else became part of the background as Tuette moved herself closer to the structure. “Tuette, what’re you doing?” asked someone who might’ve been the king. Her thoughts were winning out though. Was Craspone the one who orchestrated my situation? Surely he didn’t have Corunny Curse me, had he? It doesn’t seem likely. But he had obviously led me and Dermy to my swan-home. Was that more coincidence or is Craspone truly from this village? Tuette truly wanted to ask. The gathering of short men drew her attention finally and she didn’t want to ask. “Please, guests, follow us. Our perryta would like to make your acquaintance.” A perryta. At least they have some form of civilization. It was a short trip through odd terrain. The swan-shaped structures weren’t numerous but there were several of the statues, all which had chains around there webbed feet. Terry must’ve noticed them too. “Why do you chain up your statues?” An older-looking man of the group spit and then answered. “’cause when we carve ‘em up without any footing, they don’t be comin’ to Life.” “To Life?” asked Terry. He obviously didn’t understand. “You bring these statues to Life?” asked Sylvester, who, surprisingly, did understand. He had retained at least some knowledge of Magik in that respect and was on his way to acquiring Tuette’s genuine respect. It’s still a long way off. “On’y when the land bits start dippin’, teek.” Bittial joined in then. “Yar, see, the land is floatin’ good and such but sometimes, the buoys sink ‘fore the tenders can replace ‘em. In ‘mergency sit-e-ations, we Life Spell the stats and keep the lands ‘float while riders help find a balance.” It was interesting, to say the least. But Tuette could only wonder why they made the effort. “It seems like if you just let the island sink, you wouldn’t have any of these problems.” The group, traveling as one, stopped as one. An echoed gasp sounded. Lopom replied to Tuette’s comment. “Then the world would lose a valuable stock of vivican plants. The land would crush them, seeds and all. It already takes too long to grow them. They can’t grow in direct sunlight.” After an awkward silence, they started moving again, traveling across a variation of bare land and lengths of wooden planks, constructed like bridges, only secured to the ground. Tuette imagined they were keeping the land masses conjoined too. She also noticed that there weren’t any trees up on this level. Tuette assumed the roots would only serve to further undermine the integrity of the floating land mass that was Vican Village. As they were traveling, Tuette began to notice a string of circular plank sections that were made of the same types of wood but not secured to the ground in the same fashion. Rather, it looked like they hinged upwards. Tuette asked Lopom about them. “That be our wells. The river be ‘rectly below them hatches. Lets us draw up some water when we need it, which idn’t often. Rainwater don’t hold on the ground up here. Soaks right through. We donna mind though; it makes sure our plants are gettin’ fresh water. Our village does seem to slightly sink after a rain though, yeah, but it’s an even-sink so don’t no one panic much.” Terry asked, “What about sea storms. And hurricanes? Can’t they blow your island away?” Bittial said, “Naw. The If we start swayin’, we bringin’ the swans to Life and they be helpin’ with stabilization too.” * ~ * ~ * As they walked, Tuette almost expected to see a Talking Tree as most towns and villages had one as their focus point at some point. Had Ac? She couldn’t recall. A return trip might tell her. In Vican Village, there was no Talking Tree, but Tuette wasn’t surprised. Even if this had been one of those originating towns, the chances their Tree had survived like Zharinna’s had would be anything but a miracle. But they were nearing what might be the center of Vican Village, or the center of the island, at least. Tuette realized they were probably one in the same as it wouldn’t make sense to have more than one village located on a floating island. The towns might not be cohesive and if they were, they would’ve eventually merged into one town anyway. Thinking about the floating island, Tuette found herself anticipating the story that would tell how such a thing was accomplished. Did the caverns below house the plants first and then a huge amount of vivican plants all detached themselves and lifted the surface to its new height? Or was this always the height and the cavern walls deteriorated due to the lighter-than-air gas taking usefulness out of the barriers? That was probably it as there were the stone columns, few as they were. And they couldn’t be grown, unless there was a further style of Magik being employed. Out of nowhere, Vest said, “Dermy, these people talk a lot like you.” Tuette finally realized that Dermy hadn’t said a word since they arrived on the surface. It occurred to her that Dermy was wearing a disguise that was modeled after Craspone. And if he spoke, he might draw their attention. But it also might bring to light the origins of Mount Reign’s former agricultural specialist. Dermy didn’t respond to Vest’s comment and she was rearing up the courage to ask about the coincidence when they were halted in front of the largest swan-shaped structure that Tuette had ever seen. The six of them were ushered inside where it actually resembled a normal tolo or even a four-walled structure, however unsupportive those actually were. Inside, a very old and very rotund man introduced himself as Perryta Kilameen. “Welcome, grounders!” he said in an accent that wasn’t as thick as the other villagers. It told Tuette that he was either new to the area or he had been here so long and encountered so many grounders that his accent had disappeared due to exposure. “We are so happy that you’ve decided to stay here with us in—‘’ “We are not staying here for any length of time,” Sylvester all but shouted. This caused Kilameen to step back, his smile slipping for just a moment. It even made Tuette jump a little, but it was necessary, especially if these villagers expected the six of them to stay there and avoid Count Roost and his Curse. “We need to get to the next island, Boost, and take care of the count there. We can be done with this relatively soon.” He was right and Tuette actually began to feel the anticipation of a final showdown-type situation itch at her skin. The Curse would affect everyone – except those who were Cursed, like herself – and Roost had to be dealt with. Tuette went on to explain the nature of the count and his Curse of the Thumb. Perryta Kilameen didn’t seem to soak in all the knowledge. “So… this man is going to enchant our thumbs?” “No,” rang Vest. “His Curse is designed to remove your thumbs. And mine. And everyone else’s.” “Yes, we require assistance in reaching Boost. The method you used to carry us here was rather helpful, if not a little dangerous for my liking.” Dangerous? What, was the king used to riding beasts everywhere now? “But we’ll accept six of your selswans in return for agreeable compensation.” He looked confused by even his own words, but Tuette had to admit that it sounded very professional. She hoped that he wouldn’t give out the last of the money they brought with them as he surely realized they would have to get back home with part of it. At the word compensation, though, the perryta’s lips parted in a very straight-toothed smile. Tuette recalled the way her and Cherry had been visually ogled earlier by first Bittial and then Lopom. Looking at Cherry, Tuette also wondered if, in her brief absence from them, if the two oily men had encountered her and performed deeds most dastardly that the dullard wouldn’t think to report upon. The thought alone made her boil a little inside. “Compensation?” asked Kilameen. “For… what did you call them?” Sylvester actually grunted. “Selswans. They’re selswans. And I must say that they don’t seem to like being in your company.” Tuette realized that Sylvester was being a bit bolder than what otherwise might be acceptable for these people. At the king’s comment, the perryta’s eyes narrowed and he looked like he was going to puff smoke. “You come to my islandic paradise and tell me that my own riding beasts are unhappy with my men?” “I’m just informing what I’ve heard from one about another.” Kilameen’s eyes widened. “Who?! Who has been talking to you outsiders?” Sylvester frowned then. “I actually didn’t catch his name, but—“ “But that’s not important,” interjected Tuette, finally letting the boil spill out and form hard words. “What’s important is that the selswans that live here carry human spirits and thus need to be treated like humans, not livestock. Or slaves.” “My swans love it here. They’ve repeated as much, and more. We provide shelter and food for them, in return for invaluable services that we otherwise would not be able to perform. And then this world would be deprived of such a rich field as that below, where the viv-plants grow!” Kilameen looked agitated. “But this is all irrelevant! You outsiders are our guests, and we shall meet your masculine needs until our females are with child. And until your females provide children, as well.” Silence hung on the air. It lasted for only a moment. “What the dack are you talking about?” screeched Terry. Tuette felt a heaviness in her chest. Her initial thought had been correct, when she had thought twice about the two men’s use of the term virile. Kilameen continued. “You will provide more for our population. In return, we shall help you get to the next island, whatever you called it.” He obviously didn’t understand. Sylvester looked red about his beard. “But we need—“ He began, but Tuette interrupted. “We will not be breeding stock for your folk, perryta!” Kilameen exposed a toothy smile. “You will, whether you want to or not!” What does that mean? The obvious implications bubbled to her head before any others: these people were either going to outright perform heinous acts… or they were going to use Lust Potes on the group. Tuette had never had an experience with such a Pote because it was against her mindset of human decency. In her mind, the acts that a Lust Pote permitted was still considered rape, even if both parties were willing to go through with it. If these villagers need new stocks of humans in this manner, they must surely be desperate. “Sylvester, we need to get out of here.” “Yes, Tuette, I know. But it doesn’t seem like they’re going to let us—“ “Then we make them let us! We have weapons. They don’t.” They conversed freely in front of Kilameen and didn’t think it unwise. He was elderly and probably didn’t hear so well anyway. Sylvester looked at her as if he didn’t recognize her. She suddenly realized that she surely wasn’t sounding like herself and could only attribute it to the situation. Did the count know we would encounter these people? He must have. He practically lives right on top of them. Without replying to her comment, the king turned back to the perryta. “We understand that your people are depleting—“ “Any children born will have a decent rearing. They’n not be ‘glected.” He was still trying to sell the idea. It was very unsettling and he seemed desperate, to say the least. He continued to smile but it looked less malicious and more… pleading. “That’s all well and good, Perryta Kilameen, but it can not happen. Not soon. If we can’t get to Boost, then every person in this kingdom – your people included – will fall under the count’s Curse.” As if it was the first time he heard it, Kilameen straightened his stance. “Cursed?” he asked in a raspy whisper. Sylvester and Tuette nodded as one and she could only wonder why he hadn’t heard them before. The desperation of their population was probably urgent enough to incur selective hearing when it came to incorporating new progenitors. “We canna be havin’ Cursed folk amongst our stocks!” Sylvester and Tuette exchanged glances and in the kings, she thought she recognized a note of understanding. She felt herself lighten inside because she knew she could reveal that she was… “I’m Cursed, Perryta,” called Sylvester. Kilameen all but backed away, his eyes bulging in horror. What’s the king doing? He isn’t Cursed. But his kingdom was going to be if they didn’t get out of there soon. She hoped the perryta would accept the bluff and send them on their way. Of course, they would have no reason to conscript selswans to them either. We might have to find another way. Maybe we can use some of the statues? No, they won’t come to Life in the daytime. Not without a chicken egg. Finally finding his voice, the head villager said, “Cursed? We serve a Cursed king?” Serve? They probably weren’t even aware they had a king until a few hours ago. That seemed like a common theme in much of Decennia. How disheartening is that for Sylvester? To be part of an office that wasn’t recognized by those beneath him? She suddenly felt even more depressed about Sylvester because his broken kingstone was most likely the reason the nation wasn’t aware of him. At the older man’s question, Sylvester only nodded. Kilameen all but screamed that the outsiders be escorted. In moments, they were being herded by smelly men again. Kilameen followed them out. “Take the king to the edge and drop him. The rest, take them to the Regenerative Shack Ice stabbed her chest once more as the men grabbed Sylvester violently and began to drag him away. The Gousheralls tried to draw their swords but the men touched their painful cloth to the Guard’s bare hands. This time, Tuette didn’t think about hesitating. She reached into her rucksack with the intent of grabbing the Freezing Pote… And her hand brushed the acorn package again. She looked at Cherry, who was very still but who held a silent panic in her eyes. This might be too much for her, but Tuette knew what acorns truly were: seeds. And Cherry had a gift. And they needed nothing short of a miracle right now. She clutched the three acorns and forced them into Cherry’s palm. “Cherry, do your stuff!” Cherry looked into her palm, hers eyes wide. Tuette could feel her quickened pulse through the girl’s wrist as she gripped it mightily. Tuette’s own pulse was hammering inside her as thoughts of them both being inducted into this society via Lust Potes invaded her head. She didn’t like the feeling. After only a moment, Sylvester was still struggling to remain with the group, his eyes watering as the short riders continuously touched their clothes to this hands and face even. He grunted, but never screamed. Cherry pulled the acorns to her mouth, muttered her Key Phrase, and blew into her closed hand. When she opened it, the acorns all but bolted to the soil of Vican Village. In no time, three mighty oaks burst upward from the ground with such ferocity that no one was certain what was happening. Tuette instantly felt guilty about the root system because they would surely undermine the integrity of the local landmass. But these people have left us little choice. Amongst the oaks, Jack appeared almost instantly. He looked rejuvenated but Tuette knew he could model himself after any appearance. She did wonder if he could be in both places at once. If so, it was remarkable Magik and maybe the first instance. If not, that might mean that there were more World Spirit environs than people realized. They just didn’t know because of inactivity on behalf of the Spirit being in one place instead of another. The small men looked horrified at the arrival of the oaks more so than the World Spirit tethered to them and Tuette felt that rush of guilt once more. They would get over it though. She knew she would. Jack’s field of vision and activity was limited to the extension of his roots and branches, but that was enough. He saw Sylvester in the now-slackened grips of the riders and he pushed them away without uttering a word. Tuette then felt a grip around her own upper arm. Thinking it was one of the Gousheralls, she went with it at first but saw that it was actually Bittial and only when it was too late. Is he using Mighty Grips? Possibly. The thought brought to mind Fy’tay and Tuette desperately wished the perryta had opted to come on this little journey through the kingdom rather than Tuette herself. It’s all proving too perilous! Bittial continued to drag her and she saw that the others were being similarly dragged out from under the protective canopy of Jack the World Spirit. In no time, Tuette couldn’t see Jack anymore, but she did see the riders fly here and there at his semi-physical interjection. “You folken thinkin’ you’re so clever, lo?” Tuette saw Kilameen’s swan-structure collapse at the front. Jack apparently had reign over part of it. “We only be needin’ you for babies, lo. But you had to be puttin’ up fights an’ such!” He licked his lips and Tuette tried desperately to pull herself away. With a rush of victory, she felt the fabric of her sleeve tear beneath the little man’s grip. She tugged once more and saw Sylvester moving to come to her aid. Bittial continued to struggle though, his grip slackening. One of the riders rushed at the king, pitching himself into Sylvester’s torso and toppling him over. Unfortunately for the rider, they fell back inside Jack’s domain and Tuette saw the attacker being raised into the air and being flung like a doll. Behind her, Tuette began to notice more noises that didn’t seem to fit. Was that the sound of rushing water? Up here— She realized almost too late what Bittial’s intentions were. He‘s going to throw me down one of the wells! With new inspiration, she yelled loudly, noting that she grabbed Terry and Vest’s attention but she had also inspired Bittial to take a stronger grip, using both hands to clench her upper arms from behind. She kicked backwards but he seemed to anticipate each attempt! “These Grips be comin’ in handy, lo! ‘specially for folk like yourself who donna wan’ to be helpin’ us out!” “Excuse… me… if I don’t want… to be raped!” Bittial just laughed and she heard him spit on the ground and lick his lips again. She began to feel helpless as the situation became more displaced from the group. They had Jack to overtly protect them. The Gousheralls were having to fight their way through a swarm of riders and not allowing themselves to kill any of the misunderstood villagers. Is that compassion necessary? She imagined she’d already be rescued by now if they hadn’t been so considerate of the locals. Tuette was then swung around and forced to walk in front of Bittial and she could see the open hatch a few meters in front of her, a fresh bucket of water standing right next to it. Apparently, the arrival of the outsiders had called a halt on all other activities, even in mid-stride. A removable rolling bar was set up over the opening. Tuette guessed it only made drawing up the water easier. As they got closer, she became desperate and even started to pull forward, hoping to off-balance Bittial. Why has he become so vindictive all of a sudden? Have I insulted him more than any of the rest? She cast a glance over her shoulder to look past Bittial’s face. She didn’t see Sylvester or anyone of a friendly nature. Biting a curse, she realized that she should’ve used the Freezing Pote. Her selfishness regarding her Curse had simply brought too much endangerment to everyone, including herself. Bittial grunted and they both fell forward, Tuette landing next to the bucket of water. No cloth of his touched her skin so she didn’t feel any pain, except when her hand brushed his tunic. She pulled it away like it had been burned. There Sylvester was, regaining his balance. He had apparently charged at Bittial from behind to topple them both over. And just in time too. They were a meter or more away from the well. Tuette wondered why they didn’t build up a small wall to guard the well but realized that hatch was sufficient when it was closed. And more constructs would only add more weight to the floating island. She stood, feeling unsteady this close to the exposed well. Tuette was curious to know how deep the rock actually went before opening out to the cavern-like region below. But she didn’t really want to find out firsthand. Sylvester approached her, huffing, his face pocked with red whelps. She felt bad for him again. Looking behind him, she saw that the other would-be attackers were being subdued against the three mighty oak trees. Outside of that perimeter, other people were scrambling to the nearest selswan statues, activating them with whatever eggs they kept on hand. Grimly, she imagined it might be selswan eggs and thought of the irony laced behind such a notion: the destruction of new life to temporarily bring back an old one. Truly hoping that wasn’t the case, Tuette refocused on Sylvester. She found that she was also breathless. “Sylvester,” she huffed. “King. Th-thank you.” Tuette felt like she might start crying too but she wasn’t sure why. She had been so close to the well… She felt a strong grip on both her ankles as they were then jerked out from beneath her. She fell forward, against Sylvester. He caught her and she looked down to see Bittial there. He was still trying to cast her down the well. Sylvester tried kicking Bittial in the face but the little rider quickly grabbed at the king’s foot and twisted it with the Mighty Grip. It didn’t break but instead caused Sylvester to turn with the ankle and he fell onto his side with a wet grunt. Bittial scrambled up and Tuette slapped at him with open and closed fists, trying desperately to keep his Grips off her. He pawed at her clothing and the tiny man had an impressive reach; he was being persistent with Gripping her, grabbing at her clothes, her hood. She knew she couldn’t and wouldn’t allow him to remove it though. To do so would expose her Curse. And Sylvester had just told these people that he was Cursed. These people were obviously using some branch of Magik in conjunction with their selswans and not just Life Spells. It was rare to come across Magik societies that didn’t treat Cursed persons like contagious plague victims, as evidenced by the king’s death sentence. Tuette just knew that trusting anyone to know about her situation was simply too dangerous. Sylvester finally intervened, standing and stepping between Tuette and the tiny man, putting his knee in Bittial’s gut. “Leave us, little man! We need to go. The count must be dealt with.” There was that phrase again: dealt with. Even in this moment if terror, she couldn’t help but focus on his usage of it. Does he understand what that implies? If so, why doesn’t he just say— The short man pushed at the king by grabbing the knee with his Grips and forcing down. Sylvester fell once again and Bittial reached up to grab at the point where her hair would be if the hood was down. Jerking back in an almost violent manner, she tried to get away from Bittial and his form of further molestation… when she felt a defining moment occur between herself and her hood. It came off, tearing after years of wear and tear. And her damp mass of hair instantly shaped itself into a massive swan, casting a shadow on her as Brill above seemed to look down and even laugh at Tuette. She felt her face heat up with sorrow and embarrassment, made even worse when Bittial began to whoop and holler in very degrading tones, pausing his attempts to Grippingly kill her. She expected Sylvester to follow suit any second now, when he found his footing once again. He stood and when she faced him, she only saw a pang of guilt, as if it was all his fault. It made her feel— A terrible gust came upon them and Tuette felt the extended wings of her swan-hair catch an updraft and she was forced backwards once again. Sylvester grabbed her arm to steady her as Bittial was still too consumed with raw laughter to take notice. “We need to get you…” but whatever he said was lost in another gust that pulled her out of his delicate grasp. Tuette suddenly realized the unintentional intentions that the violent gust was perpetrating. Behind her was the well. Beyond that was a vast space of air that eventually terminated amongst a lush cave of plants and the roaring river that could still be heard even up here. With a lurch in her gut, Tuette fell, kicking the full bucket of water on her way down, internally cursing Corunny Voidet one more time. As it was possibly the last time she would get to do so, she made sure it was extra bitter. The last she saw was the hole of light above get smaller and smaller, with Sylvester’s outstretched hand desperately and uselessly reaching down after her. He was no Koso, she knew, and she had never wished to have one around. Until now. |
| The count stared into the night, knowing that little more than a day would bring about his revenge in one way or another. That was merely a blink in the span of a lifetime, though it took just a day to change such a life forever. Puze was below, with the World Spirit. He had opted to stay away from the king, realizing that he was the activation of Roost’s very Potent Artificial-from-Afar Charm. It took him long enough, thought the count with a very bemused smirk. Botch wasn’t present. He was down in the town, with his father. Roost actually found that he missed the boy, especially after discovering that such a person existed who would accept him for his physical attributes. Most people had never accepted him for his temper alone, but the count couldn’t help that. He was temperamental and for good reasons. He could only think of his upbringing, of his parentage, of Voidet below, of the Godblade and the kingstone. Why shouldn’t I be the way I am? A lot was riding on his success or failure. He found himself focusing further on the kingstone and how it seemed like King Sylvester was merely going to fail in reaching Boost Island before the Curse of the Thumb took hold. What kind of king am I asking this of? I couldn’t Curse him directly because of the very kingstone I wish to own and trade. So I Curse his kingdom, his subjects, and he fails to do anything to protect them? Count Roost himself knew the circumstances that would come about in a kingdom that bore no thumbs. He himself, born thumbless due to his own precon Curse, knew very well how to live. But no one else could even imagine it. The king himself, and those near him, would’ve had these past several days to ponder the situation, but they couldn’t know the outcome. They couldn’t know what it was like to simply write, or eat. He remembered the day he felt when he discovered Magik disguises. He had revisited his abandoned estate in Gor Bilesk shortly after ridding himself of yet another pesky and judgmental apprentice. It was after the Toll Brothers had first made themselves present and left, and after Voidet had reentered his life and refused to stop orbiting it, despite his failing health; like a cancer so Potent it existed outside of the body—that was what Voidet was. The Magikals of Gor Bilesk revealed themselves to be descendants of not just provincial settlers of Gor Pyron but of a subtle warrior caste as well. It was them who taught him about dosekens, after he revealed the Magik he used from a Shaping Clan. They had recognized it as inferior Magik, to say the least. And he couldn’t agree more. True, he had possessed thumbs but they were limited and he couldn’t feel anything with them. It was what one did when a delfin wouldn’t do; when one basically wanted to have a flexible stone attached to their body. With the doseken, he could not only have thumbs, but he could change his entire appearance to resemble that which would be more respectable, acceptable. The Mages of Gor Bilesk had been very helpful, but he knew he couldn’t stay there. There was something about the community that didn’t settle well with him and he wondered if that same feeling had been what persuaded his father to leave the island in the first place. Thinking about what his father might’ve said to his mother in regards to making the move more acceptable, Roost put himself into bed, casting one more look across the town below and continuing to the island in the distance that was regularly regarded as Schove. * ~ * ~ * Awaking in the dead of night with blackness all around him, the count heard noises coming from below that drifted up the stairwell like an incontinent musician’s drivel. It only brought to mind the instance when Roost learned there was a lei cat in his castle, and then when he woke up and walked into his workshop to find the dead seleagle, spread eagle, on the stone floor. Has Puze brought another menace into Castle Tigra Lei? He rolled the blankets off and grabbed at the small torch and effet rocks that he kept near the bed in such a situation. The moon provided only ambient light but it appeared that the interior of the castle was meant to remain in total darkness throughout each evening. Lighting the torch, he held it above his head and thought, not for the first time, that investing in a Glow Globe would be worthwhile. At least then, I wouldn’t have to worry about ash or embers landing in my hair. Does the doseken protect me from fire? That might be something interesting to try out, but not tonight. He started down the stairwell, becoming aware of the fact that he was entering the World Spirit’s domain. It didn’t reach as high as his bedchamber and didn’t seem to extend too far below the workshop but now that he knew it was present, he became more attuned to its attendance. But the sounds didn’t come from the workshop, but beyond it. From the infirmary. From Voidet, most likely. Dread filled his chest as he bodily moved towards the dungeon’s entrance, padding barefoot across the chilly stone floor. Swinging open the heavy door and moving down the steps, he rounded the corner too quickly and not quick enough to see Voidet sitting on the edge of his bed, feet swung over and nearly touching the floor. Can he still use his legs? He silently wished the old man would try and stand, only to stumble against the hard, cold floor. In the insubstantial torchlight, Voidet looked like he was content with sitting on the edge of the bed. He also didn’t look out of sorts or even ill. He looked like Count Roost remembered him as before, minus the gaunt features and frail appearance. But all that minored in comparison to the fierce determination that Roost saw in Voidet’s eyes, even at this distance. Roost cast a glance at the Pain-Less Stone, thought of Botch briefly, and wondered if he should just apply it before Voidet began to annoy Roost’s mentality. He grabbed it and dipped his torch towards the oft-used one in the room, which brightened considerably, but not by much. The shadows still wavered as if afraid to reveal their treacherous depths. “The Godblade,” Voidet finally said, after several deep breaths. “You got it yet?” Roost stepped forward with two shallow paces. “No, no. Not yet.” Voidet sighed and looked away, a motion which seemed to pain him. Roost then continued to look around the room, wondering what it was that had actually awakened him. No furniture seemed to have been moved and Voidet clearly hadn’t left the bed. Have I imagined the noises? He then looked behind the door and saw crumpled scripts bundled there. Voidet had obviously thrown them at the door. “Thought it’d take you f-forever to come down here, C-C-Co…” He then gasped and coughed, the noise sounding wet in Roost’s ears. That was the sound that had drawn the count: wet coughs coupled with rasping calls. “What is it? You know I don’t have the Godblade yet. Not until I get the kingstone, Voidet.” “And ‘ow’s that workin’ so far?” Count Roost felt flushed with embarrassment and hoped it didn’t show as well under the weak power of the torches. “The king has another day to get here. Meanwhile...” “Meanwhile,” interjected the old man, “you keep dancing around here with that Bitch-boy of yours. Teachin’ him stuff. Learnin’ him. Trying to reclaim yo-your lost youth, or som—“ He then began hacking again, the sound grating at Roost’s ears, like they were pulling him towards the floor; the cold, dirty ground. He wanted to put the Stone to Voidet’s temple and end both of their suffering, if only temporary. It reminded him of the time when Voidet intruded on his life, after the Toll Brothers had, claiming that he had been following Roost’s travels for the eventual chance at just glimpsing the Godblade. He remembered taking the old man in, thinking his health would fail long before he would have to recover the weapon of myth. But then finding himself bent on recovering it himself, if only to hold a sway of power over not only the kingdom of Decennia, but over Gor Pyron as well, a nation that recognized the inherent wealth of true power. Voidet’s health diminished but his energies hadn’t depleted. He simply wouldn’t die. He was that focused on the Godblade. Roost often wondered why the old man didn’t use some type of Magik to enable his body, if only to get out of the count’s life. But he also knew that wasn’t possible. The disease he suffered, Sut’yon Hinge, was aggravated by the use of Magik. One of the Toll Brothers had purportedly suffered from a version of it, but didn’t bother going into details. “You’ll never succeed. I don’t know why I th-thought you might.” Count Roost felt a bubbling inside caused directly by the elder’s words of doubt. Years ago, he had proclaimed utter faith in Roost’s abilities. Now he was denouncing him in the last hour of consequence. The only thing that might make Roost happier in this moment – rather than using the Pain-Less Stone or having Voidet drop dead – was to know that, if King Sylvester failed in his quest, Voidet would be thumbless. And he would know, like everyone else, what it meant to be without thumbs. Without letting another sound pass between Voidet’s cracked lips, Roost moved forward quickly and set the Stone against the man’s forehead. Voidet wasn’t prone to object and fell under the Stone quickly, pitching forward and landing wholly against the floor. Feeling disdainful of Voidet, Count Roost left him there, not caring that he was on the floor, where he had intended his words to drag Roost only moments before. Count Roost left the room and, after only a few minutes, returned with much guilt over his actions. He hoisted Voidet’s lightweight body onto the bed and tucked him in rather tightly. Roost exited the room, not wanting to look the old man in the eyes and silently hoping, yet again, that he would simply pass away. The fall from the bed to the floor might’ve done untold damage though probably not enough to even be consolation for his efforts. Guilt floated amongst Roost’s head energies like meaty chunks in a bitter stew and he worried that he might actually have undone Voidet. The conflicting emotions truly bothered him the most. How can I hate the old man so much and feel sorry for bringing harm to him? It’s almost like I have two sets of head energies inside myself. Does prolonged exposure to the doseken do that? Does it produce conflicting thoughts? If so, I might have to consider dropping the disguise and making the visage a more permanent situation, though I’ve never been sure of how to accomplish such a feat. He slowly ascended the stairwell and let his mind drift towards the immediate future. Tomorrow – Or later today – he would be talking with Botch’s father about the boy moving into Castle Tigra Lei as a permanent servant and apprentice. There was really little the boy’s father could say no to. Count Roost was the governor and, no doubt, Botch had confirmed everyone’s suspicions that he was the very same governor that came to this little municipality nearly four years ago. Thinking about the boy being close at hand made Roost feel slightly better. He didn’t even feel apprehensive about passing through the area taken by the World Spirit though he did wonder why she didn’t desire an attempt to undermine his rule over the island. She probably recognized that he was doing all of this for a greater good. With someone like him in charge – someone who had suffered and lived a true life and was not simply handed a kingstone and told to rule – there was no doubt that Decennia would be headed for better times, indeed. He couldn’t wait. When he put himself back into bed, he was actually glad to have been awakened by the decrepit old man. It let him get his mind focused on the Potentially final day as Boost’s governor. If Sylvester even tries to succeed. He had no doubt that, if the king showed up, he could easily dispatch him and garnish the kingstone. After that, he need only to send word to the Toll Brothers via a rarely used Comgem and the Godblade would be his. And Voidet will be history. |
| He was on the lip of the well, reaching impossibly down into the nothingness and hearing water subtly rushing below and the pitched screams from Tuette. Her Curse had done this, bringing about a certain sense of doom that rivaled the embarrassment that she otherwise had wished to avoid entirely. Of course, these villagers had been all too quick to try and dispose of Sylvester himself when he claimed he was Cursed. It was a stroke of genius or genial luck that had brought Cherry into their presence. Otherwise, would they have had something like Jack the World Spirit present to assist them? But Jack couldn’t help with Tuette. That tiny pisser Bittial had brought her out of Jack’s sphere of influence with evil intentions bubbling in his mind. He looked briefly at Bittial and Sylvester felt like pushing him down the well after her but know that wouldn’t bring Tuette back up. Maybe the swan-hair-mass slowed her plummet? It had been insanely large, to say the least. But, no. The king remembered that it was the sun that brought the awful Curse to an effaceable presentation. Once she had fallen out of the ironically damning rays of light, she would go straight to the ground below. Or probably the river. The river. Sylvester had not seen it but wondered if there was still a chance. The anger that he felt towards Bittial and the entire situation settled to the sidelines as Sylvester thought quickly about a plan. He stood and looked in the distance. Dermy and Terry were approaching. Vest was with Cherry, under Jack’s canopy. “Where’s Tuette?” asked Terry frantically. “She… She…” was all he could utter while pointing down the open well. Both Terry and Dermy’s eyes widened in horror but Sylvester didn’t focus too much on that. Instead, he only saw the nearby swan – selswan? – statues. They had been brought to Life with what Tuette had said were Life Spells and were flapping to keep the floating land mass up in the air. Jack’s roots must be helping tear it all apart. Sylvester didn’t know if he should feel guilty or pleased and decided the aftermath would dictate the sentiment. “I… I need one of the statues!” he cried, spying again the edge of the island. If it was the same distance from this point to the edge of the floating land, chances were good that the river terminated at the same point, if not farther. The only question now was how the river terminated. He looked at Bittial, who was smirking. He felt like kicking the man in the face again but remembered the power he had demonstrated earlier when the king had tried. Instead, he leaned down and grabbed the short rider by his wrists, careful of the harmful fabrics that he impossibly wore against his bare flesh. “The river, little man. Below!” he bellowed, not intending to shout directly into Bittial’s face but also finding he couldn’t help it. He saw a few instances of spittle land on the other man’s eye lids and cheek. “Where does it end? How does it end?” Bittial only cracked a smile and tried to wiggle his hands free. The flesh, slick with grease or oil, did counter the grip somewhat but Sylvester was determined and only tightened his own hold and stopped the motion soon enough. Terry and Dermy were still standing in place, staring at the well, at the bucket that Tuette had kicked though Sylvester grimly hoped it was only a literal motion and not something metaphorical or prophetic. Bittial finally answered, realizing he had no power in his current position. “The river, lo, be endin’ with a waterfall.” He licked his lips. “Big waterfall.” He then began to chuckle and Sylvester dropped him, stood up, and grabbed Terry’s sword in one smooth motion, starting a dead run towards the nearest Life Spelled-statue. Terry and Dermy followed him, drawn out of their daze by the king’s movements. “Sir, my sword!” Three riders were gathered around the selswan statue, intentionally keeping it agitated with sticks so it would keep flapping while chained to the pedestal. It’s a crude but effective way to keep the island stable, I have to admit. But he didn’t need the statue to be riled up: he needed to ride it. None of the real selswans were nearby, unfortunately. Wielding the sword ungainly, he shouted for the riders to leave the statue alone. They attempted to explain what was already obvious, but he quieted them with shallow swipes with the sword. The statue refused to calm down but it did finally land. Throwing the sword back to Terry, the Gousherall caught it expertly. “When I get on the bird, cut the chains!” Terry looked perplexed. “But, sir! My blade will shatter!” Looking at the chain, Sylvester noticed that it did seem fairly resilient to such an attack. The selswan was quieting further now, as if anticipating a mount. How to break a chain this thick? He was at a loss. The desperation of the situation spoke to him as he remembered the methods used by the riders below. “Dermy, what do these people use to solidify their… their… what are—“ “The buoys!” exclaimed Terry. “Tuette said they were marked with Sealant Spells!” “Yes! Dermy, can you do one or more on his sword? Jus’ to firm it up for a break in the chain?” Dermy looked pointedly nervous, a motion carried through the disguise easily enough. Finally, he said, “Aya, Kingasir. I can b’ doin’ it, oh!” Getting an inkstem from his rucksack, Dermy and Terry went to one of the riders with fresh wounds so they could use his blood to make the markings while Sylvester mounted the selswan as best he could, reminding himself that it had to be as simple as riding the seleagles, if not easier. These are much larger birds. And they have saddles. The fact that it was a statue didn’t even register with the king as the stony feathers were relatively soft. Not quite like the down-stuffed pillows back home, but manageable. In no time at all, Terry and Dermy had returned and Terry actually cut through the chain with four grunt-accompanied strokes. The clangs made the selswan mire about nervously, but it knew it was free as the taut chain wasn’t putting any pressure on the leg. “Bird, please. Take me below. Down that well opening,” he said while pointing, knowing that he was being clearly understood as he was dealing with a creature that had a humanistic range of intelligence. At least, I hope so. The bird partially turned its head back to look at the king. “And whoze you be?” Sylvester straightened up in his saddle. “I am the king of this land, and your current master. That is, until you go back to wherever you go after you die.” He cleared his throat as the thoughts came easy enough. “So, since you don’t have long to live anyway, what say you don’t cause me any problems and you do what I ask. Another life is at stake.” The selswan-statute seemed to consider and then it let out a cringing honk. “Then we’re off!” It looked at the riders below who had been watching to whole situation in silence. “Out of ma way, riding baztards! Bird on a mizzion!” He ducked his head at them, either trying to snap at the men for real or simply just scaring them. Sylvester couldn’t tell. But in no time, the bird was in the air, circling and gaining speed in the opposite direction, which temporarily dismayed Sylvester. Patting the flank of the bird, Sylvester pointed back towards the well. The selswan only nodded its head, which was stretched much further out than the seleagle’s had been, meaning if the bird ever said anything, Sylvester might not hear it. Is this why the riders and selswans don’t get along? Because of poor communication while in flight? Possibly. But the selswan-statue did wheel about and finally dove through the well at an unreasonably high velocity, fitting improbably if only because it had pulled its wings in as tight as possible. Sylvester had actually wondered if the bird would be able to do it and even thought to ask if an over-the-edge approach would’ve been better. But the shallow chasm was the most direct method, for sure. Now they just had to catch up to Tuette. If she had even fallen into the river. * ~ * ~ * The stony interpretation of the selswan between his legs was somewhat soft but surprisingly graceful. He understood that it enveloped the spirit of a dead animal which supplied for its ability but he had not expected the full range of the creature’s spirit to translate equally. The frogs he had witnessed just the day before – That was only yesterday? – had displayed little personality. Sylvester held on for dear life as the statue descended into the hole Tuette had fallen through to the gaseous island below. The smells were not as noticeable and the king only assumed it was either because he was used to it or he was traveling so swiftly that the awful vapors couldn’t find purchase inside his nostrils. The selswan honked, slowed the fall and reoriented itself to glide almost effortlessly forward with its wings extended full. It was very taxing to remain atop the creature, despite the saddle, but Sylvester knew that the alternative simply wasn’t acceptable. The pair pressed onward, flapping and moving about in the dull gloom. The buoys overhead reflected little light but Sylvester did spy a few riders quickly repositioning some of the sealed plants beneath the area behind them where Jack was. Whatever they lack as civilized people, they certainly are efficient when it comes to survival. Focusing on the river, Sylvester saw a light in the distance that revealed the already-known waterfall at the end of the precariously wide and rapid-moving river, of which the selswan was gliding over, flapping every few moments. Sylvester imagined the vican gas helped the swan with more gliding and less exertion, a relief because he was worried he would weight too much initially. It was a worry that had manifested well after considering the actions it took to save Tuette. Saving Tuette. He knew that’s what he was doing but he felt so foolish. What chance do I have? Sylvester knew he could only try at least but somehow, he felt like he knew he would succeed. If he said it aloud, would it be true, as if he had been put under a Curse of Truth as Terry had been? Pondering on that notion with the wind whipping past him, causing him to squint – the riders almost always squinted – he felt foolish enough for thinking it and more foolish still for the possible truth that rested on tongue’s tip. Sylvester said nothing, knowing it probably wouldn’t do any good. Even though he was taking stock of the scenery and the river below, in his mind’s eye, Sylvester saw only his recurring nightmare: being swarmed by dead kings, including his own father, being dragged to the edge of the cliff, forced over, and what it felt like to watch the sea and rock shelf come rushing up… He shook his head, determined more than ever to not let that vision come to pass, for himself or anyone else. And I will. If I can help it. Sylvester wrapped his arm more firmly around the neck and patted the bird, requesting it to move lower. The living statue didn’t want to obey but the king was persistent. Up ahead, a splashing sound was evident apart from the symphonious gurgles and crests that had begun to hammer his ears. It has to be Tuette. He looked forward, ever so thankful the sun wasn’t setting. A silhouette broke from the water’s surface, distinctive with the brighter skyline. It was an arm, upraised. It was so close but the water’s edge seemed closer still than the selswan hoped to be. Sylvester kicked his heels into the bird, garnering a defiant squawk but an equally obedient boost in speed. He didn’t want to think how a swan of stone could feel the pain in order to travel faster. He only wanted to reach Tuette. With the arm tightening still, the selswan lowered to where Sylvester needed it; the wingtips dipped beneath the surface for a second and Sylvester marveled at how quickly the water was moving. Briefly, Sylvester looked ahead to see if anything would obstruct the bird, such as a rocky outcrop, but saw nothing. Tuette’s arm went below the surface and her head came up, gasping for air. Sylvester thought he had heard a cry for help or just a cry in general but he wasn’t sure; again, the caverns were loud this close to the water’s surface. She went under again. Nothing came back up. Panic gripped his gut and Sylvester felt himself biting into his lower lip. The horrendous vision sprang forward again but he could only imagine it through Tuette’s eyes; his own were welling up with tears. The swan honked but he kept his arm tight around the neck and lowered his other arm over the side, repositioning his legs as subtly as possible in order to stay atop the riding beast. The flapping wing chafed slightly against his underarm but he didn’t care: this had to be done. His hand broke the water’s surface, sending a shot of iciness up into his very chest. He had to catch his breath and nearly lost his grip. The swan seemed to sense this and dipped to the right, soaking the tip of that wing briefly but allowing Sylvester to rebalance himself in the process and he muttered a blessing or a thanks, either of which sufficed in his own opinion. He looked up again, his face closer to the water, his sight obstructed by higher waves and Tuette’s own newly-upraised hand, splayed as if she were reaching for phantom rescuers. The chill left his heart as blood almost boiled in his head. He shut his eyes then, clenched tightly enough to block out even the brightly lit opening that they were now so close to. A shout was heard, prolonged and guttural. It was a moment before he realized it was himself. He took a deep gasp of air, settling it warmly inside himself and everything became crystal in the light that bled into the cavern. The waterfall’s gurgled mists cast rainbows upon Tuette as he could see her clearly now: her face was torn by surprise and fear. The open gulf outside and in the distance was peaceful, as if inviting Tuette to live there with a sound mind for the rest of her long days. The selswan’s stony exterior looked more porous than ever. How is such a feat accomplished? She went under again and Sylvester leaned almost completely away from the swan, grasping the lithe but stiff neck with his left hand, keeping stationed with only his lower legs gripping the saddle, and plunging his whole arm and part of his shoulder into the frigidly liquid conveyor, roughly where he could only assume that Tuette might be. Nothing was grasped. The misty edge was upon them and in no time, beneath them, looking hazy as if it wasn’t truly defined and sounding especially loud as the water broke up and plummeted to a larger body of itself. The selswan glided with the fall as if it were an aerial extension of the watery beast. The rocks far below were seen then, at least five hundred meters and looking most sinister. Sylvester thought he saw a grinning face amongst them with a depreciated crown to make the sight most perfectly imperfect. This isn’t happening! I have to save her! The vastness of the rescue nearly crushed his spirit and he felt to withdraw into himself as the cause was definitely lost— A clutching hand, firm but chilled! Suddenly, a grip had taken his outstretched arm in such a fashion that he nearly tumbled. The rocks had almost distracted him from his goal but the firm grasp brought it back: Tuette had finally grabbed Sylvester! He urged the swan to pull up and away, which it did easily enough. Tuette, hanging below, soaked and shaking, clung with both hands to Sylvester’s own nearly numb arm. He wondered how much longer it would have been before he lost any feeling and, if that had happened, if he would have even felt Tuette grip him in hopes of being saved. Letting her dangle, he felt himself slipping again. The selswan was a smart stone though. It readjusted once again, turning almost completely on its side as Sylvester took the time to reaffirm his stance atop the firm flyer. The onrushing wind was painful against his wet limb, especially in the shadows of the floating island. He could only imagine the discomfort Tuette was feeling. But she was alive. Looking back at the craggy point where the waters from the underground river joined the gulf, Sylvester saw how he had abated the vision of his nightmare. Now they just had to land. And maybe even save the kingdom. * ~ * ~ * Landing had been easy enough. The only thing that really caused a problem was Tuette’s Curse. Once they came up over the edge of Vican Village, the sun hit her and he very nearly dropped her when the mass of swan-shaped hair pushed against her arm, upraised as it was to keep a grip on him. But she repositioned and in no time, they had landed near the clearly defined marks of Jack’s area. Whereas that bastard Bittial had guffawed at Tuette’s Curse, the others were merely stunned. In broad daylight, with no cloud cover in sight, she couldn’t readily hide from it now. She looked like she wanted to though which is why she was quick to fall under the shade provided by Jack’s treetops. From the protective area of Jack, Sylvester called out to the people of Vican Village while keeping a firm clasp on Perryta Kilameen, the very man that had sentenced Sylvester to death a short while ago. “It is true, villagers, that I am not Cursed. By my companion, Miss Tuette, here, is. And it’s nothing to fear.” “To col it is!” called one of the younger riders. “We canna be breedin’ ou’selves wit’ Cursed folk, ip!” “Nonetheless!” shouted Kilameen, much to Sylvester’s surprise. “We canna be keepin’ an’ o’ these outsiders!” This drew a few groans from the crowd as they gestured towards Cherry in rather appalling ways. “They all be on a mission for ever’one, us ‘cluded. Stoppin’ a bigger Curse.” Sylvester recalled that they had told their initial captors but even now, the majority looked appalled to be the subject of some insidious Curse, whatever it may be. He personally didn’t understand the stigma associated with such things, but then immediately remembered his thoughts when Eafa had died. He had made the prejudicial remark regarding how only a Cursed person could’ve done such a thing as kill his splint. Feeling slightly shamed, he looked at Tuette as she continued to gaze out at the small crowd that had gathered to inquire about the fate of them all as prospective breeders. Under Jack’s canopy, her Curse wasn’t apparent and her hair, exceedingly long, was pulled back. Usually, the hood kept the sides of her head covered but now, with no articles of clothing to protect her head from the sun, her features were exposed. And Sylvester noted how… well, he wasn’t sure the term beautiful applied, but she was definitely not a plain-looking girl, like Cherry. The blond hair, still wet, looked slimming and contrasted oddly against her pale skin. Her cheeks were red though, flush with embarrassment. She obviously didn’t like being a focal point, much as she currently was. Sylvester realized they had that much in common at least and he then thought of how dangerous her rescue had been, especially regarding the Magik of the Life Spell, which he knew nothing about. Suppose the Magik had worn off beneath the floating village? Or I had fallen, seeing as how I’ve nver ridden a selswan before? But he also recognized that it had been a necessary act. Tuette had been in need of rescuing. Terry and Dermy had been unable to do anything, frozen and dumbfound as they had been. And Vest and Cherry had been aiding Jack. So, logically, he had done what no one else could in that moment of desperation. Anyone would’ve done it, had they been given the proper opportunity. In time, Kilameen announced that they would provide a station of rest for the travelers. Sylvester didn’t wholly trust those under the perryta and insisted that they remain within the confines of Jack’s territory. Jack had been obliging enough, providing hammocks that he conjured to hang between the three trees. He also dimmed the light, providing the illusion of night and Sylvester found that he truly was exhausted. He also recognized that they had only a few hours before they had to depart for Boost by whatever means possible. Would they provide selswans? Or even statues of selswans? No, the creatures might never return, judging by how these humans treat the birds. If that’s the case, what’s keeping the mounts from not leaving this moment? Looking around, he realized that none of the living selswans were near and that they truly might’ve used the time of commotion to escape Vican Village. In thinking about it while atop his hammock, he dozed. It could’ve only been for a few moments because he felt like he had been awakened by a now-dry Tuette in that short span of time. She was smiling largely. He sat up and nearly fell out of the hammock. She steadied him with a hand on his shoulder and when he got out of the hammock, he saw a little girl of probably ten or twelve years standing before him as well. Is she a villager? If so, why has Jack let her… Jack popped into existence right next to the girl, his face beaming pride as he settled an arm around the girl’s shoulder. “This is ma Joy, king!” “Your…” he started, and then the implications settled in as he remembered that Jack had sired a World Spirit named Joy. “Your daughter?’ Jack nodded quickly, comically. “But… but how? Did she escape Count Roost?” He then felt foolish for asking such a question because how was a plant to escape the clutches of a madman? Jack did shake his head, ignoring the oddity of the question. “Naw, naw! Yer new friend here,” he said while pointing to Cherry. He can see her? He asked. Jack looked puzzled. “O’ course I see her!” It certainly didn’t make sense to Sylvester, especially since Jack’s mere existence had to be based on something akin to Magik. He could only think of what Perryta Fastaire had said about both Miskel Sociana and Cherry Tee not being visible on his special Seeing Stones, or whatever he had called them. Sylvester looked at Tuette. “He can see her because he was once a real person. It’s not Magik that binds him to this world. It’s something else.” That made even less sense but the king had to accept it. What else can I do? “But that’s not the big news! Joy here has shown me where she’s being held!” “Shown? Shown how? How is she even here, anyway?” Tuette looked like she had rolled her eyes, but Sylvester still had some sleep in his own and wasn’t certain. Tuette explained rather quickly: Spores from the plant that Joy was anchored to were on the air currents that floated up to Vican Village. Once they crossed through Jack’s domain, he instantly recognized their origins as his daughter’s. He could communicate with her, but only minutely. It was Cherry’s work with the spores that had brought Joy to a greater size of interaction. Looking behind him, he finally saw that a large stalk of some kind had taken root. It bulged spherically in the center and then again halfway between the center and the bud at the top though in a smaller fashion. Inside those bulges where vertical pockets that held green pits, darker in color than the stalk itself. The bud was on the verge of blooming and Sylvester could also see that the roots extended for a distance, some even leaving the ground to entwine one of the mighty oak trees. Turning back, he looked at Joy more closely. She seemed very happy and Sylvester wondered if the same image was somehow haunting a stalk in the presence of Count Roost. “She’s not,” Tuette explained. “The World Spirits can have multiple environs due to situations like this one, but they can only haunt one at a time.” “Then… how did she show you anything?” Tuette smiled brightly then. “Because she can also draw something from one environ to another! Jack could too, if we needed anything from his forest…” His heart beat boldly then. “So she can take us directly to Count Roost?” “No, no, not like that. Only an image, a picture. Like with the Reseeing Stones.” Disappointed, Sylvester said, “What good is that?” It had seemed like a hurtful question but he didn’t understand the usefulness of the situation when they had to get to Boost relatively soon. “Because Joy was able to show me Roost’s workshop. And you know what he has?” “I can’t imagine.” “He has my old master’s tome! The one with all of his Curses and such!” “The one you said that Roost stole while killing your teacher?” Tuette nodded. “The teacher that you said Cursed you?” She nodded, but stopped halfway, realizing that her truth had been figured out, that she couldn’t be Cursed if the person who Cursed her was dead. Tuette looked into Sylvester’s eyes and her face flushed while her smile faltered. He hadn’t intended to bring her attitude down, but now was as good as time as any to root out why exactly she had persuaded them all that going after the count was the best choice as, indeed, it was. Especially since Roost is trying to block our means of Freezing chicken flocks. “I can explain.” Sylvester nodded. “But not now. Roost has the tome. With Joy’s help, I was able to read it.” “Wait, wait. If Joy is already on Boost,” he began while looking at the little girl, “why doesn’t she take care of Count Roost?” Joy then looked shamed. Tuette looked appalled that Sylvester would even suggest such a thing and then realized his error: Joy was literally a young child, as represented by the image of her Spirit. She should be the very last person who could commit such a necessary act. But, as Joy explained, that wasn’t why she looked ashamed. “I can’t hold things too good. In my areas.” “What’s that mean?” he asked, turning to Jack. Jack himself looked a little upset that Sylvester had asked what he had but also recognized the severity of the situation and pushed through his personal feelings. “Physical interaction takes time for us World Spirits to master. Especially in new areas. Only with concentrating, or during intense moments, can someone as young as my Joy properly affect her environ.” “He’s right,” chimed Tuette. “I had to help her concentrate just to turn the pages in the tome. But it was worth it!” Tuette went on to explain that the tome contained a section on World Magiks and that with them, they could cordon an area of the Mortal Realm and request the presence of an Immortal figure, namely one of two gods. The first, Valtos, Tuette had mentioned in passing, but the other was Dorothy and it took some explaining for Sylvester to understand who she was. “She’s the Elder God, the oldest of them all.” “All?” “There are seventeen Primaries. Sixteen are like Valtos, with their own Mortal and Immortal Realms. Dorothy governs the thread that binds yet separates the sixteen realities.” Shaking his head, Sylvester found he still didn’t understand the relevance. “With the physical realm sectioned off as an offering to either god, they’ll take back anything we say is theirs. Including Count Roost!” Sylvester stood in silence, letting the idea soak in. With an aspect of Magik simply called World Magik, we can sacrifice an area of land, include Roost in the package, and be done with the quest. After all, no count means no Curse. He repeated as he understood it back to Tuette. She nodded, seemingly thankful that he had understood so quickly, even though he felt like he truly hadn’t. “Why not give it up to Valtos then? Or one of the other gods?” “Because none of the other Primaries can cross into Valtos’ realm. Only Dorothy, because she created the Barriers in the first place.” The first thought that popped up then was how anyone could know any of this. It obviously required divine intervention for such scripture to be taken as fact. It sounded like what Tuette had explained regarding her faith more than anything. Is her faith truly going to save us all? Her buzz of excitement certainly seemed to suggest that it was a plan foolproof enough to carry out, at least. “The only thing we need is a Corn Circle, around the area that we want to offer up to Dorothy. We can’t give it to Valtos because he can only deposit it in the Immortal Realm of Valent.” “And where’s that?” asked Sylvester, noting for the first time that the Gousheralls, Cherry, and Dermy weren’t with the rest in the protections of Jack’s area. Does she not realize their absence because of her excitement? “Um, well, that’s not known for certain. Some believe you can travel high enough to get there. Others think that it’s merely another aspect of this Realm, only as perceived by Immortals…” “Okay, okay, it’s unknown. But why her and not him?” “Because he governs the forces of this world. Dorothy exists wholly outside of it. It’s the only guarantee that the Curse will be broken. If Roost’s not here, it’ll be like he was killed. Or ‘taken care of’, as you like to put it.” Is she jibing me for my use of that phrase? What does it matter how I say it? Dead is dead. But with her method, my conscience is less burdened. He realized again that he might not have truly possessed the courage to go through with it. Even just telling one of the Gousheralls to do the deed seemed too reprehensible, indeed. Yes, this seems like a much better solution. But a Corn Circle? Sylvester had heard of corn but had never seen any. It was a crop. Have I seen some at the base of Mount Reign, roughly one week ago? Thinking back on that day when he had first learned of shrent and actually been introduced to Tuette in the twilight hours on the same date, he felt like it was a whole lifetime ago. Realizing he was too young to live whole lives a week at a time, Sylvester made a silent promise to allow himself time to rest. Thinking about Tuette and how she had been burdened even longer, if her Curse was taken into account, she might also need an assigned time of relaxation. Perhaps a visit to Mount Reign, where she can be pampered by people like Penson? That seems very appropriate, indeed. Again, he found himself thinking beyond the immediate future and realized that he still wasn’t certain about handling Count Roost. Suppose the Corn Circle doesn’t work? Or suppose the count uses a malignant form of Magik against us in the last instant, save myself? Or what if a third Artificial pops up? Looking around, Sylvester asked himself whether one could already be present. If so, it’s more likely that Tuette is in danger, not me. The fly had buzzed words relating to the situation being a trap – The whole situation? – but, as she had pointed out, the king was the target. Or maybe not the king, but something he could offer to a count the likes of Roost. But what? If Count Roost knew how poor a king I really am, he might’ve thought twice before conscripting me into this elaborate scheme of events. And what a scheme it was turning out to be! The varied types of beings he had encountered were truly memorable. He was thankful for the experience, to say the least, even if they had been borne of ill intentions. If my kingstone had been operable, would it have portrayed such bouts of knowledge already? Sylvester silently snorted, thinking that if the kingstone had been working in the first place, the Malforcrent wouldn’t have been instilled. If they hadn’t been present, he would be a moderately successful king and if Count Roost had challenged the kingdom as he was now doing, Sylvester would’ve done the smart thing and sent an experienced sojourner to dispense of the count’s wily ways. Diverting his attention back to Tuette, he realized that he had left her dangling while his thoughts had found a tangent avenue. His face warmed with embarrassment as he finally said “If this Corn Circle will truly work, we should do it. But where do we get the corn? And what if it doesn’t work? What should be our backup plan?” Tuette’s shoulders fell with her sigh. “You don’t think the Circle will work? That Dorothy won’t show up and take Roost away?” “It’s not that. I just think a secondary plan of action would be best.” He paused, letting that soak into her ears, her head energies. “Don’t you agree?” She huffed, but only slightly. He could tell that his lack of faith in what could only be described as her faith upset her a little but he wanted to think practically, if only for a change. “Well, your Guards can always dispatch of the count if my idea doesn’t work. And as for the corn, Dermy and the others are sifting through the different feed products available to the selswans to see if some corn bits can be found. With just one kernel, Cherry should be able to fashion a new stalk and a host of new kernels.” Tuette became silent then, looking contemplative. “Everything about her seems strangely coincidental.” Sylvester frowned and asked what she meant. “It’s just, uh, she has a unique gift and situation, the likes of which I’ve never encountered. But the people of Ac have seen two such cases in almost as many years.” “It’s not just a blockage of some kind, like with Ed?” Tuette shook her head, looking strained as if she had already contemplated too much on this subject. “No, blockages are kind of inspired by Magik. There are Spells and Stones that can do the same stuff, but only against specifics, as modeled after known types of energy blockages. Cherry is blocked by all Magik. And yet!” she gasped, her speech having quickened and forcing her to draw deeper breaths. “And yet, she can produce such viable results that center around one phrase, a Key Phrase. And it’s not focused on a single kind of seed or plant but any plant.” Tuette bit her lip, her gaze losing focus. “I wonder…” After several moments, Sylvester finally felt a tinge of impatience and said, “You wonder… what, Tuette?” She found his eyes, hers having dulled over for a moment. “Umm, I was just thinking.” She paused again but not as long. “Maybe Cherry can affect more than just seeds. Because plants aren’t the only things with seeds. And seeds don’t only belong to…” “What’re you talking about? Seeds and plants are… like fig pups and figs! One… begets the other, or something.” She’s sounding a little crazed. Has the exposure of her Curse, her outing, taxed her thinking process? He didn’t understand the complexities of Cherry’s situation but her Key Phrase, as exposed by Terry and already known by Cherry, explained her gift. Again, his thoughts shifted as he pondered on the very means of Cherry’s Key Phrase being exposed. Dermy had said that the Gousherall was under a Curse of Truth when he said it, seemingly against his will. He had answered “I don’t know” to several questions because he truly hadn’t known their answers. But he had been able to spout the Key Phrase without flaw. Des the Curse of Truth reveal the truth as known by the Cursed individual, by those nearby, or by anyone in general? It couldn’t be the third option, as someone in the world or even the kingdom would know one or more of the questions that went unanswered. So maybe it was a proximity issue. Someone near Terry had known the truth and he had spouted it, as made possible only with Tuette’s Curse, forced upon him as it was. That could be the only explanation, unless Terry was somehow connected with the means for which Cherry Tee was significantly different from the rest. That made him pause on the issue of why Dermy didn’t seem to trust the Gousheralls but he let it slide away to focus around the other topic. As far as he knew, Sylvester himself could cast any Spell or Charm as long as he knew how. But Cherry couldn’t. What about the Potes that Tuette talks about? She carried a Freezing Pote, the very one that she nearly Froze Reefetta’s chicken flock with. If Cherry casts the vial, will a Freezing action take place? Though he was doubtful, he assumed the answer was yes in that the Pote would Freeze. Tuette had explained that a specific process went into crafting a Pote. Had Cherry taken part in that, he would’ve doubted the validity of any such liquid. But once the product was finished, contact was the final act and not some uttered incantation. What stops a Freezing Pote from chilling the vial that holds it? Is the vial included in the process of Pote-making, along with the stopper? It seemed like an important issue, unless glass couldn’t be affected by the inherent powers of Potes. A chill ran down Sylvester’s spine in such a defining moment that he feared that Tuette’s Freezing Pote had been poured upon his back. He realized that it was his conflagration of thoughts and memories that brought up a very bold and disturbing truth. Tuette tried Freezing the chickens. At the time, she had claimed that the act was harmless in that it would’ve preserved the very act of Freezing for the king personally. But now he knew she was Cursed, just as his kingdom was soon to be Cursed. Being the figurehead of Decennia, he had to perform the Curse Reverse that would stop the Magik means of removing Decennian thumbs. Her being Cursed meant that she also had a Reverse to perform. And the Magik employed against the king and his citizens was directly stemmed from Magik that her Cursing master had perforated. As the ideas coalesced, he could only focus on one defining question. Is Tuette’s Curse removed by the same actions that I too need to perform in order to save my kingdom and secure my title as the nation’s crown? Looking at Jack and Joy, Sylvester knew he couldn’t ask the question presently, but he would ask. It would reveal her true intentions, to say the least. If they were actively going after Count Roost rather than securing a rogue flock of chickens, mostly on her suggestions, that would mean she was doing this not for the kingdom, but because she didn’t want to waste her precious Pote for the sake of the greater good, that being the whole of the country. She will be immune from such a Curse as Roost’s though! Why continue to deceive us about her actions? Or why even come along with us at all? Has she been that desperate? Thinking back on her broken face during the moment her dread Curse made itself apparent, Sylvester realized that she was fairly desperate. But as long as she was Cursed, she would be spared of the broader menace laid out by the count. Is she waiting for me to fail, only to return to the throne thumbless? As he understood Magik – which, admittedly, he didn’t understand much at all – the Curse of the Thumb could manifest and then she might perform her Reverse by Freezing chickens, freeing herself, but everyone else would be marred in a significantly more permanent manner. In that situation, she’d be free of her embarrassing Curse but then be ousted as a selfish wench. So, in fact, she does need me to succeed, if only to insure that her own Curse is worth Reversing. He hated thinking such devious thoughts about anyone, especially Tuette. She had been, on average, extremely helpful to the king and his men. She had her distempered moments, to be certain, but Sylvester now understand, at least partly, why she was so aggrieved in general; she was Cursed and she couldn’t do anything about it just yet. Sylvester suddenly felt himself feeling very sorry for Tuette, knowing that she probably wouldn’t like such thoughts being centered upon her. Deciding to keep his pity to himself, he said, “So, let’s go and find the others. Dermy probably has a kernel now.” Tuette, still looking flustered over his dismissal of her thoughts regarding the further possibilities beset by Cherry Tee, finally nodded agreement. Jack piped in then, forgetting – or pretending to forget, at least – that the king had just suggested his only daughter become a killer, and said “Good luck. Kernels aren’t as rare as chicks, but other’n birds like to eat ‘em so ya be careful an’ such!” Nodding, Tuette gave her thanks to both Joy and her father, reminding the young World Spirit that concentration was key when interaction was desired. Joy, in looking at her father, beamed happiness at being reunited with the masculine World Spirit but then something else struck Sylvester. Joy had just lost her mother, and Jack, his wife of sorts. And this moment had been rather defining for them both as they not only got to speak but see each other and interact in ways they might’ve not thought probable or even possible. All thanks to Cherry Tee. The feats she is able to perform seem to extend beyond that of her simple yet powerful gift. Reuniting a family was something very touching… and Sylvester realized that the incident made him feel hollow, as if the genuflection didn’t come together for him. Suddenly, he realized that while he knew he was bore of a man and a woman, by King Gould and… and some female, he would probably never experience a moment as similar as Jack and Joy. And with that realization, he felt very sad; he hadn’t known up until that moment how much the predetermined path of each king actually aimed to emotionally inhibit them to the point that they might even be akin to Artificials. It was a sobering thought, made more chilling by how much it almost rang true. Artificials, as he knew, were comprised of whatever memories or thoughts were put into them. Each king was, in theory, supposed to receive preconceived thoughts and notions and might, therefore, never conjure up an original thought. The situation he was in, that his father had been in, was both a blessing and a type of Curse. It might serve to inject a dose of humanity into the king in a time when the kingdom was waning in civil practice, but the lapsed effect of the kingstone also turned Sylvester into a kind of child, he knew, taking baby steps in a world he might otherwise already be very familiar with. What kind of person would I be if I had received the memories of my father, my grandfather, my entire masculine line of familial blood? Sylvester shook his head, letting those particularly depressing thoughts sift into not-so-present modes of thinking and attempted to bring to the surface ideas on how to remain positive about what they were intending to do with Count Roost. And, more immediately, how they were to get to the count in the first place. * ~ * ~ * According to Tuette’s idea, they might not even have to encounter the tyrant. Of course, a large Corn Circle being planted around someone’s property might draw their attention. Thankfully, Cherry’s gift is immediate. But how far apart do the stalks have to be? How large is the area we intend to offer Dorothy? Why not designate a small area for the Elder God? For one thing, she might not like just receiving a cranky count, Sylvester thought with a dire smirk. And another thing, I’m not sure if one other person, the invoker or emitter of phrase or whatever, if he or she has to also be in the Corn Circle. Or maybe they merely had to construct the Circle and Dorothy will automatically recognize the offering as her own to pick and choose from? Of course, if she could literally “pick and choose”, then she truly might not take Roost with her, leaving the possibility of blood on his hands. Blood on my hands? He knew he could swing no such blade but he couldn’t ignore the fact that giving the order to kill, especially someone in a position like his, was just as bad as making the killing blow himself. And he hated that, despite the fact that the responsibility of his office dictated it. What kind of man am I if I can give the order to kill but not be willing to kill for myself? Thinking such a thought, he felt further shame. Yes, I should be willing to at least attempt mastery of some weapon or other. Back at Majramdic, he was slated to learn proper fencing and saber techniques, but only during the latter years of his schooling. King Gould’s death insured that he was presently blind to any blade’s full potential. What, then, inspired me to draw Terry’s blade on not one but two occasions? He recalled the first instance when he had aimed to teach Tuette a now-regretted lesson; regretted not because of the example taught but of the method used to inflict it. Namely, the unnecessary punishment he had invoked. But the situation, only hours before, where Tuette had almost fallen towards certain doom had also inspired him to draw on the power of the sword if only by unconscious effort. Is that the manner in which my kingstone will operate? Does it only work on the subconscious plane of thinking, drawing on latent sword techniques and moments of heroism as experienced by my forbearers? He had been assured, time and again, that knowledge would be fully available and that the transition from mere offspring to imposing king was immediately perceived so why should the kingstone adopt a more subtle state of experience-dispersion? As he thought about it, he became angry because now he wasn’t certain of his motives, be they genuine idea or some stagnant memory of braveries performed maybe hundreds of years ago. Yes, he wondered if he might ever feel secure with the notion over his ideas being truly his or someone else’s. Did all the kings of the past wonder that? Probably. He felt assured by the thought somehow, wondering why it had never cropped up before as it helped him feel more secured with is position and situation. With Tuette acting as an immediate guide, she led them to the selswan feeding area with the pair arriving unmolested. It seemed that the villagers, having accepted that the travelers were not meant to remain for an unhealthy length of time, went about their usual business. That didn’t stop them from gawking at the ladies though, an act that actually sent an odd sensation through the king. Tuette, having been given a new yet harmless wrap for her hair, walked about with more confidence, ignoring the gawkers. The selswans were not feeding since most of them were below the island, he remembered. Probably to help add more buoys beneath Jack’s area of influence. The ones that were there looked on and Sylvester remembered that they could talk but chose not to for reasons evidenced by the selswan that had had its tongue torn out. Such a brutal an unseemly form of punishment thought Sylvester as he actually became a little uneasy in thinking about the physical act of removing a tongue. And the selswans harbor human-based spirits. Will they be affected by the Curse of the Thumb? Back at Mount Reign, the Malforcrent – Was it Dothel or Trisden? – had stated that a piece from a Curse target was taken and combined with a piece of the Cursed caster and that usually hair bits from each were used. Could a hair bit and feather be used? And if so, did selswans have thumbs or would they loose a wingtip or a piece of webbing? “Tuette,” he started just before joining the others. “Can these ani—Can these selanimals be Cursed?” Tuette actually frowned before looking at Sylvester and saying, “Ya know, I don’t know. I’ve never thought about it. Maybe I’ll try it sometime.” She then flashed a small smile that made Sylvester feel glad to have asked the question. Approaching them, Dermy had several small mounds of dusty bits around him, each of similar color and comprised of similar qualities. Most were dried vegetable or simple plant bits and the king merely assumed that the birds might want more than just dried and dusty bits of food. I might not want eat it so why did the people of Vican Village think their mounts would? “Any corn, Dermy?” The farmer shook his head, licking his lower lip in the process. “Nah bein’ co’n inna fee’ li’e ‘is, oh. Bein’ cheap an’ such.” Sylvester didn’t understand and not just because of Dermy’s speech patterns. He asked Tuette to clarify while Vest handed another dirty pile of feed to the specialist. “He means that these villagers don’t care what their mounts eat as long as it’s enough to get them in the air and back. Corn isn’t easy to come by because it needs a decent amount of water to grow.” She looked around, indicating the dry surroundings. As if on cue, a small dust cloud puffed at behest of a stray wind while Sylvester noticed for the first time that the surface of Vican Village was made mostly of small buildings, spaced so far apart that they might as well be isolated. “Up here, they don’t grow anything. They must fly to another island for their feed.” A selswan ducked her head. “That be right, malady.” Malady? Tuette even looked perplexed by the bird’s usage of the word. “What… Do you mean milady?” The selswan ducked her head once again, looking chagrinned, if that was truly possible. “Apple-logies, mill-lady.” Sylvester felt his face contort again but realized this selswan obviously had some type of speech impediment. That or she had spent too much time around the villagers. “Tis tooth that we ess forked to be travestying to Siale. The felk there exchange our masteries wares for feetin’ an’ the licks.” “The licks?” asked the king. “The likes,” answered Tuette, understanding readily. Perhaps her swan-styled Curse helps her more readily understand this type of avian? He thought to ask but realized that might upset her. “What could these people possibly have that anyone would want to trade for?” The selanimal ducked her head again and did not lift it but spoke more softly. “The eels that our masteries don dull pains bought on by their cloths.” The selswan then twitched as if merely mentioning the painful fabric bought – brought – painful memories, but instead she said, “Why you omens think cloths are appropriate, we zwanz canna overstand.” Assuming that she had intended to say oils rather than eels, Sylvester couldn’t help but notice that she had referred to her species as swans and not selswans. Do these creatures know they are traditionally larger and smarter than their more abundant counterparts? The creature continued though, at Tuette’s request. “Our masteries’ eels yelp the featherless extermities of the omens of Saile. In Saile, loots of crops an’ the licks – lick – likes.” She twitched again and Sylvester wondered if it was a reaction of using the correct term. He also noticed that the twitches caused his heartbeat to quicken though he knew not why. Tuette helped the lady selswan along with her dictation then, obviously beginning to ebb in patience over the bird’s garbled use of language. The selswan, whose name they learned to be Harzenika, explained that the villagers flew to Saile and gave up bits of their oil in return for vaster amounts of feed for the selswans. It didn’t sound like a fair trade to Sylvester but he didn’t claim to understand bartering systems between two towns, or between any towns. But the folk from Saile obviously valued the oil, wherever it came from. Upon being asked, Harzenika explained that the oils were drawn from vivican plants that had been sapped of their gel before maturing, an action that essentially killed the plant. Tuette acted as if that was an extreme measure, especially considering that it was the plants that essentially kept Vican Village afloat. If it crashed, the vivicans would be lost and the villagers would have no way of life beyond the immediate chaos such an incident would construe. Tuette asked many more questions but they bored Sylvester so, instead, he focused on what Cherry was doing. The younger lady – not too much younger, he decided – was sifting through the little piles, actually disturbing very little but just poking her finger into each one as if testing the temperature. “What’re you doing?” he finally asked. The question caused her to stop but she didn’t act startled. Cherry drew her extended arm in and just looked at the pile. “What’s wrong?” “I am just looking at the…” She might’ve gulped. He wasn’t certain. “The death.” Sylvester frowned. “The death? These seeds are dead?” Cherry Tee shook her head. “These are not seeds. They are… a potpourri of dried and dead goods.” She sighed. “Seeds contain the bare essence of life. I can feel it brimming inside, just like when a woman is with child.” The analogy sent a shiver up Sylvester’s spine. Is Tuette’s earlier supposition true, then? Can she charm more than just seeds to reach a state of maturity? “These bits are dead. Still.” She stood up, wiping her hand on her dress. It was truly the most that he had heard her say that didn’t make her sound like she was holding dull thoughts. He was reminded again of her situation regarding the loss of her father and he suddenly felt sympathetic again. But her situation alarmed those of Magik disposition and, with her odd and ominous words, Sylvester began to understand why: here was a young woman who had essentially been turned away from her heritage because of something she couldn’t control. He himself was a little resentful of his own stance and had some idea what Cherry might be feeling, even though the scenarios were largely different. If she decided to use her gift in conjunction with the right plant – and he was certain that there were plants of a lethal nature out there – she might be a dangerous force that could only be quelled by small orbs of questionable origin. And there are others out there like her. Suppose one has suffered more greatly than Cherry? How am Ito protect my citizens from someone like that? The scenes from the Reseeing Stones flashed gruesomely through his head again and he wondered, ever so briefly, where Miskel Sociana was at this moment. No reports of catastrophe had come in… but, then again, none had come from Ac roughly two years ago either. Do Magik folk report such instances to someone else or do they handle it themselves? Thinking through his term as Decennia’s crown, he realized that the Malforcrent only reported on personnel allocations and funding for interest groups and the like. They never reiterated – or felt they needed to reiterate anyway – when something might’ve gone wrong within a particular community. They cared only about their regions. What region is the Seagulf Islands under? Javal’ta and their former tent, Misren OkLat, the fat oaf who had jaggedly informed me and the rest of the advisors that a Curse had been set against the kingdom as a whole. Jaggedly informed, indeed! And then he had lost control of more private functions. A sense of familiarity raked against his mind then and he realized that Misren had been drooling somewhat at that moment in time. He hadn’t seen many adults drool or loose control of their bodies. At least, not until he met Reefetta, and she had been possessed by— Understanding dawned on him and he stood up to stand level with Cherry. He felt dizzy from the experience but also realized he hadn’t eaten much and the day was more than half over. On that day, roughly one week ago, Misren hadn’t eaten anything either. He had merely dribbled and drooled, his speech suffering as a result until… until Dothel op Prissen had interjected, suggesting that the Javal’ta take some water. Sylvester remembered it vividly because it had played like a scene from a play where the actors had gotten the dialogue wrong. Had Dothel used an Artificial on Misren? Is there a way to tell for sure? To be absolutely certain? As if Dermy had been waiting for the moment, he leaped up from his dirty work with the beginnings of a frown, which probably meant he was happy or excited about something. “’ere bein’ one, oh!” Sylvester approached with Cherry in tow. Tuette stopped her talk with Harzenika to see what the farmer had found. The Guards, playing their part, continued paying outward attention to insure no other villagers approached the travelers. In Dermy’s hand, between thumb and forefinger, he held a small, white and yellow object. Is this the desired seed? Dermy said, “It shore bein’, oh!” He quickly stepped forward, limping a little as if his previous position had caused present pain, and put the kernel into Cherry’s hand. Pressing it there, Cherry slowly looked down at it. The hints of a smile might’ve began to form but that was all of the expression that she doled out, along with a soft “It lives”. She then muttered imperceptible words, blew on the kernel, and let it to fall to the ground. Instantly, a stalk climbed out of the ground and Tuette smiled quite broadly while Dermy plucked what he called ears from the stalk. Sylvester felt like asking about a plant that could actually listen to someone but wondered if it wasn’t common enough knowledge in that he would sound like a fool and declined from posing the question. Dermy packed the ears into his rucksack. Tuette did the same. “Don’t we only need one of them?” “Sylvester,” began Tuette. “These are edible as well. We’ll eat them after Count Roost is gone, which I hope is soon because my stomach is beginning to knot itself!” She had described his own hunger pangs and he realized that they might need to eat something before they left Schove. He inquired towards Harzenika about the villagers providing food but all she indicated was the feed that Dermy had been fingering. It wasn’t very appealing. “Well, why can’t we eat these ears right now?” “Ya gotta be boilin’ ‘em up an’ such, Kingasir. They’n be goot ‘ike ‘is fer bir’s an’ such, oh.” Oh. That makes sense, even if the selswans don’t look like they enjoy the feed anymore than I might enjoy eating dirt. But they put up with it for some reason that he was determined not to question as it worked for the citizens of Vican Village. Remembering that the last time he ate was at Ed’s, Sylvester also recalled what Ed had said about the Stones of the Ring on the Seagulf Islands; that one was on Schove and the other was on a different island. What odds dictated that the first Stone we chose would bring us first to Cordia and Cherry, then to Ac and the ashleaf orbs, and then to Schove and the vivican-centered society? What if we had chosen the other Stone outside of Mokel? It all seemed to be a favor of coincidences which was looking to help them terminate their quest most proficiently. They returned to Jack and Joy’s joint-locale but the father-daughter team couldn’t conjure any lasting forms of food. That didn’t make sense to Sylvester because they had all slept on hammocks that felt real enough but had been materialized by Jack’s sway. He explained that it was only because they had remained in his affected area. If he culled into existence some food that didn’t otherwise grow naturally for him, once they left his area, they would feel the pains of hunger once more, possible even more fiercely. Thinking about it, Sylvester realized that such a thing as a World Spirit could truly be as dangerous as someone like Cherry, if improperly motivated by anger. They ended being served more menial amounts of food by the scrimpy perryta. The amount made Sylvester feel bad because these people obviously didn’t have a lot to begin with. Their vivican plants were valuable, to say the least, but it simply took too much time for them to grow into ripened states of usefulness. And they had to use most of the plants to keep their own land afloat. It seemed paradoxical to Sylvester but, again, he didn’t want to make a negative comment. Especially to the people who were willing to feed him anything. Following the abbreviated meal, the six of them were ushered back towards the selswans and ordered to get into the same size nets that had been used to draw them up to the floating island. Sylvester was instantly wary because of the immediate death sentence that Kilameen had instituted. Tuette seemed fine with it and, to prove her goodwill, she insisted Sylvester trip down with her. He was nervous but decided to do it. It might’ve actually mean a sign of her lack of faith, when he thought about it during their silent decent into the musky gloom. If they had still intended on killing Tuette for being Cursed and casting a stigma upon the rest of them, they would most likely never do it with the king at her side. That’s assuming they respect me as this nation’s king. Thinking they did was important in making him feel better about believing that Tuette didn’t trust them rather than the contrary. In less time than it took for them to reach Vican Village, the six were on the shores of Schove below. One of the riders was with them as the rest departed. Sylvester understood that they feared not only Tuette and her Curse but also overexposure to the gases that kept their very homes afloat. Sylvester found it peculiar that they feared their own foundation and maybe didn’t trust it. But they invested a lot of effort in keeping Vican Village afloat. That much was for certain. The rider they met was named Heejak and his mount, he called her Pozinna. That’s not what surprised them though: the people of Vican Village, apparently under the demand of Jack, had allowed the group use of one of the town’s rafts. It was about three meters wide and nine long. What surprised Sylvester the most were the four large hoops on the raft, one in each corner. “Jack says if we be givin’ a raft, he’ll be leavin’ Vica’ Vill, kee.” A pair of honks were heard then and Sylvester saw two mounts return to the group. They were trailing sealed buoys, two each. In little time, the raft’s hoops were secured with the buoy’s trailing ropes. The two of the selswans used their massive webbed feet to keep the raft anchored while Heejak explained. “Our rafts be used to be reachin’ Saile when our birds are busy. Or sick, kee. This’n take you to Boos’ in some time.” “A floating raft?” asked Tuette, sounding incredulous. “Is there some reason we can’t be usin’ – can’t use or borrow some of your selswans? This is—“ “—not bein’ a generosity that we, kee, of Vica’ Vill be required to extend. Bu’ your’n Jack be causin’ pro’lems, kee. An’ said he be leavin’ when you do.” He obviously didn’t understand that Jack couldn’t know for certain if they had truthfully provided assistance. Ot that he wouldn’t willingly offer up that fact. Sylvester hoped no one else would either. But how might Jack leave? Tear up his own roots? Let them tear down his smaller environ? Either would most likely work and Sylvester knew that however Jack and Joy were destroyed in Vican Village, they still existed elsewhere. That still didn’t explain why they wouldn’t let them use their traditional mounts. Sylvester asked. “B’cause our swans know tha’ Boos’ be filled with hunters an’ such, and refuse to help ya.” Is that true? “They be knowin’ that you go there to kill yet another bad ‘uman, kee.” Hmm. That’s true enough and the selswans have no reason to believe otherwise. To try and prove a truer statement would cost time that they truly didn’t have. The sun was already beginning a westerly descent. Judging by the wind, we might make it across to Boost Island before nightfall. When will the Curse take effect? When the full moon comes out or when it reaches its apex? What if the night sky is overcast or e managed to hold ourselves in the Ring of Ten Minus Two? Would we feel the effects of the Curse then? So many questions and not enough time. Without further dialogue, Sylvester climbed onto the raft. The others followed, Tuette lastly, muttering about how it probably wouldn’t be enough time and that they’d all be thumbless by morning. Or, more accurately, all of them would be. She and Cherry were assuredly free of the Curse. That thought hitched inside his head because it only made him question as to why she was accompanying them at all. The first and most obvious answer was to insure that they got the job done. With her Corn Circle method, the job should be quick and clean. But complications always seemed to arise. Tuette might worry about not having enough time but Sylvester worried more that she was focusing on something else. Her or Dermy or one of the Guards. With them all on the raft, the selswans silently let off and used the combined power of their flapping wings to give them a good gust in the proper direction. It was enough movement to make Sylvester a little sick, but it worked. They were, once again, on their way. It felt more real than ever then as Sylvester realized that nothing was for certain in the immediate future. And being Cursed wouldn’t matter if he happened to die by the morbid hand of Roost. |
| Their situation was filled with coincidence and Tuette was becoming unsettled by it. How odd that we not only come across Jack and learn about his situation but then turn around and use his gifts in a most profound manner with a young woman who can’t even be touched by Spells or Curses. Briefly, Tuette imagined not being able to be touched by Curses and realized that she was in the situation. Only because I’m already Cursed. That made her refocus her thoughts back on the present. Looking at Cherry, Tuette remembered that Jack not only gave them the acorns but also a scripted leaf that had details for a Petrifying Wood Spell, which was actually only a variant of the Freezing Pote she and Dermy had culled into existence. If we had not brought Cherry, would we still have the additional information regarding a relatively clean way of ridding the world of Count Roost? Possibly. If she had used the Wood Spell on their attackers back in Vican Village, Jack still would’ve shown up. And through his interaction with Joy’s spores, they would’ve known a vague layout of a portion of Roost’s castle. But they surely would not have known about the World Magik or the Corn Circle that they now were going to grow around the castle, which, thankfully, was rumored to be small. Joy couldn’t know for certain; she was limited by the extension of her roots. She could only judge by what Puze the Cursed fly told her. And through Joy and Puze’s collaborations, Tuette learned that Beverane was dead. It was sobering how such a fact could bring the entire quest into focus and how dangerous it truly was. Joy had been privy to Beverane’s arrival and abrupt re-arrival: he was nothing more than a gasping body. It was probably traumatic but Joy was a determined World Spirit and seemed quite capable of handling herself. Perhaps being briefly reunited with her father of sorts had brought out her self-preserving nature, or enough time has passed. Tuette had encountered people in post-traumatic situations but they were rarely as well-composed as Joy had been. Being a World Spirit, she might be able to adjust more readily anyway. Thinking more on Joy, Tuette couldn’t help but wonder about the implications that such a creature brought forth. Is she actually to be seen as the offspring of two well-established World Spirits or is she a newly-deceased young girl that happened to pass when Jack and Jillian opted to try for a child of their own? World Spirits were rumored to crop up in various locales around not only the kingdom but the world and wreak havoc on any who entered their domains, but they were centuries old. All documented instances of a World Spirit cited the origin of the specter having died around roughly the same time that the Wishing Gods were said to be exiled from Valtos’ Immortal company. The Wishing Gods no longer answer the prayers of Mortals. That’s the job of Audience Members. But did something occur over a millennia ago that had called into question the entrance of spirits into the Immortal boundaries of Valent? The existence of the World Spirits seemed to confirm such a notion. It also didn’t seem coincidental that the Spirits were vengeful, a trait carried over from their lives and only intensified by having to live on the cusp of Immortality, yet among so many expendable, short-term creatures. Jack and Jillian were truly the first that Tuette had heard about being kind. But Joy was something else. A new World Spirit. The notion was astounding. Did whatever happen centuries ago bring about a wave of World Spirits? If so, that means Joy might only be the first of a new wave. To Tuette, it also meant just one more mystery to add to the growing pile. The raft rocked on a buffeting wind. The movement made Tuette feel fearful of their slightly-increasing height. Boost Island was slowly growing in the immediate distance as the sun seemed to settle more quickly in the west. Tuette worried that the others would fall under Roost’s Curse of the Thumb but knew that their plan was sure to work. Tuette had heard of World Magik but only in passing. And really only as a kind of fable. According to the lessons she had attempted to learn from Corunny Voidet, it was World Magik that the Primary Gods had used to take Existence or Eternity or whichever away from the Creating Gods. Dorothy, being the eldest, led a revolt against the Creators. With World Magiks, they had been changed or even destroyed, leaving the Primaries behind. How such Magik was defined in the Mortal realms was beyond Tuette and she did question the validity of the tome, but believing in the rare World Magiks was the easiest option available to them. Sending someone like Terry after someone as menacing as Roost was dangerous. Even though he’s a trained Gousherall, it doesn’t mean he’ll actually be able to stop the count. Of course, Sylvester will never be able to strike the killing blow himself. Tuette knew she truly couldn’t blame him though. The king wouldn’t know how to take a life if it was diagrammed for him. Could I? Tuette chewed her lip at that, knowing that the answer would never be as simple as she wanted it to. According to the text detailing the use of the Corn Circle, someone would have to invoke the call to the intended deity following the first corn stalk being planted and before the final one grew. With that perspective, she would be making the killing blow. Strangely, it didn’t make her feel uneasy. Probably because it didn’t feel like she was going to end someone’s life. For Tuette, it felt more like she was being challenged to perform a great Spell that no one had yet accomplished. This line of thinking also made Tuette consider the requirements of the Corn Circle: invocation following the first stalk being planted but before the last one in the Circle. Does the original Spell call for accelerated growth of each stalk or does planting the kernels bring out the Magik? Probably the latter. Tuette had never heard of a Growth Spell or Charm as the type that Cherry harnessed. It certainly was advantageous as even planting the kernels, one at a time, would take far longer than letting the mysterious Cordian perform her deed. The wind disquieted the raft again. After being released from the true shores of Schove, the six of them had instinctively acquired crouching positions. They apparently all feared the unusual means of travel. Tuette herself had thought that any fear of heights would’ve been conquered years ago, when she first began using the swan-shaped home. Even traveling with the seleagles as mounts had not been so unsettling. The situation where she had plummeted down one of the holes in Vican Village and then had literally been hoisted or hefted from the icy rapids had introduced a fear of not only heights but actually falling from them. Currently, she was feeling that same fear coarse through her body, making her extremities shake at the slightest winds. It wasn’t an irrational fear as the floating raft didn’t seem entirely stable to begin with but Tuette could easily imagine them all – or even just herself – catching the wrong wind current and falling into the churning sea below. No one spoke for the drawn out duration though they definitely had a plan now. Before, it had mainly been about getting to Boost and she assumed that they would seek out the count and kill him. Had they expected me to use Magik since the beginning? If so, they haven’t said anything. They mainly rely on my knowledge regarding Magik we accidentally encounter, like with the World Spirits and even the Ring of Ten Minus Two. Of course, Dermy had been specifically brought along because of his knowledge with Magik but it seemed like they turned to her before they thought about him. Is it because of his dialect? Or do they look down on him because he’s seen as only being a farmer? At least he’s something. She was still considered an apprentice despite owning many types of Magik knowledge. And how many people can say they’ve harnessed World Magik? Even if only for an instant? Yes, I may become famous even before I break my Curse. She immediately thought about Corunny Voidet. How am I to locate him after today? Tuette knew she was assuming she’d survive beyond the day but thinking in terms of the future helped keep the mind-numbing terror at bay. With that thought, the next few hours started to weigh on her. Tuette, along with the nation’s king, a few men who swore allegiance to him, and a strange yet powerful young woman were about to face off against a man of untold ability. Count Roost is Cursed, meaning I won’t be able to fight him with any form of that dread Magik. And he fights cruelly, using Artificials when he doesn’t want to soil his own hands. The Guards and Dermy are in harm’s way regarding the Curses at Roost’s disposal, at least until his larger Curse is finally activated. Cherry is immune to Magik harm but what defense does she have against a physical threat imposed by Roost or even a possessed fighter? The count has at least one Apprentice. Possibly more. To assume otherwise would be foolish. But the Corn Circle doesn’t call for direct contact. How are we to insure the count is in the castle? It would take time for the corn to be planted. In that time, Tuette knew that she or the Guards – or her and Terry – could possibly investigate the area for signs of the Cursed villain. Tuette wondered about the motivations of the man though. Why threaten a whole kingdom with a Curse that could be so easily foiled? She had been informed that Dormaset was probably working behind the scenes for this particular threat but that didn’t really mean much for them if the maperryta was seeing the weak king as a liability to be extinguished in hopes of injecting new blood into the throne. That idea doesn’t seem too implausible, especially if Dormaset knows the kingstone is presently worthless. If that’s the case, then Sylvester might not have been allowed to live out his first year as king. Unless Dormaset has ulterior motives. With a weak king came edicts that could be easily conjured for the sake of one public interest group or another. It was known among Magikals that the maperryta was the most powerful of Mages. Perhaps he Sees a possibility with keeping a weak king in office, especially if the entire kingdom is rendered chaotic because of one Curse. This is all subjective because once the Curse takes effect, people will obviously adapt. It’s the way of humans. Of course, the Curse of the Thumb would be lifted once Roost actually died or if the Curse Reverse was performed. And then the chaos of the kingdom would return after however long it might’ve taken to stabilize. Tuette recognized that not just one major shift would occur, but two, and who knew how many after that. Until Curse Blocks are more commonplace, what’s to stop another mentally unstable man – or woman– from Cursing the entirety of Decennia if not more? She knew that Count Roost’s actions could avalanche into a perpetual state of disaster for the currently-peaceful kingdom. Peace can’t last forever she wanted to state aloud, but knew it was only a means of ending the present state of peace they were all embracing on the somber little raft. Somber, indeed, as we must all be realizing at one point or another that this mishmash journey is ending. It had become somewhat like a living organism for them all and now it was intended to die in one decisive fashion or another. They were floating on a type of raft which normally would be used to provide fishermen a stable point among any typically sloshing sea but which was now secured to sealed vivican plants, one per corner. Judging by the steady ascent, Tuette thought that it looked like they might be a little too high over the island to come down safely. She had suggested that they anchor the floating raft with stones but everyone was skeptical about that putting too much strain on the device. And, besides, where would we get stones now? Did the villagers believe the raft couldn’t make it between the islands without the vivican buoys? Obviously not. Otherwise, they would’ve condemned it. Or maybe the waters in this region are dangerous. Creatures of the sea were plentiful, possibly even more so than land based animals. The Potential of animals below them made her remember Dermy and the fact that he’d most likely need a delfin transplant some day. She looked at the little farmer in his Magiked disguise. He looked more complacent than anything. As his bone mass deteriorates, the Potency of his Spell probably does too. Looking between Dermy and the Gousheralls, she began to truly wonder if the price he was having to pay was going to be worth the long-term effects. She certainly hoped so. * ~ * ~ * After what felt like hours but what was most likely a handful of several minutes, Cherry Tee finally broke the silence. “We are very high.” Tuette almost admired the girl and her simple little statements. It was a bare fact but expressed in such an affable and almost childish manner. Peering over the side, Tuette did notice that the waves were smaller in practice. Looking at the distance they’d already covered and the length they still had to go, and considering the fact that they would probably continue to steadily ascend into the atmosphere, Tuette knew they would be too high for them to leap gently or safely to the island’s ground in the distance. What were they going to do? Cherry spoke up. “I understand that heights can be unfriendly when enjoyed in large quantities.” She seemed relatively calm whereas Tuette felt like her heart would start attempting to hammer its way out of her chest. Sylvester, who had mostly been looking leery, was now looking queasy. He had not expressed a fear of heights before but he seemed more cautious about the idea of falling. Or perhaps the proximity to our final destination makes him conscious about what we’re intending to ultimately perform: murder. While it’s true that a manner of self-preservation is in play, each one of us knows we’re actively seeking to end a life. It will preserve a sense of peace by fending away chaos, but at what cost? Tuette knew her own price: she was aiming to preserve the Freezing Pote so she could perform her Curse Reverse. She also didn’t want to allow the king to foil the task in any way so she had elected to tag along; Tuette knew that it would be no good to let the Curse pass and let herself remain unaffected. So she was putting her own life on the line as well. Does Sylvester realize the amount of danger he’s truly in? That might explain his stark and fearing appearance. Dermy was somewhat protected with his disguise but only from physical harm. Sylvester’s kingstone might be protecting him in untold ways but they weren’t becoming apparent with each passing day. Their path did seem to follow helpful avenues of coincidence; perhaps that was the kingstone’s contribution to the cause? If so, it was doing a good job to make their job easier. In that light, maybe Roost was destined to die by their incursion. The Magik that was rumored to rest behind the kingstone was said to be of the most Potent of forms. Situations of circumstance would be highly suggestive of the kingstone’s power over an entire series of events. The idea made Tuette’s head spin slightly. To think that all of their actions were derived from a Spell cast centuries ago meant that whatever she did, the outcome would already be chosen. The kingstone is supposed to reveal the past but might it also dictate the future? Is it an entity all its own, much like I’m a person and Valtos is a God? Surely not. No Immortal creature could ever reveal the future as it might be known. It was true that some people claimed prophetic powers but they were always suspect in nature, at least in Tuette’s eyes. Merely stating a prophecy provides a beginning for making it come about in one form or another. Prophecies can’t be trusted. But if Sylvester’s kingstone was the one calling the shots in order to bring the right kind of people and knowledge into the king’s path, that would be something entirely different. It would imply the kingstone itself was conscious, at least. Might that indicate as to why it doesn’t outright work for the monarch? Does it even recognize Sylvester as its owner and master? Again, the notions made her head energies boil and Tuette knew it was merely a way to distract herself from the present and seemingly inevitable conclusion: they were traveling more quickly upward than forward and a situation like that could only end in disaster. Unless we abandon the raft now and make for the seas. Surely we can maintain a grouping and collaborate with each other to stay afloat long enough. Or we could even just cut the buoys and let the raft drop to the surface of the water. She knew that idea could prove more disastrous. The buoys would have to be cut simultaneously and the group had no means of anchoring themselves to the raft’s surface. In her mind, she saw them cutting the buoys at the same time but then the raft might fall more quickly, their bodies not plummeting as rapidly. Then they would slam dangerously onto the same raft. No, that doesn’t seem like a good idea. Glancing over the edge, she noticed they were about fifteen or eighteen meters from the water’s surface. Looking back, they were decidedly closer to Schove than to Boost, if not at the midway point. Should we swim back to Schove and plead for selswan mounts? A splash below drew her attention and Dermy’s too. They both looked back over the sides. Did the others not hear it? If not, how? But Dermy and Tuette looked and she felt a chill take her breath away. Just below the surface of the water was a pack of tigashes. They were elongated fish with an unusually large number of fins on each side of their bodies, along with two dorsal fins of different size and three shallow ones on the creature’s underside. The multiple fins guaranteed speed, apparently, but it was the toothy jaws that made the underwater carnivores truly formidable. No wonder short-range boats or skiffs weren’t used in this region! Tigashes were known to attempt partial ship sinkings if only to get at their fleshy prey. If the animals could leap out of the water, they might be truly dangerous. The splashing sounded again and Tuette saw a tigash leader break the surface and retreat just as quickly. It was unsettling. At least it’s not death dragons. Or it might be better if it was. Death dragons don’t get this close to the surface when the sun is out and about, like now. As if the moment were designed to break her spirits, a cloud blotted out Brill’s brilliance and Tuette could’ve sworn that a darker and larger shape loomed beneath even the tigashes. It was probably an illusion but she was still unsettled. Sylvester finally leaned his head over the edge to see what they were looking at. “What’re those?” “They’n be tig’shes, Kingasir. Vic’ous pred’tors, oh.” He shook his head as all three of them returned their attention to the surface of the raft. “If’n we ‘ope t’ be swimmin’ fro’ this’n poin’, they all be getting’ us, oh!” “He’s right, Sylvester. And we can’t cut the buoys because there’s no guarantee the raft will remain level. And the tigashes will sink it just to get us.” “Then what about getting rid of some of our buoys?” Is he insane? If we cut one, two, or thee, we’d most likely plummet from our semi-stable surface! Tuette looked at the king and then at the buoys, realizing that he might not be so insane. “If we cut loose two corner buoys, diagonal from each other, that’ll stop our ascension, for certain!” No, he really wasn’t too impaired. Of course, the suggestion might have only come from the kingstone and not from the man himself. With that kind of thinking, is he even a man or a manifestation of Magik’s will, of even Valtos’ will? That’s all that Magik is: an outlet for Valtos’ essence, really. It was thanks to Dorothy that Magik had come about. The essence that tied the Primaries together had been severed and redirected to the living realms of their own private worlds. Defined by rituals recognized by Audience Members, this was what Magik was at its core. It was a distracting subject to say the least and would merit further investigation. But at least the king sounded off with a good notion. It still called for a simultaneous cutting of the buoys, but only two, not four. The Gousheralls would be able to handle it. In the time it took to explain the idea, Vest and Terry were at opposing corners of the square raft. Each vivican buoy was anchored with a sturdy twine that probably measured five meters in length. The pair was confident that they could perform as needed. With a coordinated effort, the Guards swung. Terry’s sword cut a buoy free. Vest’s did not. The raft almost instantly became slanted towards the freed corner. Tuette had dropped to the surface of the raft, adhering herself to it. Looking up, she saw that Vest had his free arm hooked around the buoy line he had just attempted to sever. Sylvester was clutching the same twine. Dermy was holding onto on of the other twines with Cherry holding onto him, her face actually looking horror stricken. It was a scene of chaos. She couldn’t see Terry from her current position. Looking again at the king and Vest, Tuette saw the twine they were both clutching. It didn’t look damaged at all. Hardy rope indeed! But why has one cut and not the other? Is Vest’s blade dull due to years of inactivity? He seems like a competent Guardsmen. Maybe Terry’s is just that much sharper? No, Terry’s is Sealed! She recalled that Sylvester said he had ordered the younger Guard’s sword be Sealed with a Sealant Spell when he had aimed to cut through the chain of the selswan statue’s pedestal, for the sake of ultimately saving Tuette. How ironic that that action might have ultimately led to our death! Especially if we fall into the waiting pack of tigashes! Swiveling her head to look behind herself, she saw two hands gripping the metal hoop. They were obviously Terry’s but the Guard wasn’t shouting and he was closer than any of them to hungry predators below. And with the fourth buoy gone, they had slowed their ascent, to be sure. But it also seemed like they might be sinking. Why hadn’t she thought of that? Why hadn’t she trusted the villagers? Generally, because I’m distrusting of almost everyone. Tuette recalled that they had selected specific buoys, probably the oldest. That meant the air inside of them would decrease naturally. The Vican Villagers had been traveling this way for quite some time. I should’ve trusted them! Terry still wasn’t shouting or making any other types of noise but Tuette knew he was most likely afraid. She could hear the tigashes below splashing about as if they could almost sense that the odds had turned in their favor. Resurveying the situation, she realized that she might be doing more harm than good. The axis of balance was largely beneath her. Tuette had the compulsion to climb down and at least attempt to pull Terry over the side but she knew it would be a futile gesture. The best way would be to make her way towards the king’s corner and let the raft find balance. As she did this with fear keeping her limbs shaky and her grip questionable, she saw Cherry moving in her peripheral but she dare not move her head to see what she was doing. Her cheek was so close to the raft’s surface that she could only smell the waterlogged wood but realized that the raft was supposed to have hardly ever touched actual water. She couldn’t help but think about the implications of that. If the villagers travel this way often enough, shouldn’t they have more reliable means of traveling from one island to another? Surely they know about the tigashes? Perhaps the villgares are fishermen too and that’s why the raft has a watery scent. That, or the seas below are invading my nostrils she thought with slight stupor. But either way, she could be mistaken. Clinging to the surface of the decanting raft made her question her own thinking process. How do other people handle a capsized skiff? The only people that came to Tuette’s mind were the Freezers under Ta Bep’toj and his watchful crazy-eyes. And how Fy’tay had managed to bring her to him partially against her will, using scaled-down Mighty Grips. The same kind the villagers used. Perryta Fy’tay also had not expressed surprise over her swan-shaped means of travel. As Tuette’s energies bubbled internally, her thoughts churning at the burgeoning of possibly plummeting to her gnashed-up doom, she could only further think about the coincidences. Is Fy’tay from Vican Village? Or somehow working with Vican Village? It’s clear that Craspone most likely was and had even planted the swan house. But have those two been part-time players in a grander scheme that seems to be working against us all? Maybe something even orchestrated by the Potentially-sentient kingstone? The conjecture is certainly compelling! Finally reaching Sylvester’s leg, she noticed the raft’s weight shifted towards them as she turned onto her back and tried to lift her head and look down. Indeed, the raft had lowered a little on their end, raising Terry’s corner by a degree— But Cherry was gently shuffling herself back to the other side of the raft. She had her leg – a rather well-muscled extension of smooth flesh that some might find appealing – exposed and entwined serpent-like with Dermy’s, who had entwined his own arm, the truly degenerate arm, with the thick string connected to the buoy there. It seemed like she was trying to save Terry, but how could she hope to? Sylvester grabbed her shoulder and Tuette, for some inexplicable reason, jumped slightly. What do I have to fear here, directly behind me? A Gousherall and the king? No, the danger is below and we all know it. Well, it seems Cherry might not know it. What a costly way to teach a lesson should she fall! “What’s she doing?” asked the king. Tuette snorted slightly as a means of hopefully shrugging off the obviousness of the question. But she did answer. “She’s trying to save Terry for some reason.” She began digging into her rucksack, the westward sun providing ample light. “That’s a good thing, trying to save Terry,” said Sylvester. In theory, it was. In fact, it was making the overall situation worse. She possessed no subtle means of traversing the short distance and the steadily-sinking raft was rocking. Dermy looked like he was going to start laughing, which might’ve translated to him looking like he was going to be sick. Tuette herself had begun to feel a little queasy as well. In the rucksack, she found her oft forgotten Climbing Mitts. They had become folded and tucked into the corner of the sack through wily means that were akin to dresser drawers unwittingly moving pairs of stockings. She withdrew the Mitts and thought to call Cherry’s attention so she might become aware of her actions and try to catch them. Perhaps they might help her find surer handholds. But Tuette paused. Will Cherry be able to use the Climbing Mitts to save Terry? The Magik that the Mitts harness is translated through the wearer’s intentions and directions. Cherry is unavailable to Magik though she’ll definitely be able to at least wear them. But will they act as little more than a fashion accessory? Taking the chance, she called to Cherry and tossed the Mitts. The act surprised Cherry but she caught them and landed hard on her shoulder, causing the raft the shift again. Dermy grunted, probably about taking on more weight, despite the fact that Cherry had little to begin with. “Put ‘em on. They’ll help.” I hope, she silently added, knowing that announcing such a sentiment wouldn’t do much for their present level of morale. Cherry only nodded and put them on. When she regained her crawling-stance, her hands were no more frictional than before as they slid easily over the surface of the air-raft. The Magik of the Mitts won’t work! Cherry still stretched the short distance available, obviously not caring that she had no advantage right now, and caused the raft to tilt further with one quick stomach-knotting jolt. The movement had obviously caused Sylvester some worry as he reaffirmed his grip on Tuette’s shoulder. She felt uneasy about it but not because of the closeness, she knew. Because of— When she realized the error, it was too late. His repositioned hand pulled the shawl from around her head and her hair came free for Brill and all to see. Sylvester let out a cry; obviously as it had not been expected. Vest ducked down as the full wingspan took up a lot of his standing room. He dropped his sword and grabbed the twine with his other hand. The sword slid the length of the raft and Dermy caught it in his other free hand, the effort producing a strangled grunt from the diminutive man. The wind that had been barely perceived moments before now became aptly present; Tuette could feel it tugging at her embarrassing mass of Cursed follicles. She knew that she was technically Cursed throughout her being but it was the mass up top that brought out the most unappealing aspect of Voidet’s Curse of the Hood. If only I’d chosen a hummingbird or even a penguin to display for Menginal! With the gales pushing, she was further braced against the king. Sylvester bent his neck forward to stick his head under the hairy statue but he was providing a stable means of support at least. Vest was not crouching under the wing anymore but had decided to stand behind it; it obviously was acting as a shield from the strong breeze. With the wind pulling at her, she felt the urge to just go with it and see how far she could soar but instantly recognized that as an easy means to end her involvement with the quest. And she was determined to see it through and not concede any satisfaction to Corunny Voidet. There was a shout from below, where Terry was. She looked down with her eyes, not being able to truly pivot her head against the current, and saw that Cherry had reached him. The Climbing Mitts were supposed to work like Mighty Grips in that they made clutching easier. But with Mitts, the clutch was more adhesive-based rather than power-based. One couldn’t crush someone’s bones with Mitts without having to put a tremendous amount of personal power behind the attempt. Unfortunately, Cherry couldn’t do either action; otherwise, she might’ve had a good chance of holding onto Terry. The shout had come from Terry’s surprise at being touched. But in the immediate distance, Tuette could’ve sworn that she saw even more tigashes trailing after the raft. Has seeing them made the Guard shout out finally? It seems likely. In straining her ears, she could hear less and less of the pack of predators below the raft. Is the wind that loud around my ears? Most assuredly so! Cherry was holding onto Terry hands… but she didn’t have the Mitts. Tuette finally realized that Cherry and Dermy weren’t as entwined as they had been moments before. It was Dermy who was wearing the Mitts, or one of them at least, as he deftly clung to Cherry’s petite ankle. His other arm was now crooked around the twine, their combined mass finally disturbing its predisposed straightness and in that hand he gripped Vest’s dropped sword with white knuckles. The other Mitt was still in Cherry’s hand and Tuette saw Terry move one hand from the metallic hoop to the edge of the raft. Cherry, with her balance more steadied thanks to Dermy, was able to provide some discomforting support to Terry while she slipped the other Climbing Mitt onto his hand. The Magik worked well for Terry for as soon as the hand holding the edge of the raft was secured, Terry was able to somewhat crawl over the precipice and lay with his belly on the unbalanced air-raft. He did use the Mitt to finally move to Dermy and he took hold of the twine as well. Cherry, with Dermy providing support and Terry providing direction, made her way back into their graces and it was then that Tuette realized that she heard no tigashes in the water beneath them but saw several in the distance. The wind still pulled her and Tuette began to wonder if— “We are moving more rapidly,” stated Cherry. At last, Tuette noticed the difference. The breeze she was feeling was not only what the wing-sail was catching but also what was produced in the wake of their faster movement. She was elated to learn that they were traveling more quickly as that would mean they could reach Boost before— “We’re still gonna hit water first,” said Vest from behind her in a dishearteningly clear voice. “We might have to cut our buoys and ride them to the island.” Is he serious? For Tuette, the idea sounded quite insane: mostly because he had not been able to cut the buoys before with his sword but also because he had no sword to speak of. Dermy was holding it as he, Cherry, and Terry stood huddled in their corner of the raft, the six of them basically letting the weight of the other side be handled more or less by the lonely buoy. Tuette wasn’t certain why she considered the buoy to be lonely because it obviously didn’t feel those same sentiments. If it feels anything, it’s probably happy to not have a small gaggle of humans clinging to its tail. Shaking the distracting thoughts away, she realized that if they didn’t do as Vest suggested, they might actually hit the water. Knowing that they wouldn’t acquire as much distance in the water without the extra wind boost, Tuette realized the tigashes would be upon them in moments, the sleek bodies cutting through the water like black ribbons of scaly death. “Okay. We cut. You three, the Mitts should help you. Just hold onto Cherry.” “I think you might have to go on that buoy, Tuette,” proffered Vest. What? She asked him to clarify. “Cherry and Dermy as so small, they almost equal Terry’s muscle mass alone. With you added, you’ll be sure to not overshoot the island. The king and I are heavier and heartier and should anchor the buoy just fine.” It was logical but it nagged at Tuette for an unidentified reason. She could only shout her agreements; the wind made nodding a thing of the past and near-future. Tuette then had a thought. “Won’t my wings make us travel erratically?” “No,” said Vest with the slightest twinge of impatience. “If anything, it’ll let you travel more quickly so we arrive at the same place, if not at the same time. Give or take.” It was a vague answer but Tuette still could not deny the logistics behind it. Finally she asked how he was to cut his twine. “I’ve got a small blade in my sleeve.” It sounded more sinister than it should have to Tuette. “We don’t have much more time. The water is only a few meters below us now and Boost is still a generous distance away.” Bowing to his statements, Tuette tended for herself a moment of bravery as she let Vest and Sylvester push against her wing-sail, allowing her to awkwardly join the others. It’s not an issue of size, but of weight. Numbers aren’t everything. The raft became more unsettled as she moved and she even feared that she would relive her experiences atop and beneath Vican Village. But before she could feel anymore tugs, Terry, with his Magiked Mitt, pawed Tuette’s shirt hem in an otherwise-unsavory manner. Tuette found herself not minding and thought to remind him about it later with hopes of reliving the event. Minus the numbing fear that causes my joints to shake. The tigashes were heard splashing in the immediate distance, their efforts to maintain speed with the wind-powered raft doubled. It served to distract her from Terry and let her think about how truly hungry she herself was, off and on, while aboard the raft. The hunger grew as the heights lessened and she realized the irony right away: to rise meant safety from the tigashes and forgetting her hunger because of the fear of falling. Closer to the water’s surface, she could recall a time when she was stuffed full with food and wanted only that, all the while not even worrying about the deadly fish. And, of course, she also had time to focus on Terry’s seemingly-inappropriate gestures. But Terry knew it to be a gesture of aid and Tuette somehow wondered if it could be nothing more than that. Cherry leaned forward and grabbed her shoulder while Dermy used the other Mitt to pull her arm’s sleeve toward him. Their combined efforts prevailed more swiftly against the winds and Tuette immediately saw that the other had wound the twine around Cherry arm while they clung to the buoy’s rope with the Climbing Mitts. She mimicked Cherry’s movement while Dermy handed Vest’s sword to Terry; he had the better angle. Dermy was mostly inhibited by her hair. Just as he swung the sword, apparently timing the strike with Vest unseen behind her, Tuette could only think how the sword had not cut through the other twine. Now Vest expects it to cut through and he plans to cut his twine with a sheathed dagger? There wasn’t much time to think and, as she saw Terry’s acquired blade slice easily enough through the twine, she noticed the sky darken again and she felt her hair drop as well. Looking behind her, she saw that a length of cloud that stretched across the sky had finally met up with Brill and aimed to block his view. Tuette felt elation and horror: one because she wouldn’t have to suffer the visible aspect of her Curse anymore and the other because that meant she wouldn’t have wind to help propel them and assist in keeping up with Sylvester and Vest. As the buoy floated up from the water, Tuette watched the remaining buoy succumb to the weight of their vehicle. The tigashes had subsequently caught up with the air-raft, some being directly beneath it when it slammed edge-first into the water. The water around the wooden device bubbled and frothed with quick and fishy activity and Tuette was instantly grateful that they had not been given the option of sailing the shallow seas between Schove and Boost. Looking to their immediate destination, she saw that Boost was much closer now; her wind-boost had apparently helped more than she realized. But the king and his elder Guard were moving much more quickly towards it. Or, rather, Tuette and the others seemed to be slowing somewhat. This discerned Tuette but she was thankful to be remaining at a fairly constant level above the lethal coastal waters. It was no time before she felt like her arm might be pulled from her socket. Dermy and Terry, their Mitts – my Mitts, she remembered with an uncharacteristic tinge of resentment – were keeping them from forcing exertion and even though her and Cherry had wound some of their limbs with the dangling twine, it felt, overall, to be a very precarious situation. The clouds bothered Tuette more than anything and helped to distract her from the odd situation. Surely Vest had noticed them and knew that my swan-shaped locks would melt away. But he had offered up the advantage as means to convince me. Thinking desperately, she tried to recall if she had informed the Guards that it was the sun that brought out her condition. Tuette couldn’t recall if she had; otherwise, Terry might’ve objected to it because he could readily see the clouds as well. She realized that she had assumed their understanding of her situation, or had decided that Sylvester would inform them. Had she told him? Again, she couldn’t remember but he did seem to own a sense of understanding at least. No one spoke and it seemed best that way. Tuette realized voices might help abate this anesthetizing experience of theirs. Still, no one spoke and she really had nothing to say. What’s to be said? The moment we touch land, we’ll begin our final leg of what ultimately has turned into a manhunt. It was an unsettling line of thinking but it couldn’t be helped. She wanted to ask if everyone else was thinking the same thing but decided that assuming as much would be good enough for now. What else could be on their minds? * ~ * ~ * The four of them were obviously not equal to the weight of Sylvester and Vest, the older and mildly bulkier Guard, but it did appear like the smaller bodies might allow for too much acquired height. As it was, they landed next to an older-looking structure. It wasn’t a smooth landing but was rather abrupt. Tuette felt wobbled inside her knees, which is why she felt that standing might not be a good idea. Thankfully, they were in the shade of the shack and her swan-hair wouldn’t be an issue should the sun make a surprise appearance. Sitting up, she drew her damp and dirty shawl around her head. They had little time and hopefully, the residents of Boost Island wouldn’t cause them any immediate problems. In fact, if they’re Cursed like the rumor states, the islanders might actually assist us! She hadn’t really thought about that but realized that they did indeed have more potential allies than enemies at the moment. Who wants to live without thumbs anyway? In this later part of the afternoon, it didn’t seem like anyone was outside and available for speaking. Perhaps they had seen the floating sky-buoys and became frightened. Looking into the sky at the ever-rising Sealed plant, Tuette couldn’t help but wonder if it would make it to the Immortal Realm or if it might eventually just descend elsewhere, with the seeds being lost to the ocean. She knew she’d probably never know so she stopped wondering. Standing, she did find that her knees were incredibly unstable and that she might even wretch slightly. Terry did wretch, telling even more solidly of his deficiencies in regards to the practice of his own profession. Tuette couldn’t help but feel sorry for him. Cherry stood with a balance that might never be known by another. Dermy didn’t even get up, resigning to the sick feeling in his gut. But they were nearly finished with their quest. That prospect excited Tuette like no other because it meant she was that much closer to locating the chicken flock and being rid of her own Curse. Thinking how the swan-shaped hair and its wingspan had actually helped them wasn’t lost on her. Of course, if the Vican Villagers truly did travel that way as commonly as they led the group to believe, Tuette could only assume that they knew the benefit of using harnessed wind. It’s a marginal idea when applied to seafaring skiffs so why not think to adopt it for air-rafts as well? No, the more she thought about it, the more she deduced that the villagers weren’t sure exactly how to get rid of the Cursed group of troublemakers – How long will Jack and Joy choose to remain rooted there, anyway? – but just that they needed to be gone. After several minutes, Dermy finally righted himself and wiped the dust off. Tuette pressed the shawl to her head a little tighter. “We are here,” said Cherry. It was a harmless and pointless statement but when she uttered the words, it had sounded more like a question than anything. “Yeah, we’re on Boost. Or in Boost,” she said scratching her scalp through the shawl. “I’m not exactly sure if the township is named after the island or not.” Dermy took off the Climbing Mitts and handed them back to Tuette. “’hank ya fer da’, T’ette.” She gingerly took them, rolling them back up and tucking the small package into her rucksack. “I’s no’ be sure’n they gonna be workin’ fer me, oh, buddit di’.” He then rubbed his dilapidated arm and she was finding herself feeling surprised that it hadn’t become dislocated when Dermy put the weight of three others on it at one point or another. It had probably been a practice of determined will that brought out the necessity of the situation. If he had revealed his broken self, they would’ve all plummeted into the thrashing tigash pack that was still probably moving just off the coast. The thought chilled her as she inhaled a scent of the salty sea air. Turning to face away from the coast, even though she couldn’t presently see it, Tuette saw the small castle that was supposed to host the nefarious count. She didn’t know what it was called – Why do castles have names, anyway? – but she knew that Count Roost was most likely up there. “Time we got underway, people. Sylvester and Vest are already up there as a kind of contingency.” Like we need one. “So the quicker we get this done, the better off we’ll all be.” She ended with looking at Cherry who was looking at something else. Tuette turned, letting her temporary fear of the distantly lethal fish leave her mind, and followed Cherry’s line of sight. From this vantage point, it looked like any other statue. Except that it was of a very wide human, a man. It probably had a chiseled face, literally, but it was facing away from them all. The artist, who was obviously not Burtle, a fact she could denote even from this distance, had opted to put an encompassing cap on the figure’s head rather than attempt to fashion some type of hair. “That is a man?” asked Cherry. Tuette wondered about the question. Surely Cherry had seen statues before. But she then recalled that Cordia’s only form of stone-imitating-life were the giant frogs. And those drive the residents out of town once a year. In Vican Village, the selswans had all been brought to life as well so it was any wonder Cherry didn’t assume that the poor statue of the portly man might jump off his high pedestal any moment now. Absently, Tuette found herself wondering who the fellow was and quickly deduced that it had to be a former leader or dictator that served the township well before Count Roost took over. It had to be that way because the count had been described as being well-built and handsome. Obese wasn’t always used to describe a well-built person but she knew that people had many interpretations of what they liked. She gently curbed Cherry around then, towards the castle, saying, “Yes. Or rather, not really a man but a… copy or… imitation of a man. It’s just a statue.” Cherry averted her gaze to watch out for anything she might accidentally trip over but continued with the questions. “The statutes in the floating village came to life. All of them.” She knocked her chin backwards. “Will that one?” Tuette knew the question was quite typical but realized that she didn’t have an answer. The statue was obviously of a living person or a once live person. If the Life Spell is used on it, would that particular person come back tethered to it or would someone else? It’s probably been practiced before but I’ve never heard of such an experiment. “It could, I guess.” She paused, looking absently at Cherry. “It might. Probably not today though. Come on. We’ve got work to do.” Cherry only nodded. The task being asked of her had been explained in detail before they even left Schove but Tuette couldn’t help but wonder if it needed repeating. As they walked, Tuette reached for Dermy’s rucksack. He willingly gave it up as he was becoming winded from the short trek; it’s sloping upwards, she realized, and he had about as much sleep as the rest of them. Taking deeper stock of the area, she realized that the small castle was obviously not built for defense of the local leader but rather to display him. Or her she silently amended, grimacing at the lack of respect for her own gender. It appeared to be exposed to open fields on all sides, had a curved path leading right up to the front gate, and wasn’t on well-elevated land. No, Boost Island has obviously never run amuck of invading seafarers. But then who would invade? All the neighboring islands that made up the Seagulf Island chain were at peace with each other and, in mentally recalling map weave details, she couldn’t remember seeing any other islands close enough to be of any significance. The islands were under protection of Javal’ta which didn’t say much because their stint in the region had not brought them against any militant or enforcement agents that might operate independently of Mount Reign. Tuette wondered if there was even a national level of law enforcers. The Gousheralls were said to operate at the king’s command but there couldn’t be enough of them to be spread across the country, to be sure. Perhaps the Gousheralls have some type of lawmen that answer to them? Looking at Terry, she thought she would at least strike up a conversation while they walked. Dermy would let them know when they reached a good spot to begin anyway. “No. There’s no one that answers to us,” answered Terry. “I mean, I’ve been with the Guard for about three or four years now.” That long? She was a little stunned, given how fresh-out-of-the-barrel he behaved. “But I’ve only been on duty for roughly a year.” He went on to explain that there had been an accident during the latter part of his training period that forced him to spend time healing and going through physical training and whatnot, though he failed to mention exactly what had been damaged and how. It might be embarrassing to discuss. She didn’t press the issue. “I was on duty at Majramdic before being called to the mountain to serve with the king personally. I was excited, to say the least!” “How’s that?” asked Tuette. “Because I’ve never met the king.” He certainly seemed excited enough to be retelling his tale and Tuette actually found herself envying him. She had not met the king before finding his companionship and she used to think she was dealing with an inept leader of questionable qualities and intelligence. Now she knew some sad truths about why he had appeared that way and she wondered if she might have been better left in bitter ignorance instead of her current state of pity mixed with subtle notions of contempt. But Terry continued as excited as ever, as if he was still meeting Sylvester for the first time later that day. “And we Gousheralls, well, my dad served under King Gould mostly. I was born a couple years after Sylve… After King Sylvester was and, uh, it was exciting to enter the academy, knowing the future king was there. “Then King Gould died and Syl… And then his son had to go back to Mount Reign. I never got to meet him back then.” His eyes had gone distant with reverie and she worried he might trip over a rogue rock or root. “I remember thinking that I could be his friend even. Ya know? We was close to the same age, almost, and I figured he might be lonely, being an only child, like… like me. So I thought we could be more than just king and protector.” He looked at Tuette then. “Ya know?” She couldn’t say that she did but at least she now understood somewhat why a person like Terry would maintain such loyalty to the crown. Does Sylvester think the same way? Possibly. He most likely had a lonely and sad childhood despite the types of friends and associates that his then-future title might invite. The whole conversation had begun with her asking about the possibilities of national lawmen existing and it had turned to talking about possible friendships and the legacies that a family might build; both the kings and Gousheralls were literally passed from father to son like a duty-bound inheritance. It all made Tuette feel a little sad and even a little angry. She had left her own home in New Opal several years ago and had grown up resenting the monarchy for practically robbing her parents of a normal life. Just because her father had made the finest footwear for the mountain didn’t mean he needed to always be on call to the king for whatever ridiculous reason might beset such a man. Thinking about it and remembering that King Gould was also most likely an only child, Tuette couldn’t help but wonder if perhaps her father had been constantly called to Mount Reign if only to relieve Gould of his bouts of loneliness. It seems desperately pathetic but wholly believable. With that kind of scenario in her mindset, Tuette actually found herself, yet again, feeling angry with her father for choosing the king over his family, but she also felt much sorrow for the man. Having to choose between keeping a monarch from a depressing situation and having to tend to a family that was fairly self-sufficient because of his loyalty… And, indeed, Tuette realized that the only reason they had never known economic hardships when she was a child – Part of why I even had so much free time to develop an interest in Magik – was because the king had obviously made sure they were well off; that, of all people, the king’s footwear-provider had nothing to worry about. Looking at Terry’s own booted feet, she wondered if those too were of her father’s design. Probably. And she might even just verify the suppositions she had just formulated with someone that might work on the mountain while King Gould had been there. Suddenly, the sadness she remembered feeling in regards to missing out on Ed’s revelation of her full name struck again and she now understood why. On a level deeper than her anger, Tuette had obviously known the truth regarding the importance of her father’s activities and that he had been looking out for the best interest of his family. Am I a selfish daughter in that respect? She suddenly realized that she probably was. And it only made her question the role of a parent even more: in order to provide an economically stable situation for a child, a parent has to spend time performing services for others that ironically draws them away from the family. It only helped her affirm her own situation regarding procreation. I don’t want children. Tuette knew it was a selfish ideal that had largely been fueled by her own upbringing but she also knew that she couldn’t spend what few years were afforded to any given person with helping shape another person’s mentality and morality. She was devoted to the science of Magik and the many different and beneficial properties that could be churned after years of practice and performance. No. A child will only slow me down. She knew what she wanted out of life, ultimately, and it might’ve made her feel selfish but Tuette understood that she most likely was not the mothering type. At least, not yet. She, maybe more than anyone, was well aware of the how the head energies could start flowing differently as one’s life goals changed. Tuette knew she didn’t want the responsibilities that came with children now but it was entirely possibly she might want it at some later date. Dermy stopped them, his breath seeming more ragged now as he gasped and gestured to a spot on the ground. “Tha’… Tha’… a good’n.” Looking around, she saw they were closer to the castle and off to eastern side of it. The quickly-setting sun was on the other side of Roost’s castle, the shadow it cast being all around them. Dermy made a circling gesture with his arm, the truly non-decrepit one. “’roun’ th’… th’ cas’le, oh. We ain’t workin’ fer a pe’fec’ circ’, oh. Nah, jus’ ‘roun’ an’ ta dis poin’. Oh.” He pointed again to the spot and looked at Cherry. Cherry only looked blankly at the short man. Dermy began to cough a little as the gasps decreased. Tuette spoke up. “Cherry, now’s the time to do it.” Cherry looked at Tuette. “With the seeds? The kernels? And your Key Phrase?” Cherry didn’t nod but said, “I know. I do not have the kernels though.” Tuette’s heart hammered into her head then, her pulse threatening to drown in her head energies. Without the kernels and the Corn Circle, Sylvester and Vest are in terrible danger! Has she lost them? Has she… “Ooops, oh. Fergot ta give ‘em over, oh,” said Dermy as he reached into his rucksack and withdrew a couple ears of corn. “Here’n,” he uttered, his face flushed red as he handed the ear to Tuette. She felt her own face might be red but she knew it wasn’t from embarrassment. Without meeting her gaze, he began trying to pluck kernels off of another ear. She started as well, letting the momentary anger pass and found it was difficult to do. When finally she got one off, she had a good place to start prying more away from the cob. Tuette voiced the incantation that would begin the ritual. She had drilled it into her memory with the direness of the mission behind each syllable. She handed a kernel to the young woman. Cherry mumbled her Key Phrase, blew on the kernel, and the stalk sprouted almost instantly after the seed hit the ground. Even though Tuette knew it was one of the most Potent forms of Magik she had ever seen, the novelty was wearing thin rather quickly, especially since she was spending so much time simply plucking messy corn kernels. The means justify the end though, in this case, because we simply have to stop the count. She knew it wouldn’t be long before they finished and the situation almost felt mundane at this point, despite the fact that they were literally calling a Primary down to claim a spot of land and a Cursed mad man. To pass the time, she decided to spark more conversation with Terry as she still thought it curious that no national lawmen existed. And even more curious that he wouldn’t outright know. Of course, spending such a large amount of time recuperating does tend to leave one out of the loop. “Would Vest know about any lawmen? I mean, I realize that some towns and villages have local enforcers of policy but I would think that some existed on a more kingdom-wide level.” Terry’s face screwed up as he watched their surroundings. “Uh, well, Vest might know. He’s certainly been with the Guard long enough to, uh, know rules and policy and… and stuff.” His words were meant to be reassuring but his voice carried a different message of uncertainty. “What do you mean?” It certainly was a curious manner in answering he question. “Well… It’s just… I don’t know Vest that well.” Tuette was confused. “Isn’t he your superior officer?” Terry was quick to acknowledge this. “Oh, yes, indeed! Yes, he is. Well, technically. I’ve never served under him. Not directly. I usually serve under a Guard named Nuerio. Cip Jah’t Nuerio.” Terry shook his head. “And, actually, I thought I was going to still be under him. But when I showed up to report right before meeting Dermy here and the king, Cip Veer – or Vest – he was there.” “Cip Veer?” asked Tuette as they continued along in a curving path. They had planted probably twenty stalks, only an arm’s-length apart. “S’that what you called him?” Again, Terry looked a little confused and even embarrassed. “I thought that’s how he introduced himself. I guess I heard wrong. When that Ed guy, when he said that his name was actually Sylvester, or Vest, I was surprised because I’d been calling him Veer the whole time. When I asked him about the mix-up and tried to apologize, he told me to forget about it. And I did.” As he spoke, Tuette’s mind began to rattle slightly at the similarities of the situation between Terry and his superior and Tuette and Sylvester, when she had been ignorantly calling him Celester. But something else was nagging her. Admittedly, she knew little of the Gousherall Guards except for their blind allegiance to the Decennian crown. But if Terry served under a different cip than Vest normally, why would they change that, whoever they were when regarding the Gousheralls? Is Vest more qualified to handle this decidedly important situation? Do they often change out officers? It seemed like a rational means of seeking cohesion amongst Guards, by having them work with different styles of management. Tuette often wondered how her Magik-styled life would be different if she had had access to more than just one freelance Mage like Corunny Voidet. Different, that’s for sure, she thought rather quickly. Still, she was bothered by the revelation. Terry seemed earnest enough to be telling the truth and if that was the case, why would Vest introduce himself as Veer? Was he trying to hide something, or had Terry truly misunderstood him? “Terry, what reason did Vest give for replacing Nuerio for this mission?” Terry shrugged his shoulders, keeping his eyes cast outwards. “He just said that he was my superior. That Cip Nuerio had been reassigned to that detail working the Serres Mor merchants all of a sudden.” “Did he have, uh…” She couldn’t think of the terms in a militant vocabulary. “I mean, did Vest have texts or wraps or something to… to verify it?” Terry’s brow shot up as he finally looked at Tuette. “Proof!” she finally said a little too loudly. “Did Vest have any kind of proof?” Terry just shook his head. “Well, aren’t some kind of credentials required for such an immediate shift?” Terry looked sheepish. “I… I don’t know.” His face flushed again as he attempted a weak but toothy smile. “We got our instructions via scripts a couple days before. I still have… mine…” he said with a grunt as he reached beneath his small sheet of armor on the front. He pulled out a folded script and tried handing it to Tuette. She waved it away in slight irritation. Why does he think I need to see it? But that did give birth to another notion. “Did Vest have one too?” Terry paused, his eyes looking in the distance. After a still moment for them both, time enough for Cherry and Dermy to silently advance by four more stalks, Terry finally said. “No.” After a small but audible swallow, he said again, “No. He didn’t.” “You’re sure?” Terry nodded. “In Lorstelta, the morning we left that place. Vest and I took off our plates to wash ‘em off somewhat.” His face looked sour then. “Why doesn’t the king keep his clothes clean? Or have any to change into? Doesn’t he realize he smells like—” “I don’t know, Terry. I can’t really fathom why. But Vest? What’d he do?” “He took off his front plate. This one,” he said while tapping his small sheet of abdominal armor that had just hosted the still-clutched mission instructions. Absently, she wondered how hard it was to follow instructions that might simple read Protect the king but she didn’t want to ask. “He took it off and we are told to keep our papers and identity slips in it. Case we die away from the mountain.” He took a weak breath. “Vest didn’t have ‘em. He took off his plate to clean it and I saw that he didn’t have ‘em. I thought to ask but then Jirra had me tell the king about breakfast being ready and Vest got dressed up quickly again and was back inside. I thought about asking him when we got a moment alone but then those seleagles took us and I pretty much forgot. Till now.” Vest was posing as a Gousherall or truly was a Gousherall Guardsman but had finagled the circumstances so he could participate with this dangerously important mission. Why? He’s been helpful and he’s even defended our very lives. Or not all of ours, but Sylvester’s at least. Maybe that’s the point. If he was working with Roost, he’d be trying his best to make sure Sylvester survives and everyone else was fodder for Salrouge. But he could be working for anyone, really, or he might even harbor his own private agenda. Whatever it is, it’s becoming clear that Vest hasn’t been completely honest with us all. Looking up at the castle, Tuette thought it was quite a serene scene. The setting sun outlined the darker structure with a golden border that belied the true evil that was supposedly housed within the bricked form. Like a cold slap to her face, she realized that the king and Vest were together inside the castle. The only entrance she had seen was now on the other side and they were more than a quarter around the castle proper. Quickly rehashing the situations they had encountered over the past week or so, Tuette realized that if Vest did have alternative plans, now would be the optimum time. And she felt like an idiot all of a sudden because it was Vest who had recommended abandoning the air-raft in favor of riding the buoy lines in the groups they had. She hadn’t suspected a thing and that had to have been less than an hour ago. And it was Vest who had failed to cut through the twine in the first place that had caused them to abandon the raft. No wonder I felt odd when he cut cleanly through the twine once Sylvester and Vest were the only ones available to ride it! “Terry, keep your eyes open. Watch out for anyone trying to stop the Circle from being grown,” she said while deftly reaching into her rucksack for her Freezing Pote. No matter the outcome, she knew that Sylvester had to survive the day. And besides, he doesn’t deserve any death that might come to him. Not as far as I know. Tuette couldn’t help but mentally compare Sylvester to a lame fig pup but, in a sense, he was still young and had a lot to learn about the world. If the Malforcrent hadn’t been stifling him for all these years, he might’ve developed into a decent leader, with or without the kingstone. Yes, King Sylvester still had a life to live. Tuette realized she had started this journey with one mindset regarding the monarch but, through exposure and understanding, she was feeling something else entirely. It couldn’t be pinpointed just yet but she knew that a sense of empathy wasn’t lacking. She bolted up the gentle hill and back to where they had seen the main entrance earlier. If Sylvester was found dead, especially after realizing a kind of truth like she just had, she knew she would also feel guilty for years to come. Clutching the Freezing Pote, she knew she would be giving up something important to herself: that she’d been clutching for years in order to Reverse her Curse. This is more important. For some reason, I know this is more important. With that keeping her insides warm against the suddenly-chilly evening air, Tuette found the entrance. No guards were posted and she remembered Joy stating that it seemed like only Count Roost and a servant existed there, along with the Cursed fly named Puze. The massive door wasn’t barred and she found it easy enough to slip inside. She couldn’t help but feel afraid though. It was as unfamiliar territory as any they’ve come across but it felt more insidious. Roost might not be here and if he wasn’t, when will he come back? What if he’s away from the island? What if he is here and Vest has already delivered Sylvester to the count? Or what if he’s already murdered the king? Too many questions assaulted her wondering mind and she was startled to see Sylvester approach, unharmed, from what looked like a cooking area across from the main entrance hall. “Tuette! Where are the others?” She pointed out the door and said, “Making the Circle,” as she glanced around. “Where’s Vest?” “He went up the stairwell there. Apparently, he heard a noise. Like someone was up there. He went to investigate and I went into the kitchen area. Been in there a while.” Sylvester then looked around. “I don’t think anyone else is here though. But, hey, you’ve already been here before, haven’t you?” She looked at the king, baffled by his question and then remembered her dizzying experience with Joy. “Oh. Well, yes and no. I stayed in the…” Then Tuette heard a small buzzing sound and that was the last she remembered before blacking out. |
| Count Roost had never been so uncomfortable in his life. Only during this moment of discomfort did he forget that this would be the decisive day regarding, quite possibly, the fate of the known world. But today, he was also meeting Botch’s father and basically taking custody of the boy. In the past week and more, Botch had proved to be a competent servant with the Potential to be a loyal apprentice the likes of which Roost had only perceived briefly in others. It was a somewhat formal situation but Roost knew that it had to be handled today. No more delays. There was always the chance that this day could prove disastrous by full moon’s rise and he wanted to insure that there were no loose ends that might otherwise distract him subconsciously. That and he wanted to have Botch at his side should the king come a-calling: it was always best to have known and trusted allies within a helpful distance. Again, Roost feared that he had overestimated the abilities of the man, the crown. That he might be dealing with a monarch who failed to recognize the true peril that his nation could face if he didn’t act. And he knew that it was King Sylvester who was acting; that or someone had robbed the man of his kingstone and was looking to prove his loyalty to a dying dynasty. The activation of the Artificial-from-Afar Charm in conjunction with Puze’s proximity to the kingstone had been proof of that much: the lei cat tooth disintegrated by a third with each activation of the Charm. Still, the doubt persisted and the count could only wonder about a king who allowed others to take care of the most important of threats. Presently, he was sitting in an anteroom of Ta Pelael Rote’s. Roost hadn’t realized that a ta served the community of Boost but did seem to recall one trying to meet with him when he took over the governorship of this stylized island. Roost also remembered turning the man away a couple times, each declination from the mouth of a different servant. Why has Botch never mentioned that he comes from a lineage of Magik? And where’s the boy now? His head energies focused on likely situations that had occurred among the residents of Boost following the Cursing of one failed servant after another: they would’ve probably flocked to Ta Rote in desperation. Of course, Ta Rote would’ve easily found the means of Reversing their Curses through a simple Charting session. Charting was like using a Finding Spell except it not only located the source of a particular practitioner of Magik ritual but the short- and long-term effects of a Spell and, in the case of Curses, the immediate means of Reversing it. It was most often used to realize the true purpose of a Charmed Stone or an unknown Pote and was often a basic lesson bestowed upon most apprentices. In attempting to dissect the possible past, Roost belatedly realized that he hadn’t shown Botch how to perform a basic Chart. But, of course, Charts weren’t always necessary for experienced Magikals. Cursory glances could be used to recognize many Potes and Charms, except for those Potent Magiks that don’t physically change the appearance of a Stone or liquid Pote. This is why. I hadn’t thought to tell Botch about them. That and because he hadn’t encountered other Mages yet. Ta Rote should’ve shown him though. What kind of father doesn’t bestow a useful dose of beneficial knowledge onto his son? A poor one. It wasn’t too much longer before some sort of benign-looking aid came and told Roost the ta was ready to see him. The count found it interesting that he, the governor, was being treated as if summoned when it was known that Roost was the one who demanded the meeting. With a smirk, he rose and approached the ta’s office, allowing the momentary guise of subservience to the petty Mage. Ta Rote was just below average height, which told Roost that Botch probably wouldn’t have move more room to grow, physically. Extending his hand to share a mutual wrist-grip, the ta smiled weakly at Roost. And Roost liked that. “Count Roost, sir, what circumstance has brought you from Castle Tigra Lei?” began Rote while disengaging his pallid grip and returning to his seat. Roost simply said, “Your son.” Rote hesitated just before finally sitting, another involuntary gesture that pleased Roost’s physically heavy heart. “You know that Botch has been acting as an exceptional servant as of late. And even has the makings of becoming a fine apprentice.” It looked like Ta Rote was going to chew his tongue before deciding to reply to anything the count said; his cheeks told as much. Finally, with his smile long gone, the ta said, “I… had no idea. No.” He then broke eye contact with Roost and his face flushed a rosy hue. This is the makings of an embarrassing situation. “But I should’ve known something was peculiar.” He sighed. “When he came to me stating that you and the man immolated via statue were one in the same, I thought it was only a story.” “But it’s true. I am that same man,” replied Roost as a tinge of heat rushed through his temples. Again he was reminded that his subjects hadn’t believed him and now hearing it for the second time, from an adult, made the fact more firm. Of course, it wasn’t like I had some ceremony of announcement. It now feels like that was necessary. Roost knew why he hadn’t made any such announcement though: it would’ve been like publicly stating his heavy reliance on Magik for the sake of his appearance. In short, it was a declaration of vanity and it wasn’t something that the count was ultimately proud of. It wasn’t like he was this island’s true leader or anything. He didn’t make policy. He just occupied the castle; his title and statement about being Boost’s governor was purely for exhibition. Exhibition is the practice of vanity. Roost knew this and realized his worries had been unfounded; the folk of Boost, those who saw him as a Magik tyrant that Cursed failed servants already knew he had no hold over island policy. They already knew him to be clinging to a title he didn’t enact. And that he used Magik regularly. Ta Rote had continued talking and the count forcibly drew himself out of his contemplative state to look into the Mage’s hazel eyes. “Yes. Obviously, you are. But my son doesn’t need to be in your employ.” His eyes bore into Roost’s. “You have a reputation that precedes you. In the form of servants that have failed to meet your expectations.” The count had expected this too but it didn’t make things that much easier. * ~ * ~ * The meeting had actually turned out to be shorter than expected. Roost thought it was funny how awkward situations lent to a time-slowing experience that felt quicker in the moment. But he also knew he felt a little wearier. “To embrace several awkward experiences in a row is to live a life in a day,” he muttered to himself. Glancing around, he noticed that the sun was nearing its contact point with the horizon. And that the walkways and alleys of the town were all but barren. Will it always be like this when I venture into town? Or any town in the future? Will people always fear me to the point of avoiding me? I bet Sylvester garners all manners of praise, wherever he goes. Thinking that made him feel an unexpected twinge of jealousy over the king. The man of incompetence was probably lauded over in every town and hollow he invaded with his crowning charm. Roost’s steps shallowed as his thoughts tended to race from one scenario to another: Roost, finally adorning the crown, entering a village and everybody immediately hiding behind their business and wares. King Roost meeting with an advising council and receiving no real advice; only bouncing his ideas off a bunch of yes-men or –women. Good Lord and former Count Roost leading a kingdom of silent abiders of law. All because he was known and feared for Cursing failures. The realization hit hard but knowing that he had someone like Botch supporting him made him feel wondrously better. Not completely but a good deal, to say the least. Making his way through the empty gaps that passed for paths between structures placed too close to one another, he finally exited the village proper… and was stunned when he looked up at Castle Tigra Lei. From this vantage point, he immediately noticed that a light was shining at the apex of his sole tower. “Count!” came a high and wheezed pitch. “Master!” Roost turned on a heel and saw Botch exiting the gloom created by shadow. He had a satchel under his arm and his hair was tussled; his face had red blotches of blood rushed beneath the skin which only make his pale skin more apparent. “Botch,” answered the count with quietness about his voice. His energies were distracted by the flickering of light at the top of the tower. Who could be up there, or possibly had been up there and is now elsewhere in my castle? “Sir… My father… He doesn’t…” Roost knew what the boy would finish saying: how Ta Rote had forbidden his only son from spending anymore time with the insidious rooster. Out of more respect for the boy than anything, he chose not to Curse the lowlife ta right then and there. Didn’t even take a sample of hair for later prospects. The awkwardly long but decidedly short meeting had ended with Roost simply getting up and leaving with somber waters inside himself. But Botch had obviously not felt the same way, thoughts easily denoted from his presence in the here and now. Roost nodded as the boy now had his full attention. Botch looked like he was going to start crying when he dropped his satchel and rushed at Roost with his arms spread wide and buried his face just under the count’s chin. It was an unexpected but decidedly welcome gesture as Count Roost returned the embrace and patted Botch’s shuddering shoulder blades. After several moments that weren’t too terribly awkward for the count, Botch disengaged from Roost and bent down to pick up his satchel while wiping his flushed eyes. Then the boy paused while looking past Roost. “Who’s that?” In the fading sunlight, Roost couldn’t make out the body or even the gender. But it’s a person, at least. Someone in a hood and cloak. The sight sent off a silent warning for Roost but he couldn’t pinpoint why. Maybe because we’re both witnessing a stranger enter my home. He looked at Botch and back at the castle. Our home. Remembering the light that seemed dimmer than before, Roost turned again to Botch. “I don’t know, my boy.” The sudden phrasing of familiarity had rolled easily off his tongue, he decided, and it didn’t taste sour passing his lips. But there was still something odd about it. “I’m not sure. But I intend to find out.” Lowering his stance just slightly, he looked into Botch’s eyes. “Lad, I’m going to confront whoever is inside. I want you to circle around and see if there’s anyone else that might enter behind me.” It seemed like a weak and foolish plan of surprise but it was all he knew he had with just the two of them and not even defensive Potes on his person. He knew he might be able to make his way back to Ta Rote’s place of business and strong-arm some defensive Magiks for himself but that would take more time than he might have. Whoever is in Castle Tigra Lei already has the upper hand. At least it’s a place I know rather intimately. “And when you don’t see anyone else, come in after me. But be careful.” Botch only nodded, wide-eyed. “I’m going to attempt to make it to my workshop and use something to stop them.” “Ya think it’s the king?” Roost stood up straight, continuing to stare down into the boy’s face. He was surprised he hadn’t put that piece of the puzzle in place by himself. Yes, Botch is going to prove useful, alright. “If it is Sylvester, he’ll have to deal with at least one more Artificial, Botch. And this one should be the smartest and most lethal of the batch, what with having the chance to learn from its predecessor’s mistakes and all.” Roost grinned. “But aren’t they told to protect the king? So you can get the kingstone?” That thought sobered the count up for a moment and brought the situation into focus. If Sylvester and others were already inside, it could prove disastrous to any of the others and Sylvester might come to harm anyway. All the more reason to move quickly. He couldn’t help but think how an erstwhile conclusion was coming about. Finally! And then it’s “Hello, kingstone” and “Goodbye, Voidet!” |
| Tuette looked surprised at his question and then seemed to remember something and said, “Oh. Well, yes and no. I stayed in the…” Then there was a buzzing sound and Sylvester saw a muted expression blanket Tuette like a sheet of falling water. “Keeeeng!” Sylvester turned and found that the small voice had come from the same direction as the buzz. “Keeeng! ‘ooo muz gaw!” Sylvester was confused because the only life form he saw directly in front of him was an abnormally large fly, about the size of his thumbnail. But the king felt it was unmistakable that the vocalizations were coming from the tiny, flying bug. His memory was jogged by the creature and Sylvester remembered Tuette talking about a fly that had most likely taken Beverane the seleagle with it. To this place? This was unmistakably Count Roost’s castle, small as it may be. Compared to Fyse Castle, this place is like one of New Opal’s smaller public structures. The fly was buzzing continually, drawing the king’s attention. But the presence of Tuette was a little alarming. Why isn’t she outside? Doesn’t she remember that the count isn’t trying to harm me but cares nothing about the others? She couldn’t know Roost isn’t here, so why take this risk? What had… “King,” came a small bellow from above. Sylvester looked and saw Vest descending. A very faint and new glow was coming from somewhere up the stairs and if Vest was saying anything else, Sylvester couldn’t hear it: the large fly was buzzing very near to his ear. What does it want? Sylvester swatted at the air but the fly was tenacious. It landed near his ear; whether on his shoulder or collar, he couldn’t tell but when the buzzing ended, the voice returned. “Haa eez nawt yorr fry-eend. Eez vile-ane!” Vilane? Vile? Villain? When Vest reached the bottom step, Tuette reacted, but in a manner most unexpected: she moved to step between Vest and the king. Sylvester was very surprised. He moved forward and put his hand on her shoulder. “Tuette? What’s wro—“ She shrugged his hand off. “Sy-ar, A apple-gize. Methinks yorr ‘lona.” “Fly? What’re you talking about? What’s going on?” Vest had continued approaching… and Sylvester noticed for the first time that the Gousherall had his dagger in hand. Was the count upstairs after all? Has my Guard killed the terrorist? Part of Sylvester was relieved at that prospect because it meant not having to face the man himself. But he realized that couldn’t be true as the dagger was clean and Vest had no makings of a struggle. Whatever he had intended to approach the king for, Tuette saw an end to it. She intercepted with her arm up, palm facing outward, but said nothing. It only managed to draw a sneer from Vest. He grabbed her arm— Like a flash of something otherworldly, Tuette reacted, but more decisively this time. She slapped his arm away, smacked the other, forcing him to drop the dagger, and then she punched him violently in the chest with both fists. Vest fell backwards. Tuette followed the man and all Sylvester could do was watch. The turn of events was too bizarre for anything but witnessing. But it was short-lived. It seemed that when Tuette stepped closer, Vest would retreat and when he began ascending the stairwell, he was wondrously lifted as if on strings and less violently placed against the wall. Tuette was making no gestures with her hands or any other visible extremity and Sylvester could only wonder how she was accomplishing this feat. The only people Sylvester had seen perform such acts were those identified as Koso. But Tuette had been vehement with her vocalizations against the people. The king decided to finally step forward and, as if walking through a hazy yet revealing barrier, he saw the reason for Vest’s predicament: Joy was actually exerting her own force and power against the Guard. But why? “Tuette, what’s going on?” “Was he not attacking you, king?” asked Joy from the wall. She was passive in speech while her actions might’ve caused a labored breathe in a mere Mortal. And Sylvester was stunned. Attacking? “He was approaching. It was Tuette who attacked him. But something’s not…” “Pessed!” came the fly’s voice at Sylvester’s earlobe. “Poossessed!” “Possessed? Who, Vest?” “He was trying to light candles up there,” said Joy while knocking her chin back up the stairs. “I kept blowing them out because I figured that the count might see them in the dark.” Sylvester could only wonder at how a World Spirit like Joy could perceive night and day inside her own element but thought not to ask. “At least, that’s what Puze there told me to do. I think he’s possessed.” A disgruntled sigh rumbled off the fly. “Ne-aw! ‘er! Tha gill! Herrr!” “Tuette’s possessed?” Joy’s face bore a sense of shock as she gazed on her newly acquired friend. Sylvester came around the woman and looked into her face. The familiar blankness was there alright, denoting the possession that had settled upon Reefetta and even Terry… and possibly Misren of the Malforcrent. What’s caused Tuette to be taken like this? In his fragmented way of speaking, the fly offered up an unfortunate reason: the Artificial-from-Afar Charm was tied to him and the monarch’s kingstone. When Puze had witnessed the pair approaching Castle Tigra Lei – And what a name that is, he thought contemptuously – he knew it was the king and a Guard. Witnessing the Guard trying to light candles above, Puze headed towards the king hoping that the Charm would work by making the Guard become possessed as Vest would’ve been the closest human. But Tuette had turned out to be the closest, a revelation too late for Puze to do anything about. “So what do we do with Tuette now that she’s possessed with an Artificial?” Vest offered nothing. Joy couldn’t offer anything. Puze said, “Een tome, thar Chirm vill fad-ade. Thet eor yas pu-u-ut thar boody een dangy-ar.” “Yes,” Sylvester stated. “After I flipped Reefetta, she lost her Artificial. Did it think the body was in danger?” Puze explained what Tuette already had: the false spirit needed the host in order to fulfill its own mission. If it sensed a danger to the host’s body, it would abandon the body. “So all we have to do is put Tuette in danger?” “King,” cried Joy. “I wish I could… help more… but my concentra…” and she vanished. Vest fell to the stairs with a huff, his face red for the effort. The implication was finally sinking in for Sylvester with a panic: Vest was lighting – had lit – notice signals for the absent count, possibly warning him about the king’s presence. That meant Vest… Sylvester didn’t want to think about it! One of my own Gousheralls? And unpossessed, at that. A free agent. Looking at Vest as the Guard gasped, Sylvester asked the older man. “A traitor?” Vest repeated with raspy words. “You are the traitor!” This was a kind of awkward revelation for Sylvester that made him step backwards in astonishment. “Me? I am the king, Vest! I cannot betray myself!” Vest began to chuckle as he unsheathed yet another dagger that was beneath his upper arm. How many weapons are administered to these Guards, wondered Sylvester absently, almost absurdly. “You are the Abominable King, Sylvester. An abomination of the very Magik that brought you to us! “Your line was great but you have destroyed what it means to be the King of Decennia! Letting that kriffing Malforcrent weaken your status! Your power!” Sylvester’s face reddened slightly at this remark as this was an icy truth being slammed against the king’s own psyche. “I thought that you might be redeemable, King, but your revelation regarding just how useless that rock in your neck is put me over the edge. Made me realize that I too was chosen for a reason!” “Chosen?” asked Sylvester franticly, looking about the darkening room that seemed more constricting than ever. “Who chose you?” Shaking his head, Vest said, “Doesn’t matter. You won’t live long enough to savor the truth.” Sylvester felt like a fool. He had blindly trusted this man, this Vest. And why? Because he said he was a Gousherall. “What of your order? The other Gousheralls?” Vest chuckled once more. “The words I’m spouting? I’m repeating. Almost all Gousheralls feel this way, Sylvester. Looks like I’m the first to realize what needs to be done. The first to take… care… of—“ Tuette stepped in the Guard’s way once again. She appeared to be operating autonomously, like a life-sized puppet might behave. Sylvester realized that, essentially, Tuette was a puppet. But could I hurt her? Might she be more beneficial in this state or as a well-aware sorceress? She seemed to harness additional strength but she also had the knowledge of basic Magiks when she was wholly conscious. Again, he asked himself if he could hurt her. Or at least put her body in enough peril to exorcise the Artificial. Vest inadvertently attempted to solve the problem by attacking Tuette with his dagger. It was a lunge fueled by whatever was driving the Gousherall; possibly hatred for the king or even the entire system he served. Sylvester wondered how long the man truly was resentful. And if Terry was the same way. Puze began to buzz at Sylvester’s ear but not before the king witnessed Tuette grabbing up Vest’s lost dagger and using it to parry against the bulkier Guard in a short-range melee. “Keeeng. Thar cou’t beez heee-r’n ‘hor-r-rtly. You-z muss ba hidzz.” Still drawn by the potentially lethal scuffle, Sylvester could only nod. His mouth was suddenly too dry to properly formulate words. Distantly, he heard Puze direct the king to a door against the closest wall. He absently moved to the door and opened it slightly. Peeking inside, he only saw a set of stairs that went however deep was prescribed for such a design; he didn’t know. A small part wanted to find out. But a larger part wanted to stay and insure Tuette’s safety. I can’t leave her alone to fight my battle. Leaving the door slightly ajar and ignoring the fly’s protests, Sylvester moved back towards the fighting pair which had also been impossibly moving towards the king. That probably means Tuette is losing ground. Was she losing the battle, then? Or is the real Tuette intentionally trying to force out the Artificial by making it believe the host is in some kind of danger? For some reason, Sylvester doubted it. Merely because he just didn’t know. The combatants were beginning to actually move more quickly. Thrusts and even slight punches were thrown. Tuette took them in stride while never making an attempt to clear spittle or even a rivulet of blood from her nose. Vest seemed to grin wider with each strike. Each grin faded as quickly when Tuette would land a decidedly more vicious hit or an even closer strike. Sylvester stepped closer and Puze was buzzing in his face. “Doooo nut, Keeeng! Tha Gurrrd whilp keel youz!” “I can’t stand by while he attacks her. She’s…” But he was disallowed from finishing whatever he might’ve thought to say because what he saw next was too shocking: Vest, with a grunt, shoved his dagger at Tuette and she took it at the chest with a bellowed croak from her unused throat. Sylvester felt his own chest tighten and his stomach flip. Tuette fell to the wayside, a decidedly pained and painful look tying up her facial features. Vest himself looked more surprised than anything at having scored such a strike. Did he truly intend that or is he just trying to get to me in whatever manner presents itself? He might’ve been set on killing me but that doesn’t mean he presumes himself to be an executioner over everyone else. The king only hoped these thoughts were passing through the betrayer’s head too. The Guard’s eyes looked like they were catching up with reality as he slowly, almost defiantly, stared into Sylvester’s. Tuette was on the floor, clutching her chest. Sylvester was frozen in place but from his vantage, saw no blood. A kind of anger was beginning to rise inside the king as he saw the Cursed sorceress writhing on the floor in agony. It was quickly distilled by Puze’s action: the fly yelled for the king to flee one last time before hurling himself at the Gousherall Guard. Vest looked equally surprised at the action and bucked his neck around to avoid the insect. Puze had an advantage in his tiny size and easily landed on the man’s neck. But he didn’t move when Vest brought his hand slowly up as if to smash the invasive fly. And when Vest clapped his hand to his own neck, killing the fly in the process, he vanished. Just like Beverane! Thinking it also caused him to wonder the final stance of the beneficial bird. A deep groan from the floor drew Sylvester’s attention and he finally knelt down to see what he could do for Tuette in her final… But there was nothing wrong. Tuette groaned but she was no longer clutching at her chest. She turned slightly as if fighting to stay awake. Where there was the slash through her tunic, a leather-wrapped Stone was partially spied. “Tuette?” There was a twitch and nothing more. Vest is a powerful man. He probably drove some might behind that final stab. This wasn’t the time to leave someone important lying around. Sylvester knew that at least. Thinking about where Puze had originally directed the king to run, he hoisted up Tuette’s lithe form, nudged open the door with his padded foot, and descended into the darkness with more confidence than before. Because I’m not alone. Confidence is bolstered by numbers. * ~ * ~ * It smelled weird in the lower level of the count’s castle. Like something he might’ve dreamed. Every other step he took down the stairs led him to think he might topple forward and land atop Tuette, crushing her somehow. I should’ve thought this through. But what could’ve been done? Puze, in some remarkable feat, had transported Vest away from the Sylvester and Tuette. And Roost is more than likely marching his way through the twilit landscape to deal with the very monarch that he’s been plotting against for… a week? The more Sylvester thought of it, the less he worried about tripping down the rest of the way and eventually wondered if, in fact, this whole scheme had been in action for longer than a week and some days. A month? A year or more, even? Sylvester had been the king for quite a while and even if he didn’t know this Count Roost personally, he surely wasn’t born into title. The meeting that introduced this menace sprang up in the king’s mind and he was able to recall that Boost had only hosted the current governor for a year or two. Was it less? Perhaps Roost had been plotting this for a while and becoming this island’s count was merely another link in a long chain of events. The idea that someone could’ve possibly devoted so much time and effort against Sylvester personally chilled him. He then realized that it was probably more than just Sylvester, the man, but the king. Yes, this is most likely an act set against the king. But would it have occurred if King Gould was still been alive? Probably not. His father would’ve remained king for at least another year had he been alive. For Sylvester, it felt very much like it was a personal attack against him and his sensitive monarchial status. Does Roost know about the kingstone? Does he know it’s essentially worthless? Sylvester didn’t have time to answer his own question as he found himself at the bottom of the stairs. They had curved at odd points and he was standing near a closed, heavy-looking door. Am I under the pitiful castle or have I moved beyond the area we intend to offer up for Dorothy, if she really exists? If this all really works. He looked down at Tuette in her arms, folded into a near-fetal position. Her face looked less pained, as if she had allowed unconsciousness to take away any discomfort that Vest might’ve caused. I’m putting a lot of faith in her. But why? Because this journey has opened my eyes to the fact that some beneficial Magik might exist, even if my own inherited form has proved wholly benign? That was the dominant idea at the moment: that he might be prone to believing something terribly fantastic because he was trained to since birth… but nothing fantastic had ever come from his kingstone. And Tuette is comprised of the fantastic lifestyle, basically. She knows various forms of sorcery and she’s Cursed. I feel Cursed myself, lately. The kingstone and his own upbringing had failed him greatly and he was deemed an ineffectual king. That was the only reason that Vest sought to end him and Sylvester knew it. Trusting in Tuette’s faith and ideals seemed the only sensible alternative now. Vest clearly was not going to bring harm to Count Roost. He was practically working with the tyrant. Terry was possibly still loyal to the king – The kingstone, anyway – but he was protecting Cherry. If Roost comes upon the others and realizes what we have planned, he will assuredly stop them at any cost. The supposed tome is yours, Roost, so you must… He realized his mental-misstep just moments after thinking it, after expressing the passive doubt. Sylvester had referred to the mastery tome, the collection of Spells and Curses, as a supposed item, implying it might not exist. Sylvester looked into Tuette’s face once again. Her features were softer in this poor lighting. She almost appeared to be glowing even though Sylvester knew it was nothing but the drying sweat she had exerted reflecting the candlelight. Why are there candles down here? According to both Joy and Puze, the count likes to stay aboveground when plotting. What’s down here, then, that requires near-constant candlelight? He knew it was a constant light source because of the amount of wax drippings that adorned the walls and that had built beautiful stalagmites just below the ancient wall sconces. The underground hall smelled of the stale wax and fresh dirt and the candles only went to a certain point. Whether a wall was just beyond the lip of darkness or a tunnel into further oblivion, Sylvester didn’t know. Only one door was visible and as it was the only place to go, the king proceeded forward while keeping his ears tuned to any sound that might be carried down the stairwell they had just exited. Tuette began to fidget in his arms, nearly causing Sylvester to drop her. Is she writhing because she doesn’t know what’s happening or simply because she’s being carried? He couldn’t know so he didn’t answer his own question. Instead, he brought his face closer to hers and tried to lull her with a stream of shushing sounds. As he stopped and then started to say her name, she bucked her head upwards and cuffed his chin with her forehead. He felt his lower teeth slam abrasively against his upper teeth and small spots came about. Sylvester felt slightly dazed then and stepped backwards to land with his back to the wall. Tuette was moving about with her eyes closed. When she finally opened them, she calmed down and looked around, blinking rapidly. She then let out a groan and put a hand to her forehead. Sylvester slid partially down the wall and when he reached a certain point, Tuette was able to swing herself out of his cradling grip. She tottered as it about to fall and Sylvester wondered if she might not accidentally impale herself on one of the wax formations. He leaned forward in an attempt to catch her should she head in that direction. But she didn’t. Tuette stabilized herself and looked around. “Wh…?” was all she managed to stammer out. “We’re below Roost’s castle. Puze told me to…” “What…?” she started when she felt the spot on her chest that was mostly holed fabric. “Vest tried to stab you. The Dehydro Stone. I’m guessing that’s Eafa’s. I guess it saved you.” “B-but…?” “An Artificial took you. Vest tried to kill me. Said I’m not worthy to be king.” He felt a tremor unexpectedly inhabit his throat, causing him to take a quick breath. “Those other Artificials never tried to kill me either. But if someone had, the kriffing things would’ve tried to save me, it seems. Guess Roost really does want me ‘live.” Tuette looked more perplexed than ever, as if she also couldn’t understand the reasons why Roost might want Sylvester to still be alive. Sylvester himself started to wonder if it wasn’t so the count could swing a killing blow himself. Rumors purport him as being malicious enough with Cursing, anyway. She took on a new stance as Sylvester noticed her sniffing the air. “We’re in a healing place.” Sylvester sniffed slightly and realized that the atmosphere reminded him of the waiting room of Ac’s leading ta. Was he a healer? Seems like a good, proper leader should know how to heal, Sylvester suddenly supposed… But the king looked around again, taking stock of the surroundings. “Looks like a dungeon to me. Fyse has a few in the mountain itself.” He shrugged then. “So I’m told. I’ve never thought to prove their exis…” “Well, dungeon some time ago, yes.” She moved towards the only visible door while pointing out the heavy bolts that were presently unfastened. “But currently, it’s an infirmary. That smell is haj root. When boiled, it gives off an aroma that’s supposed to be soothing.” She sniffed again. “But it hasn’t been boiled in several months, at least.” A bout of whoops and coughs sounded from the other side of the door then and Sylvester felt his pulse jump. Above, the heavy door they had both entered through a short while ago opened noisily, the sound carrying easily down the stairwell. They both tensed and Sylvester silently motioned that they at least move into the room. He wasn’t prepared to face the count. Tuette was reluctant. “There’s at least one person in there, maybe more.” “Right, and he’s probably sick so he won’t be putting up much of a fight.” She chewed her lip while looking into his eyes. “What if he’s stick with something contagious.” Sylvester hadn’t thought of that. But I don’t want to risk ambling around in the dark that makes up the rest of these catacombs. Still listening, Sylvester heard the footsteps fading and he recalled that Vest had lit something upstairs that would be visible from outside. It was obvious the count would head for the top of his tower before examining the lower level. Haphazardly ignoring her warnings of possible contagion, Sylvester reached past Tuette to push against the heavy door. He was actually surprised to find it unbarred. Tuette held her breath but Sylvester wasn’t sure if it was an involuntary reaction or because she didn’t want to breathe something in. “We just need a few more minutes, right? Before the Corn Circle is done?” As if she had forgotten completely about their plan – her plan – she released her captured air and, while rolling her eyes, stepped into the room. * ~ * ~ * At the entrance was a three-tier shelf. Tuette’s hand reached out and grabbed a rock. Probably a Magik Stone of some kind. While her eyes roamed the room, the king’s went straight to the single bed and its seemingly-diminished occupant. He looked more than twice as old as Sylvester. He had thin hair which stood out on his head in a variety of ways that spoke in comical and depressing ways. It said to Sylvester No one really sees me, so why care about my appearance? Sylvester himself suddenly became self-conscious about his own curled hair and how it wasn’t hiding his kingstone like the high collar was currently doing. Around the bed was mismatched tables and surfaces and upon those were stacks and stacks of scripts and various texts. Sylvester recalled Tuette’s repeated warnings about keeping certain iterations of ink away from itself but such a precaution seemed lost on the old man. Or whoever is supposed to be caring for him, be it the count or someone who works for him. Thinking about the tiny castle, Sylvester didn’t recall any servant activity and how that was just another way that Fyse Castle differed from Castle Tigra Lei. In Fyse, there seems to always be someone around every corner at all hours! But does a count have time to take care of an elderly man? Obviously not, judging by the blatant signs of neglect. “Please,” he rasped. Tuette’s head jerked to the old man as if she hadn’t noticed him yet. “Sit with me.” Neither approached. The old man cracked a partially toothless smile. “Or stand. It makes no difference. Company is company.” His wrist twitched and he winced but immediately shrugged it off as if it hadn’t occurred. “Are you callers to the count? Has he left you alone while he addresses more pressing matters?” Sylvester wasn’t sure how to answer such a question and apparently Tuette wasn’t either as she offered up nothing. The silence was too much for the man to handle, especially with two new faces to provide potential conversation. “My name is Coge. What’re your na—?” “What are you sick with, Coge?” asked Tuette. The question seemed to catch Coge off-guard, to say the least: he physically slumped further into his cushioned bed and lost slight focus in his eyes. “I suffer from… Mylup’s Disorder.” Tuette stiffened at the confession. Sylvester stiffened at Tuette’s reaction. The old man raised his arms. “Please, no. I am far beyond the stage of contagion.” But Tuette didn’t relax. Sylvester wondered if she simply wanted to bolt back the way they came but also found himself wondering what the disorder actually was. So he asked. The old man sighed again though Sylvester imagined it was more a physical discomfort rather than hesitance over talking about his condition. Being kept in a dungeon might make people want to talk about anything. Dressing it up with medicines and scents doesn’t really make it any kind of healing place. “Mylup’s Disorder is a condition of the muscles. It’s contracted when someone’s bitten by a semi-carnivorous plant called a kettle’bot. For animals, it proves fatal. But for us lucky humans, it’s a long life of suffering that increases with age.” His cheek twitched then and Coge looked pained for it. Tuette spoke up then. “Random muscles twitch at intermittent times. There are moments when several muscles spasm uncontrollably.” Tuette gestured to the shelf next to the door. “That’s what the Pain-Less Stone is for, I assume. During the worst moments.” Coge grimaced. “The kind count has the best intentions, anyway.” Sylvester exchanged glances with Tuette. “We actually believe he has anything but the best intentions. He’s put a Curse on the kingdom!” Coge frowned as if finding this impossible to hear. “A Curse on all of Decennia?” Sylvester nodded. “Then every Decennian will be affected?” Tuette nodded. “Then I guess… it’s a good thing I’m not a true Decennian.” Sylvester’s mind stopped all thought processes and a cold sensation began to creep into his arms and legs. “What do you mean?” Tuette, who was slightly in front of Sylvester, began to back herself against the king’s body as if trying to move him with the might of her delicate form. “Well,” began Coge as he sucked in his lower lip and turned his eyes upward. “Since I was born in Gor Bilesk, I don’t have anything to worry about, King Sylvester.” Sylvester’s heart dropped and he felt he might loosen his bowels. This decrepit man knows who I am… but how? Not even those who spent every day under the shining sun recognize me. This man, this Coge, has probably spent the last few years in a dungeon, more or less, being treated for a Disorder and… “Are you the one…?” Coge let out a slight laugh. His elbow twitched and the laughter instantly died. “No, no, king. I can’t Curse anything. Anyone.” He raised his hands in a type of defeat. “No matter what I might think of my uncomfortable situation, I’m not under any type of Curse, myself.” “Then the count…?” started Tuette. Again, Coge raised his hands, palms up, but also let a smirk break out. “Whoever wanted to wreak havoc on my family, obviously. That’s who Cursed him.” “You—Your fam…?” Coge simply nodded. Tuette offered up nothing; she was speechless. “Count Roost is your son?” “Roost is just the name he adopted. He wanted to distance himself from the family vine. Blames me for his childhood tormentors, I guess. And since I know your full name, King Sylvester, you should know mine. “It’s Coge Nyken Voidet.” Voidet. The name hit a nerve with Sylvester and was probably striking more than that with Tuette. Sylvester instantly recognized it as the name of the Cursed sorceress’s former teacher, the one that had Cursed her and effectively changed her desired course within the Magik community. Looking at the side of Tuette’s face, Sylvester saw that her cheek had drained of color and she was now putting more weight against the king, as if she might fall from the shock of it all. The coincidence was finally catching up to Sylvester though. This old man’s son, Count Roost, has Cursed my entire kingdom. And it appears that Roost has been orchestrating it, not for my destruction to deliver me to the very land that holds his ailing father. But is Roost simply trying to bring his father and I together? Is this why he doesn’t want me to meet my demise? Sounds of a struggle reached them all simultaneously. Weapons clashing without shouted words, which seemed strange. Sylvester thought of Vest possibly fighting with the count, but the idea of Dermy or Terry entering the castle also entered his mind and he became fearful for them. For Dermy at least since he still wasn’t certain of Terry’s true allegiances, and also because Terry had at least some fighting techniques. “Your son,” began Tuette. Sylvester looked again at her pale cheek and saw how tensely her jaw was clenched, as indicated by the way she was now clamping down on words that might otherwise escape her grasp with ease. “He Cursed…” “Decennia, yes,” said Coge though Sylvester detected that she had been on the verge of implicating Roost’s actions against her years prior. “But he was told to.” Coge sighed while gently shrugging his shoulders. “It seems like it was the only way to roust you off that mountaintop retreat of yours, King.” Roust? “What do you mean?” Coge twitched and sighed the pain away again. Sylvester couldn’t imagine the type of pain associated with such a motion. “The only way to get back what is mine,” Coge said through tight lips. His face, amusingly affable before, was now showing veins. His arms shuddered and it was a few tense moments of having to listen to weapons clatter above before the ailing elder decided to explain. “I contracted Mylup’s when trying to get it myself. It was then that I realized it wouldn’t work that way, so I settled down and raised a family.” His eyes pierced Sylvester’s. “Do you know how difficult it is to find someone Cursed who’s willing to take money for the sake of Cursing someone else? Apparently, they don’t want to spread their misery though I can’t understand why.” Sylvester thought about Tuette quickly Cursing Terry and how she had been adamant on Reversing the Curse just as quickly, all for the greater benefit of intellectual gain. Not knowing much about people in general, Sylvester saw her logic but also wondered why more people weren’t Cursed, if only to broaden the afflicted community and create a sense of belonging to something. But each Curse came with it’s own stipulations and Tuette seemed to understand that everyone, Sylvester included, wished for a sense of autonomy; free will. But Coge continued, tensing at the random pain and ignoring the fight upstairs – a fight that was generating louder clashes of metal and now included the occasional grunt or groan. “To have my son Cursed before he was conceived was the hard part. Raising a bastard of a child came along easy enough. Letting him abandon me in my hour of need, that was a piece of gorja. Guilting him into trying to obtain the Godblade… that was tricky, but it worked, obviously.” The Godblade. Had Tuette mentioned it a day or so ago? It seemed a hazy memory now. She must’ve recognized the word as she let out a gasp when Coge mentioned it. “You’re seeking something that doesn’t exist? And to this extent?” she nearly bellowed, indicating the room and castle above in one sweeping gesture, possibly including the impending Curse against Decennia as well, but Sylvester could never be certain with her. Coge didn’t seem to enjoy the suggestion that the blade didn’t exist though. “It does exist, girl. Valtos’ arm, lost to the Mortals of Valent and forged into—“ “Forged? How?” The color was returning to her face as a splotchy red that also spread to her neck. She seemed to be radiating a kind of heat as well as the debatable topic seized her. “Why would Valtos sever his arm and give it to us? Immortals enter this plane and they crystallize. They can’t exist here in any other form. That crystallization can’t be altered. Not by us Mortals. Therefore, no blade.” Sylvester thought she might’ve rolled her eyes but his angle didn’t offer any kind of confirmation. The elder looked angry as his face took on a shade considerably darker than Tuette’s cheek. “Look—“ was all he managed before Tuette rushed to the shelf by the door, picked up what she had labeled as a Pain-Less Stone, and looked as if she would smash it against Coge’s skull. Instead, she stopped short when she flinched him into silence and put the Stone against the man’s exposed forearm. She said something under her breath and Coge went slack. Sylvester was baffled. “I thought you said that Stone took pain—“ “It merely relieves the rest of us from the burden of having to suffer helplessly while someone in real agony writhes about nearby.” She hefted the Stone one-handed. “I guess its label is a misnomer. Maybe just call it a Paralyzing Stone?” Her eyes went a little glassy as she chewed her lip while looking at the Stone. “Although, translations from early Valutian text might indicate the confusion—“ “Tuette. We need to get going. I don’t think we have a lot of time before the Corn Circle is done. It’ll be confiscated by Dorothy whether we’re in it or not, I assume?” Tuette nodded before pocketing the Stone. It bulged slightly from her hip. He wondered if she might be mistaken for having dislocated her hip bone. “You’re right. We need to get out of here.” She looked up at the ceiling of the dungeonite infirmary. “But we have to go back up. I don’t think we should risk going down the tunnel any further, since it might not even lead anywhere.” They left the room in a hurry and Sylvester found himself wondering what it was that had originally drawn him to the castle in the first place. He remembered when a decidedly loud clattering sounded, indicating a fallen sword: he had come to insure Roost remain stationed within the Circle. But part of him also wanted to know the reason behind why he had put a Curse on all of Decennia. From what Roost’s father had revealed, the count might’ve had no choice in the matter. His mental obligations swayed his path. Upon realizing this, Sylvester understood that Roost was very similar to the king himself. The notion made him stop on the steps and Tuette, charging up behind him, ran into his lower back and he fell forward, only to catch himself with both hands. He turned over, sitting for a moment on the dark steps. “Roost and I are the same.” Tuette scowled at the king in that familiar “Quite being stupid” manner. “What? No you’re not. Not even close. And he’s not Roost. He’s not even a governor! He probably murdered the last guy and took control with Magik. Happens more often than you might think in these smaller communities.” He looked at her. How can she break this all down with so much glib? So much disaffection? In her eyes, Sylvester thought he might recognize something else though; something that he saw in himself all too often. Yes, Tuette needs answers. Even before this quest, Sylvester knew he would’ve preferred to understand the reasoning behind his placement as the King of Decennia – in details that extended beyond bloodlines and tradition. He wished for answers from his kingstone and received none. With breaking down the rationalities of the predicament, she could finally focus on why Roost – Voidet – did the things he did. Part of the answer had only presented itself: in some delineated way, the faux count had wished to redeem the legendary Godblade. But if what Tuette said was the truth, then it was a fruitless journey. And if steps on the journey are meaningless, that means the Curse is unnecessary. Pointless. A part of Sylvester flared up with anger just then and he found himself hoping that the Godblade was as real as the sky was high because otherwise, his kingdom had been put into reckless jeopardy. Yes, Sylvester suddenly realized with this simple line of thinking that he ached for even more answers as well. And that the only way to find them was to confront Roost head-on. But time was now against them for a different purpose. Assuming the Corn Circle worked – and a part of Sylvester was still reserved to believe that it wouldn’t – they didn’t have a lot of time to find out what Voidet wanted from the king and how anything like what he possessed could be used to procure something as unattainable as a piece of the very deity that governed their realm from afar. Without a word, Sylvester stood and charged up the stairwell again. * ~ * ~ * After charging upwards, Sylvester admired how the door at the top of the stairs framed a picturesque moment: the foyer was lit in fading orange and through the window in the stairwell that led up into the castle’s sole tower, Sylvester could see burgeoning stars coming out as if to glimpse what they might otherwise never see: sunset. The moment was robbed of them quickly as an unfamiliar silhouette was encased by much of the doorway. It was black from this angle but Sylvester imagined that his own face could be seen easily. He wasn’t sure about Tuette’s though: she was still behind him. The figure was panting though, as if labored. He didn’t hold a weapon but one seemed to be fastened to his arm. A kind of liquid could be seen dripping from the double-pronged end and Sylvester felt sick inside. Seeing as how Vest has turned coat, it isn’t likely that he struggled to the death against someone who is adamant about harming the kingdom. Then again, Vest wanted the king dead, not the kingdom. He had seen himself as being the ultimate patriot that way and for this, Sylvester felt the faintest amount of admiration. Still, the silent mass atop the stairs could just as easily have skewered Terry or Dermy or even Cherry, the gifted dullard. Thinking about any of them – or possibly all three of them – being dead worried Sylvester briefly and not just because they had grown a type of bond that is uniquely fused by travel. But because that meant the Corn Circle might not be completed. Sylvester didn’t relish the idea of having to fight a person: the idea made him as sick as the notion of his friends being dead. The kingstone held many combative skills, but he knew it was beyond wishful thinking to hope that the knowledge would trickle out of the ether and into the king’s head and hands. “King Sylvester, I pre—“ The large front door creaked on rusty hinges, drawing the silhouette’s attention if only for a moment. He then disappeared from the doorway and the king rushed up with Tuette on his heels. As he came into the foyer, he saw Vest at the foot of the ascending stairwell. A pool of blood was beneath him and his face was actually twitching into half-smiles and half-frowns. It was unsettling. Turning to the front door, Sylvester caught the sickening sight of Dermy being grossly impaled by a noticeably-clean shaven young man. Sylvester felt like retching and Tuette let out a muffled shriek. The shriek surprised even Sylvester but it was the killer that seemed more surprised than even Dermy, who looked more stunned than pained. But the double-pronged skewers were easily puncturing the diminutive man’s chest, his heart. A tremble took over as he fell to the wayside, off the skewers. Blood from Vest still coated the weapon – Or maybe weapons? – so he couldn’t be sure exactly how deep they had entered Dermy, but they seemed to do the trick: Dermy lay on the floor, on his side, struggling with a poor sense of dignity to keep blood from escaping his wound. The assailant had already decided that Dermy was no longer a threat and was turned fully back on Sylvester and Tuette. His face was contorted in shock as he looked not at the king but at Tuette. Sylvester seemed confused. Why would a terrorist’s assassin be shocked by— “Tuette!” cried the killer though it wasn’t clear whether it was a cry laden with more anger or grief or just plain disbelief. Looking quickly at Tuette, Sylvester saw her face screw up in quick confusion and then just as easily settle into a cold, impassive state. As if the blow to her one-time companion had no effect on her. Proving her appearance of indifference, she said, “Hello, Corunny.” Corunny? She knew… but it dawned on Sylvester later than he would’ve liked to admit. Corunny was the count’s actual name. The manner she had described him before, he was supposed to be an engrossingly obese man. But this ruthless fighter and killer was lean and demonstrated keen combative abilities that someone overweight shouldn’t be primed for. Of course, he has Magik backing him and most likely is going to use it to his full advantage. Looking at Dermy on the floor, Sylvester wondered what had drawn the farmer here and if his earlier fears weren’t valid: if the others were still alive and performing the ritual for calling down Dorothy. Thinking about the unfortunate proclivities of Vest and his ideas about what a king should be, and seeing Dermy writhing on the floor in an untold amount of pain, Sylvester felt something inside him change. It was a sense of something needing to happen and he knew he had to do it himself. He felt insane doing it but Sylvester bolted towards Vest’s corpse and his dropped short sword. But his footing escaped him and he fell face-forward. The sword was at arm’s length and he was able to reach for it and propel himself back to a standing position. Sylvester felt hot in the face and the manner of his movements seemed to have shocked the count and Tuette; they hadn’t moved in the time it took him to regain his footing with the weapon in hand. Gripping it and holding it in front of him, he was reminded of when he had used Terry’s to poorly teach Tuette a lesson. The handle on the sword felt different and Sylvester recalled that Terry now had Vest’s sword, but then where had this one come from? The king could only assume that, during the deceased Guard’s meanderings upstairs, he had come across it. He could imagine the Gousherall being approached by the false count and, when Voidet revealed how he wanted to the king to live, Vest grabbed what he could to save his life. “What’re you doing?” asked Tuette, but Sylvester didn’t really know. He just knew that he felt threatened by the man. He might not have been able to order the man to die before or even do the deed, but his blood was boiling to the point that he felt he might be able to do anything. A kind of crackling energy seemed to rifle just beneath the surface of his skin and he wondered if it was real or imagined and if it would travel into the blade and shoot sparks when it made contact with Voidet’s odd weapons or even his skin. “I’m… I’m…” he breathed deeply just once. “I don’t know, but…” and then he lunged at Voidet or Roost or whatever he wanted to be called. Why so many liars? And in this room alone! With a two-handed, wide swing of his short sword, he already felt out of control of the weapon but his anger at the situation wouldn’t allow him to stop. In his peripheral, he only glimpsed Tuette’s dimly-lit features: she seemed surprised at the outcome, but not more than he himself was. What’s driving this inside me? His sword connected with Voidet’s long prongs and he looked even more surprised then Tuette, but he was welcoming it. A part of Sylvester’s mind was clinging to the recently-confirmed fact that Voidet, Tuette’s former teacher, didn’t want the king to die and he wondered if this was why he felt compelled to wage combat with the man: because he knew his demise was most likely impossible. The connection was brief as the count absorbed the blow easily enough and swept the king’s weapon downward. When the sword clanged against the stone, a spark shot off and a similar spark burst inside Sylvester. The fuel of fighting is what sparks our blades, he said to himself in a moment’s respite, thinking about the unnerved-feeling he still possessed. Is fighting the only way to get rid of it? If so, I’ll wage on. At least until Tuette’s plan comes about. He again wondered if it would be worthwhile to count on the desired outcome but came upon the conclusion that he really had no choice. Whatever Voidet had planned for the king, it obviously wasn’t desirable either. He still intends to Curse an entire kingdom! No, I won’t let a common or even uncommon terrorist twist what my future holds. So I’ll fight on and pray to whoever listens to prayers that Dorothy swoops in and saves us all. That’s assuming a god even cares about us, he thought grimly as he cast out another weakly-powered swing. It was met with ease and refuted by Voidet. If she cares, it’s a few more minutes. If not… then we just keep fighting. Knowing that only two options were immediately available, Sylvester felt better. It was what might follow either option that began to unnerve him. He hated uncertainty. |
| The attack had been, above all things, unexpected. But Roost was prepared. Arriving at the foyer to his own residence, he had immediately gone up the stairs to investigate the cause for the light source. He had passed through the juvenile World Spirit’s domain with surprising ease and came across the Gousherall that had claimed responsibility for the flame. Puze was also buzzing around the area and the Guard was beginning to panic about letting the fly land on him: he had apparently suffered a few teleportations and wished to experience no more. But the Gousherall – who claimed to be named Sylvester and insisted on being called Vest – said that he wanted the king to die. The count knew that the monarchial Sylvester could not be allowed to die so easily; not before giving up the kingstone. The old man far below with his damning Mylup’s came to mind and Count Roost suddenly realized that the heavy door off from the foyer had been open. What if this menial Guard has gone belowground first, or murdered King Sylvester and stowed the body down there? The thought seemed to enrage him to the point of wanting to do battle with the older, contemptuously bearded man. So Roost extended his pikes, hoping that by killing the man, he was only feeding a primal urge for bloodshed and not being proactive in any form of vengeance on behalf of his estranged father and his accursed life and quest. The fight was quick to start, thanks to the count’s rage, but was prolonged due to both combatants being well skilled with their weapons of choice. Unfortunately for Roost, the room he had found the Guard within also held an antiquated but adequate sword which Vest had been just as quick to pick up. Roost never had the chance to ask where the man’s own sword was. The fight took them down the single flight of stairs as intentioned by Roost; he wanted to get to the infirmary as quickly as possible. Plus, it was easy to herd Vest where Roost wanted him and easier to fight still while his opponent was having to navigate an unfamiliar stairwell. Once in the foyer, Vest was adamant to press any kind of advantage that the heft of his short sword might have over Roost’s oft-used VoiRen pikes. The clash was over in a matter of minutes, even with Roost’s attention half-heralded towards the descending stairs. Just a quick series of parries and feints was what it took to finally end the clattering brought on by the weapons. When Vest was on his back and the pikes finally withdrawn, Roost rushed to the doorway, feeling his face heat up with inquiry. What will I find down there? As if by coincidence, once he reached the precipice of the dank stairwell, he stopped short to see a man only a few steps below. A bearded man bearing one-time opulent but now quite dingy clothing; the makings of a wealthy man who traveled very little but very recently. His hair was disheveled as if he didn’t know how to manage it by himself and with the fading sunlight bleeding around the count and lighting up the man’s face, Roost saw only a frightened child’s face on a full-grown adult’s body. Roost began to smile widely at the circumstance for he knew he was facing the man he had been waiting for. This rumpled looking man was the nation’s leader. King kriffing Sylvester. This is going to be easier than I thought. But the moment was cut short when the massive front door was opened, sounding loud and intrusive in the wakeful silence that a quick death has been known to instill. The noise drew from Roost the urge to silence the intruder and he rushed to do just that. Catching the stocky man off-guard, Roost was able to easily pierce his chest though he couldn’t be sure how much; there was some kind of resistance. A generic and failed Protection Spell, obviously. When he turned, a womanly shriek pervaded the silence once more but Roost was certainly more surprised than angry. Turning, he saw a sight that had been doubly-unexpected: behind the degenerative king was a woman bearing her own kind of degenerations. The apprentice that had started it all: Tuette. A flood of confusing emotions threatened to take Roost over, and it was a frozen second before he realized why. Tuette had been the first apprentice he had intentionally Cursed, but that had also been his last tie to the life he led under his Corunny Voidet persona. It’s not some persona but my true identity, he said to himself in a shameful tone. The others had suffered virulent Cursing but Tuette had escaped with a kind of “slap on the neck”. She obviously doesn’t see it that way if she’s here with him. And if they intend to kill me... He decided to chance it and he called out her name. In turn, she said his name. His real name. Though Tuette just called him Corunny, he swore that he would only respond to his new identity. As long as I look like a count, I am Count Roost. But using his true name served to actually invite a further kind of anger or even despair inside the count. No, I’m not a count or any kind of governor. I stole this title from someone. But some might argue that this king did too. The king seemed perplexed at first but in a few seconds of revelatory silence that philosophers might prefer, Sylvester caught up and did the most unexpected thing: he took up Vest’s fallen weapon, though not without falling first. Once he regained his balance, he came at Roost with surprising speed. Vest had been practiced with his strikes and therefore predictable. Sylvester carried no such skill or obviousness, and Roost didn’t like that. It meant that the king might make a glancing blow. Can’t have that. With wide strokes that befitted the shorter sword, Sylvester’s method of fighting was drawing all of Roost’s attention. He didn’t mind because come nightfall, the Curse would take effect and change Decennia for the better. That or he would finally have the kingstone. Recalling his purpose, Roost remembered that he wasn’t aiming to kill Sylvester anyway, just retrieve the kingstone and start the much easier task of acquiring the Godblade for Coge Voidet, far below. Below, where the king and my first failed apprentice have been. He felt a distraction nag at his mind, a flailing thought that was attempting to materialize while Sylvester huffed out each swing. Have they done something to… my father? He couldn’t help but wonder and with wondering, he knew his attention would be divided between keeping the king at bay and rushing down into the dungeon to check on his father’s debilitating state. Roost knew that if Coge Voidet died, then his personal mission would all have been for nothing. I don’t need the Godblade. He does. And I need the kingstone to get it from those thieving mongrels in Gor Pyron. Count Roost finally realized that even if he didn’t believe in the existence of the purported blade, his father did. And he also realized that his patriarch was most likely in his final days anyway, and he wanted to be thought of as a son that fought for his father, even after he had abandoned the family business, name, and legacy With this shift in priority, he felt more confident in his prolonged – and unnecessary – battle with the king. |
| The scene before Tuette was subtly horrific. Her former mentor – though not quite the same man – was before her and waging a kind of fight with King Sylvester. Tuette didn’t want to think how long a man like Sylvester could hold his own against a ruthless monster such as Voidet. Especially since the elderly bastard in the dungeon designed the very pikes that the count is using. But Sylvester had been quick to take up Vest’s sword and give it a significant try. While kneeling next to him, Tuette administered to Dermy’s needs. Or tried to. He had just been doubly pierced in the chest. Dermy was clenched into a ball on the floor though, his hands being held against his chest by his knees. He was obviously doing a good job at restricting blood loss as Tuette didn’t rightly see any large pool gaining ground underneath the farmer. Thinking about Cherry and Terry and wondering what had drawn Dermy to the interior of this dreadful and dreadfully small castle, Tuette went partway up the stairwell to look out the window to the west, stepping over Vest’s traitorous corpse in the process. Thankfully, the sun had just set but twilight bathed the nearby grounds graciously. Plus, the fullness of Estella provided detailed accounts of what was happening. Namely, Cherry was spied slumping into Terry’s arms. The constancy of deep breathing had taken an unexpected toll on her and Tuette felt bad for not seeing the outcome beforehand. But I’m not a Seer. I can’t plan for every contingency. In seconds, Cherry was back on her unsteady feet and planting another stalk and then another. From her vantage point, sounds didn’t carry as well as she would’ve liked but she did hear the high-pitched shriek coming from somewhere outside to Tuette’s right. A few seconds more saw a young lad, a teen, running full-tilt at Cherry and Terry. He looked battered, like he had encountered one-too-many street toughs in his urchinite lifestyle. Tuette saw a note of resignation pass across Terry’s face as he went to meet the kid with his long sword, which Tuette had just realized had been drawn the whole time, except when Cherry had fallen into the Gousherall’s arms. Clearly, by his actions alone, he was not going to betray Decennia as Vest had. But it’s not the country that Vest had a problem with, just the man at the head of it, she said to herself. Clearly, Vest saw himself as the ultimate patriot and she felt sorry for him. He had been raised to believe one thing, probably having it almost literally drilled into his head since childhood, only to grow up and serve that belief wholly, only to find that it let him down. That it didn’t quite meet his expectations. She turned around to look at Voidet and Sylvester still swinging blades and she realized that Vest was completely wrong about the monarch, as she had been. He was keenly devoted to the kingdom as much as the deceased Guard had been; he just hadn’t been sure how to express that devotion. Now he was here, literally battling for time against a certified terror. Looking back outside, Tuette was surprised to see the teen on the ground and Cherry and Terry continuing. A small sense of dread filled her as she imagined that the boy might’ve just been cut down for good, being sent to fight for what he was told to fight for, whether he believed it or not. Was it a wasted life? That’s not for me to decide, she reminded herself. But the guilt had almost become tangible. When I was his age, I was learning how to make footwear. She heard a gasp, as if someone had just been kicked, and when she looked, she saw that it had been Sylvester landing a possibly-unexpected kick into Voidet’s side. The count staggered and clutched an open palm to the area while he held the pikes out in front of him to keep Sylvester at bay. But Sylvester’s foot seemed unsteady too: she noticed that he was now putting more weight on the other one, as if the kick had hurt more than expected. Doing a quick mental calculation, Tuette decided that it was still another few minutes before Cherry and Terry finished. With that small amount of assurance, she focused her attention onto Corunny Voidet and his posture. In short, he was rigid. He hadn’t been as graceful as he should’ve been with weapons he had possessed most of his life. And he’s fighting a man who, admittedly, has little practice with the mettle of combat. Is the count not keeping up with his martial practices, or is he being stinted by something else? Tuette suddenly found herself wishing that she could help the king, if only to buy more time for Cherry. She also suddenly realized that she almost didn’t want the Corn Circle to be completed, and it wasn’t because the fighting lad outside might’ve been slain. If the Circle was complete, then Dorothy was to be expected. Part of her was nervous with excitement at having been part of such a ritual. But part of her – the same part that was probably similar to what had driven Vest to the point of trying to kill Sylvester – was fearful of what might happen after the Circle was there. What if she doesn’t show up? What if this Magik isn’t real? Tuette found herself dreading the moment that the Corn Circle might be finalized, only to have nothing happen. She knew that Magik was deftly real and that it shaped and defined her very life, but the Magik she used and was affected by was unique only to Valent, was defined by Valtos. But beyond Valtos, she had no experience. The texts and scripts named the names but there was no proof beyond Valtos that something else existed. What if it’s all some false ideal sewn by the Toll Brothers or whomever centuries ago, if only to provide false hope for those of us that need salvation beyond Valtos? She suddenly found herself wondering about the existence of even the exiled Wishing Gods but knew that she was only panicking in the final hour. She decided to abandon her worries and devise any manner in which she might be able to help— But the immediate absurdity of it all finally struck her. She nearly leaped from her step to land next to Vest. When she stood up, she yelled out “Hey! Hey!” The combatants gave her their attention after stepping away from each other. “Tuette, what’s wrong? What hap—“ “He’s not trying to kill you, Sylvester. Coge already confirmed that.” Voidet’s eyes widened slightly. “So you did see my father! What did you do to him? Did you…” A smile seemed to haunt the corners of the count’s mouth but at this distance and with the light becoming dimmer by the minute, it wasn’t easy to tell. “She just used that Stone thing on him,” spat Sylvester while shifting his eyes between friend and foe. “But you’re right, Tuette.” He settled on Voidet. “You are not trying to kill me. Otherwise, I imagine you would’ve Cursed me with something or used a Pote or something else that I would assume you keep with you at all times.” The mention of a Pote startled Tuette as she had just realized that she still possessed the Freezing Pote. A slight grace came upon her when she recalled, in the dungeon, the possibility of having to use it to get away form the menial Coge. And how she had been more than content with the idea. But if she used it now, Tuette knew it wouldn’t matter because Roost was Voidet and if he just disappeared, then her own Curse would too. Still, she knew she could use it to at least Freeze Voidet if only to buy them the time they needed to escape the Circle. But with Dermy… At the thought, Tuette turned to look at her friend, only to find him still and silent. She felt an urge to rush to him and realized that if she needed to Freeze him if only to save him later, that might have to happen… If he’s not already dead. Thinking that was almost overwhelming but she knew she had to maintain some kind of composure. Turning back to the paused battle, she realized that Voidet had just said something about how he didn’t need any kind of Magik to stop the king. “And you clearly can’t be directly Cursed. Otherwise, I’d have taken care of you long ago.” “What do you mean?” The clean-shaven man nearly laughed. He finally pulled his hand from the point where Sylvester had landed the kick but also dropped his pikes a little. The weight or imbalance is probably bothering him. “Your precious…kingstone!” The way he said it, it was almost like a vile fluid in his mouth that he had just spat out. Sylvester looked like he had just been spat upon too. Tuette then realized that while she had private knowledge of the kingstone beforehand and Sylvester himself had filled in the rest of the details, no one else should have known about it. Corunny Voidet knows. But how? Another realization caught up to her as well: Voidet had said that he had tried Cursing Sylvester directly before but had been unsuccessful, and had attributed that failure to the kingstone’s protections. Whatever the kingstone doesn’t do for the man, at least it protects him from that much. A sense of peace uncomfortably invaded her mind then and it was a moment before she realized that it wasn’t for herself but for Sylvester: an answer of some kind had finally fallen in his lap regarding the very thing that seemingly defined his existence. Too bad we’re on the brink of a sea change, she thought to herself while feeling sorry for the unfortunate circumstance that brought about the conclusion. She also silently swore at herself for not thinking about attempting a Curse on Sylvester before, if only to see if she could. Of course the kingstone had partially intrigued her but she hadn’t thought to help the man out in such a potentially-invasive manner. He hadn’t thought to ask either but she should’ve known that Sylvester wouldn’t consider such an avenue. She could’ve provided him with an answer… but it was her former mentor and current tormentor that had imbued King Sylvester with a piece for his puzzling life. And it didn’t seem right. “You’re saying that I… I can’t be Cursed?” The count stared blankly and instead of laughing, as Tuette had imagined he might, he became quite discolored in the face: darkening reds. She wondered if something were happening but realized that Corunny was incredibly upset about something. Without warning, he punched his fist downward, against the stone floor. His pikes retracted and his large fist smacked with a fleshy wetness, enough to make Sylvester and Tuette wince simultaneously. Corunny then stood up and stepped back; the rush of blood to his head making him lightheaded. He stood with his feet shoulder-width apart and brushed both hands through his short dark hair, blowing out a deep breath in the process and directing his gaze to the ceiling. Finally, he let out what could only be described as a clucking-bark. “Ca-auf! You don’t even kriffing know about what your possessions do and don’t do?” Sylvester slowly lowered his weapon and stepped back, his own face becoming a shade similar to the count’s though Tuette recognized it as something more like shame than anger. She felt a similar heat rise in her own face and knew it probably looked blotchy. She truly felt for Sylvester in this moment. “J-just give it here,” said Corunny while stepping forward quickly and impatiently and holding out his hand; his eyes looked like they were on fire. Sylvester stepped backwards a couple steps but didn’t raise his sword. He looked like he might drop it. “Just give me the kingstone. You obviously aren’t worthy to have it anyway.” It was a like a slap in the face and Tuette found herself stepping to Sylvester’s side if only to defend him from the likes of the count. Why say such a thing that sounds so similar to what Vest was spouting before? She looked at the corpse of the man and wondered why Corunny would slay such a like-minded individual. When she had stepped up, Corunny only met her gaze without retreating; he obviously didn’t feel threatened anymore. Sylvester should just cut him down where he stands, if only to prove he can. She looked at the monarch then in all his crownless demeanor and knew he could probably never do such a thing. Tuette also realized that if anyone deserved to be a leader, it was someone just like Sylvester: who could never cut down another man when it wasn’t necessary. “I won’t be doing that,” said Sylvester, though it sounded flat and a little shaky. Corunny raised his eyebrows and clenched the fist at his side while suppressing a grimace. “I’m sorry?” He sounds so pretentious I just want to smack the man. She did just that. Corunny took it in stride and Sylvester looked shocked. “Tuette!” “What? I’ve got nothing to lose. And he can’t Curse me anyway. Can’t Curse you either, apparently. Might as well get some slams in before…” but she cut herself off as she didn’t want to entirely tip their hand. She saw Sylvester press his lips together and do something absurd: the king slapped the count too. Tuette’s hand snaked its way into her pocket and she clutched the Freezing Pote vial one more time as Corunny, in an act that he probably hoped wouldn’t incur more hits, extended his pikes toward the floor with a defining shhinkk. The king didn’t step back. Neither did Tuette. “I can’t give you my kingstone.” Tuette knew that Sylvester was speaking only the truth: with the stone part of the king’s anatomy, there was no way it could be removed without bringing permanent harm to the man. He had also said that it would literally melt once he passed away so whatever half-truth Corunny was running with, it was useless. He will never get the kingstone if he thinks it’s something to be bartered. “You don’t understand,” continued Corunny in such a manner that Tuette thought he might start having a fit. Focusing on the count’s mood was probably what allowed Tuette to find herself in his clutches suddenly; he had lurched forward and grabbed Tuette by the wrist, twisting her and holding the partially-extended pikes against her temple. “I said that you should give it to me. Or else my failed pupil dies.” Being forced to face the king now, Tuette saw true anguish on his face, like he might start panicking; his grip on the sword slackened and it fell to the ground, the metal clanging loudly in the muted dimness. “No, no. I can’t!” Sylvester then turned slightly while raising his hair and pulling down on his upraised collar. “It’s… It’s in me! It’s a part of me! It can’t be removed. Not ever. I—“ “Liar!” shouted Corunny in such a way that Tuette felt her muscles tighten with real fear. She wondered if he might accidentally push the pikes into her and blame it on pure rage. “You vewming, mother kriffing liar!!” The count’s grip around Tuette’s upper chest tightened considerably and she felt his body heat rise. Whatever anguish was on the king face, it had to be quite the opposite on Corunny Voidet’s. Sylvester’s eyes actually began to glisten as he held up both of his hands as if to stall something atrocious yet unavoidable. “I’m not lying! I can’t lie! I’ll show you!” He fumbled in his robes; they looked quite dingy and unrefined and Tuette couldn’t believe she hadn’t already noticed and made fun of the man for it. When he pulled out his hand, a vial was clutched within. “This is that stuff that… that Dermy used to break off his… Charm or thing. Whatever. It should tell you if I’m trying to deceive you, right?” Tuette was baffled. What was Sylvester talking— He unstopped the vial and upturned the contents into his mouth before she could work it out. Fear caused her heart to race suddenly as the king obviously didn’t know what he was doing. But before anything devastating or drastic could happened, Sylvester spit a fine mist of the fluid against both the count and the Cursed woman. Tuette knew what it was by scent alone: Truvis Pote. True, it’s designed to bring deceptions to light, but its Potency can’t possibly be used in this manner. Maybe if Sylvester pours it on the kingstone or just rubs it— Corunny let go of Tuette in a violent rush, backing away from the pair and against the wall. His physical features began to become violently distorted and she wondered if she had guessed incorrectly about the Pote’s power. Again, she felt fearful and she looked at her own hands as they were covered with the liquid. She looked at Sylvester. He was wiping his chin. “It tastes awful, Tuette.” “That Truvis Pote?” “Uh… whatever is used to break Dermy’s disguise.” “So, why’s Count Roo—“ But she realized that she was answering her own question even as she looked back at Corunny Voidet. He was sliding down the wall and shaking fiercely. It was several seconds before his appearance settled and he wasn’t the same man he had been moments before, but many years before. Though he might’ve been Count Roost these past few months, he was now, truly and utterly, Corunny: the obese and vindictive man that had Cursed her four years prior. * ~ * ~ * She felt… nothing. Looking at Sylvester, she said “This is the real Corunny Voidet, Sylvester.” She moved forward and bent down on her haunches to look the man in the face, in the eyes, but the Cursed man wouldn’t comply and just cast his gaze downward, at this thumbless right hand. His legs were stretched before him and she recognized that he had been using a more grisly form of tethering to achieve the same kind of disguise that Dermy relied on. Corunny looked like he might start to sniffle or even cry and a wave of revulsion washed through her system. Or is this sympathy? She didn’t want to know so she stood up and looked at the king. “How’d you get the Truvis Pote from my rucksack?” He rolled the empty vial between his fingers and then stuck it on his pinkie finger before answering. “This is the one Dermy gave me back in Cordia. Said it might come in handy. Guess it did.” Mentioning the king’s specialist made Tuette’s eyes dart to the other side of the room, where Dermy’s body still lay. As if inspired, she rushed to Dermy and rubbed her still-damp hands against the man’s face. It was cold, for sure, and she nearly gasped. But he’s wearing a disguise. It’s supposed to be believable. Sylvester joined her but said nothing. Dermy’s face began to ripple like the surface of a lek and the disguise quickly faded. “Come on, Dermy. I don’t even know why you came in here in the first place. If anything, you have to still be alive to tell me why you’re so damned foolish.” After the gentle ripples faded, Dermy was still on the floor. He looked only marginally cleaner but his right arm – the one he was putting all his weight against – looked to be anything but useful. Much to Tuette’s surprise, Dermy flexed his good hand against his chest, causing her to cry out in agonized relief. “I came to tell you,” he started before taking a quick gasp. “That Cherry was getting… dizzy.” He sat up with Tuette’s assistance. The king put a stabilizing grip on the man’s shoulder to keep him sitting up. When she grabbed Dermy’s right arm, it felt like raw and battered meat, nothing more. “And that she might pass out, so we might need to… stall.” He continued rubbing his chest. “That hurt,” he finally cried out much louder. “What good are those if they can’t be used to protect from something so…” “The Curse,” cried Sylvester suddenly. Tuette looked up at the king’s strained face and then to where the king was looking: at Dermy’s hand. At Dermy’s thumbless hand. She stood up quickly and went to the window but saw nothing through the gloom. Terry and Cherry would obviously be operating without any Glow Globes. Is light from the tiny castle aiding them at least? Are they almost finished? Maybe they were attacked again? Tuette looked back inside. At Sylvester helping Dermy to his feet while the king looked more disappointed than ever. At Dermy looking amazed at the sudden loss of thumbs. At the failure of a count and Master Curser in all his gluttonous glory. Most of all at the failed count; at Corunny Voidet, or Count Roost, or whatever the hell he wanted to be called. Tuette felt tangible amounts of energy crackle just beneath her skin. It was like Magik only more substantial. Quite literally, almost palpable: she felt it encasing her heart as she let a discourse of hatred rush through her. Contempt for the one man that had ultimately caused her more pain than any other might ever have a right to bear. At this moment, Tuette could truly state that she felt hate. She wasn’t proud of the paramount invasion of negative emotions but she wasn’t trying to push them away either. Because Corunny had done it again. He had fashioned an even more reprehensible Curse than the comparatively minor Curse that Tuette herself suffered. “A forest of chickens,” she muttered to herself while shakily withdrawing the vial in her own pocket. “Freeze a flock and make a forest out of kriffing chickens!” Tuette had shouted that last part, drawing the attention of all three men in the room. It echoed briefly up the stairwell and she thought that she saw the ineffectual Joy just at the lip of her vision. The World Spirit wouldn’t know what to do in such a situation. Which is what allowed this all to happen, she thought sourly. She sent a cold gaze up the stairwell and saw Joy shrink into oblivion. She felt guilty for thinking such a thought but the guilt vanished quickly when Corunny spoke up from his defeated position against the wall. “That’s right, Tuette. Perform the Reverse and your Curse is done.” He knocked his bulbous chin towards the king. “But let him do it, and you stay that way, and the kingdom’s Curse is over.” He shook his head, the motion sending bulging ripples down the malignant Mage’s neck. “What to do. What to do.” “It’s not like there’s a flock here anyway, count,” said the king in a bewildered tone. “That’s right, dear king. Dear kingstone. Dear selfish-kingstone. No flock here. But what if I said that a wrangler was just on the other end of the Jorii Stone?” “What’s that?” “It’s the next in line of the Ring of Ten Minus Two, Sylvester,” stated Tuette. “But that’s irrelevant, Corunny.” The defeated man looked up; new, feature-devolving shadows formed so that it seemed like he was all eyes and clothes. The eyes widened slightly and Tuette knew her message got through. She stated her meaning anyway though, for Sylvester’s benefit. “I kill you, we all are free.” The words came out easily enough but they made Tuette feel cold in her arms and legs, like her heart had just drastically limited her blood flow. But she could almost taste the indescribable energy that had been building up inside. It was actually sweet and she wondered if she was absently chewing on her tongue. Sylvester looked sharply at Tuette. “Kill him?” “That an order?” she knocked back at the king. He didn’t accept the dark humor so well. “No.” A kind of blankness crossed his face briefly. “No. No, not an order. A… question. I’m questioning your logic—” “No more logic tonight, Sylvester. Your kingdom just went through a very dramatic adjustment.” She stopped talking to let a growing range of noises seep in through the walls and windows. “Hear that outside? The people of this island, they’re suffering the shock first. But they’ll organize, and they’ll blame this man. They know he’s a Curser by nature and they know that killing him is the only way to bring about a definitive Reversal.” “Th-then let them—” but he choked on the words. Tuette could see his mouth quivering and she felt a wave of deeper sympathy wash through her body. It threatened to take away whatever was driving her to finally stand up and actually deal with – Take care of – Corunny Voidet. She moved forward to remove another of Vest’s small daggers off his person. Just as fluidly, she moved to stand before Corunny in all his finite existence. “What about Dorothy?” The question caught Tuette off guard, but not in a surprising manner: in a bitter one. She was coming to the realization that Cherry and Terry had either finished the Circle and nothing occurred, or they had fallen to more of the count’s followers. Tuette instantly thought of the singular youth she had seen from the window, lying on the ground. Wounded or worse, I’ll probably never know. She thought of Dermy and his provision of hiding in plain sight. Of Sylvester’s dead splint and how it was absurd for anyone to want to harm such a creature. She thought of the very nature of Cursing and Magik itself and it threatened to overwhelm her because here she was, standing in front of one of the most deceitful men she might ever know with the intent to kill, and what was going to stop her? What force in all of Valent or Creation is going to keep me from this? Sylvester touched her shoulder, causing her to turn. His face was that of a sad, defeated man. It made Tuette feel loathsome. But Tuette clutched the dagger more fiercely all the same, as if she couldn’t stop the driving power inside from doing what she knew was morally reprehensible. I don’t really want to kill him, do I? Then why do I feel like I will anyway? “Tuette, we’ll just go see the wrangler. I’m sure a second flock will become apparent. Let’s just go.” She looked at Corunny who now made eye contact if only to be thought of as a man who faced his final moment. “I can’t wait that long. Not for justice or whatever passes for retribution in the eyes of Valtos. Not when he’s right here. I… I can’t!” Sylvester guided her eyes back to his with a soft tug on her chin. “But I can.” The statement was small and simple, yet it threatened to break whatever was inside of Tuette, be it a thirst for blood, a need for vengeance, or a yearning for freedom. King Sylvester was offering up time on behalf of his entire kingdom just so she wouldn’t fall upon the wayside of life. And with that gesture, Tuette began to shed tears she hadn’t known were building. When she closed her eyes and wiped at a tear with her free hand, Existence changed momentarily and forever. She hadn’t expected the suddenness of it all: she hadn’t anticipated the blinding, deafening light that exploded into her closed eyes to shine against her aged spirit, nor the soft embrace on her upper body, as if she were being keenly and tenderly squeezed. The feeling was warm and flooded out whatever had been there before. She swore that she dropped the dagger then but never heard it clatter on the stone floor. Probably because it’s not there anymore. Probably because Dorothy finally is. |
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