Poisoned Wells, Imaginiers Save Us From (Serialization 031)

*In this installment, Saravia and the boys (and her newborn daughter) are continuing the journey the King Magician started. *

With a baby strapped to her back and with each boy at her side, the three companions trekked through the night towards Gan-vael. The sight they made wasn’t lost on Saravia. Three children much like she would have. Sleeping Echo, Sorrel and…who would be her last child. A boy. Like Peter? Like Caragris?

Time would know but would not tell her. And when it came to her possible futures, Destiny only gave her riddles that never carried a concrete answer. It made Saravia smirk—the universe did all that it could to gift her with a sense of surprise. How she wished Ean saw the unpredictability of the universe as a gift and not a weapon forged by a terrible enemy. Is that how he saw her now—an enemy? Most definitely an intrusion, an irritant, a troubling obstacle to his plans.

She stopped thinking about Ean…or rather tucked the thought of him in the secret place in her heart that she tucked all those that made themselves blind to her. Instead she looked at her companions. How the corners of their mouths fought back the desire to frown?! They missed each Eivyn, no? In the short time they’d all been together, the boys had reminded the women of a love that was ever present—that love could continue to grow on different soils. They had softened the women.

And softer soil yields better crops.

Saravia had seen, despite their grief of losing two of their warrior kin, a stronger magic taking root in each woman. They’d been a force before and now…they would be a cannonball in still water.

The rain seemed to have waited until the 3 travelers set foot under shelter before falling. First a drizzle, then toddlers’ tears, and finally in sheets. Peter stared fascinated at the wet weather and how everything bowed to it; even inside, shoulders sagged feeling the weight of the rain. Caragris’ eyes were on the inner workings of the Crone’s Compass and Tavern. In the stories, this place was one of rotted wood and air that smelled of spoiled milk. Dank. Foul. Thick with grime and grease. Riddled with fleas and mites and millipedes the size of deadly blades. And those that came to this tavern were either very much at home in the underbelly or were so lost they’d have to sell their hope of finding their way back so as to have a morsel to eat.

“Someone spins a good yarn,” Caragris said amazed at his reflection in the polished wood. The glass cases around the walls held beautiful rare bottles of the finest drinks available. Sumptuous meats and cheeses were brought to the table in lovely trays of silver. The tavern girls were polite and their dresses lovely. The patrons wore shabby clothes and worn out boots but only because no one ever worn their finest in the rain.

“Sometimes the best magic spells are a few words that can catch fire in the mind’s eye, no?” Saravia motioned at a vacant table.

As they took their seats, Caragris couldn’t help but ask, “But why? Why hide behind such grotesque lies?”

“Privacy. Safety. Avoidance. Why do any of us seek to camouflage?” She looked at Cara thoughtfully but he avoided her eyes, blushing fiercely.

Upon sitting, a woman brought over a tray of warm bread, sweet butter, sesame seeds and hot cinnamon milk. The boys ate, the baby slept and Saravia observed. She looked around at the motley crew of hearth witches and hedge wizards: all of them wore spells and formulas tattooed on their skins. Scars told of spells gone wrong. Under their stools tucked and wrapped were packages, ingredients for their next their next venture—a love spell, a glamour, an elixir to make one young, to make one appear feeble, a potion to gain the strength of a giant or the voice of an angel so as to cause an enemy to bleed from their ears, nose and mouth with a causal hello. Hello, Saravia waved at them. As much as they hid, Death saw them all quite clearly—none were ever capable of fooling her. Run they might, and hide a bit, but always she found them. Always she saw them. But she let them pretend. It was a game she allowed. Because in the end, she would not have to chase or find them. They always came to her willingly and if not willingly, they came begrudgingly, but still they came and would come always and forever. What a lover affair, maddening and predictable, no?

For her part, Saravia did not hide. In fact, she pulled the hood off her head and shook out her hair from its knot. How her curls had grown wilder and longer when she’d traversed the spaces without time. She let the fragrance of her magic penetrate the room until the magicians felt the grass under their boots and some even saw a lavender bush stretch from the cracks of the floorboards. The only ones oblivious to this were the children.

“Can I have your bread?” Peter asked.

“How can you ask now,  if you are halfway done with it?”

“At least I’m asking before It’s all gone.”

Saravia chuckled. “All right. Go on and finish it. Would you like some stew?”

They nodded and Saravia motioned for the dinner to be brought. Peter was content, but Cara’s eyes were clouded with worry.

“Pensive, young scribe?”

“You’re not staying. You won’t be travelling with us.”

“Correct. I can’t. I can only stay until you fall asleep. Brother Dream will keep you company and then when you wake, you’ll have a guide for the last foots of the journey.”

The universe had decreed: no more games or interferences. What would happen, would happen. Enough. Let it be. And Saravia would bow to this.

“But where are we going?!” Peter asked pitifully.

Saravia shrugged. “I can guess but I’m not sure.”

Peter shook his head. “Why was I picked and why do I follow?”

“Because you were enchanted,” Cara said quietly. He hated how it sounded, that some stupid magician held sway when it came to Peter’s heart and inner compass.

“I don’t want to be enchanted. I want…I want to go my own way. To form my own adventure.”

“Okay. We’ll go on countless adventures when we finish this one. You can’t start new adventures when you haven’t ended this one.” Cara gave Peter the rest of his milk.

“I know…but…are all adventures dangerous?” He asked, not Saravia, but Cara who frowned unable to answer. Why should he know?

“At least,” Saravia interrupted, “This journey has given the two of you the magic of thought. Thinking always lessens the danger, no?”

The serving girl brought over a pot of beef and root stew and Saravia began to pour it into bowls as she asked, “You have learned many arts. What will you do with all this knowledge?”

“Go exploring,” Peter exclaimed as Cara replied, “Go home to ponder.”

“To ponder?! What’s there to ponder?” Peter shook his head. “Isn’t it better to experience than—”

“If no one pondered, there’d be no stories,” Cara said firmly.

Saravia raised an eyebrow, “Please tell me what the two of you plan to solve by being loud with one another?” She cut more bread. “Do kings yell at one another?”

“Yes,” the boys replied.

“Neither of you are kings. And who ever respected two kings in a shouting match anyway?”

“We’re sorry, Sharu Death.” Cara lowered his head ashamed at how fast he forgot the presence of the most beloved of the universe.

Smiling she handed him bread, “Apologies are never needed between us. Just make sure you are kind to me in your stories.”

Poisoned Wells, Imaginiers Save Us From (Serialization 029)

*Poisoned Wells is BACK! I would love to say that we return to our story on a happy note, but we find ourselves in the middle of goodbyes. Karfa and Inye have both died in battle. Peter is inconsolable. And Cara finds solace in stories. In this installment, we are solemn as we pay our respects to the Eivyns that have fallen.*

Zejiin happened 3 days after burial. In that time, Eivyn Karfa and Eivyn Inye were bathed, clothed in simple, white garments and placed in the ground with their weapons. The hashmal, Atuine Cauli, who had fought in the dust against the demi-liches, had been the one to collect the rocks and pebbles that were placed atop the fresh dirt. He did this task so that the rest of the earth soldiers could gather and grieve. For three days they cried, whispered, thought of their fallen comrades; they told stories, told Cara of the beginnings: the men and women that they had once called maisan.

Everyone took turns caring for Peter, who slept fitfully in Karfa’s bedroll. At night Cara, ink stained and body sore from longs hours of scribe work, would hold Peter tightly. He would tell his friend stories—not of the earth soldiers, but of simpler tales: of mouse, of the rabbit and lion, of the wise goats of Trelay, of the bear that searched for ingredients for the stew that would make him human.

Cara wasn’t sure if Peter was paying attention, but he hoped that his words would simply seep into his friend so that his dreams would be crowded with curious animals and not of Karfa’s death.

On the third day, Eivyn Meroc and Thea carried Peter to the river to bathe and dress for the last ceremony. Maeve adjusted the white linen shirt and pants she’d made for Cara, her deft fingers making sure not to prick his skin with pins.

At noon they all met by the graves, the women shedding their armor and coming in simple, white dresses. Thea held each boy by the hand, rubbing her thumb against their skin as a way of comfort. When a figure robed in many sheets of thick, black fabric appeared though, Peter let go and ran forward. Death and Peter embraced tightly and Cara watched how gently she wiped the tears off Peter’s face and kissed his temple lightly.

Saravia was no longer pregnant, though the baby was not far off—she was in the arms of Sharu Time, who stood atop the hill, observing blankly the ceremony and the interactions. She winked at the Sharu before turning away.

Holding Peter’s hand, Saravia made her way towards the group, embracing Thea Sun as she had Peter. Then turning to all the women, to the hashmal, to the boys, she said, “I want to hear from all of you. I’ll do my best to ease your grief but I think it’s only right we send Eivyn Karfa and Eivyn Inye to their next destination.”

Motioning everyone to be seated on the ground, she began to give gentle instructions. Breathe. Listen. Keep the weight of the quiet around the body. Throughout, she held Peter’s hand and Cara was grateful for this small kindness. He leaned against Eivyn Mari, who whispered, “Keep your eyes open, scribe. You’ll need to write even this faithfully, and in detail, no?” He nodded and she hugged him so tightly, he was suddenly homesick for his mother. Not the Matriarch but his mother—the woman she was when it was only him and his father watching.

Saravia whispered to the earth and to the sky, to the nearby trees and the animals hidden within the foliage. Only breaths. No more sound. Their world grew still. The clouds paused in their travels and even Time stopped to watch the final rights.

Her song came from the very ground and out of her mouth. The words she sang were dense and shadowy but also of the brightest light the sun could bestow. Her voice sang but Death herself flew. Past the waiting room, past the boats full of souls in travel, and to the gate of the great beyond where Skala Karfa and Tana Inye waited to pass completely.

Anya se rut, amas col nos

Anya se rut, amas cel tu

Co me Sa na, anya se rut

Through it all, the warriors kept their breaths in fluid rhythm with the chants, and wishing that they too could see their fighting kin once more.

Finally, in the distance, a baby’s joyous exclamation signaled the end of the ceremony.

Upon opening her eyes, Saravia grasped Thea’s elbow as she said, “Saën, bul setra?”

Cara had picked up enough of the warrior’s tongue to know she was asking if they wanted her to stay a day. “Yes,” he murmured louder than he intended, making the warriors giggle.

Thea nodded in agreement. “Cara is right in this decision.” She smirked as she added, “Skala did say these boys would outrank me one day.” The thought caused a bittersweet taste for everyone: their companion was not here to say it herself. She was no longer an eivyn. She was free from the burden of waged war. Beyond grief and, hopefully, with her beloved maisan. Without scars. Renewed.

Saravia smiled at those around her. There was mending to be seen to. She looked to Cara for help: “Would you go up to the hill and inform Saudade of my stay?”

“Yes, Lady Death.” He scrambled up and bowed politely. The warriors laughed a bit more openly this time.

“Be polite to Time. He likes being bowed to. I prefer laughter.”

“Yes, my lady.” He headed up the hill. If Saravia could bring the lightness to Peter’s heart again, he would do whatever Death dictated until every ember in the Dali grew cold.

Poisoned Wells, Imaginiers Save Us From (Serialization 028)

*This installment is a continuation of the last section. I wanted these moments to have space and breath to truly feel the loss. I hope you all continue to read. *

Eivyn Maeve did not let Peter feel the emptiness of Karfa’s last breath. Instead, she grabbed the boy and held him in her arms. Tightly, she hid him from the world. His calls, which were frantic and full of rage for being abandoned, were muffled, yet still managed to cut the women worse than any steel in battle.

Arjun and Mari removed the sword from Inye’s body, then wiped the blood and dirt from her face. Meroc and Roeze did the same for Karfa.

Caragris stood trembling, barely registering Thea’s hands on his shoulders, but he managed to say, “What now?”

“We give them the honor of Zejiin. We mourn our warriors. We bury them. We sing their praises. We hope they are sent to their loved ones.”

“No.” He shook his head. “I mean what happens now to Peter? What do I…how do I…he’s broken and I’m a weakling. I couldn’t spare him from this pain. How do I fix him?” He asked through tears.

Thea hugged him and said into his hair, “Caragris, there is nothing for us to do but feel. We must face this. Do not deny my warriors their honor or pain. Don’t deny Peter his pain.”

“But how do I—”

“You just do it, Cara. The best you can. You simply make him as comfortable as possible. There is no written alchemical formula to this. You’re his best friend. You’ll make him smile again. Just love him.”

“But all I know how to do is read stories, Eivyn Sun. Love is—”

“Crying because your best friend is hurting?” She pulled away to look at Cara’s tear stained face. She smiled weakly. “So you are a reader. Then read to him. We’ll find stories that you can read to Peter. We will give you stories to read to him if that is what will help the two of you.”

“But that would mean…” Cara wiped the tears from his face. Then he wiped the tears off Eivyn Sun’s. Will all of you tell me how you all became earth soldiers?”

“Peter has been curious about that, no? I’ll find you ink and paper. Come.”

Poisoned Wells, Imaginiers Save Us From (Serialization 027)

*Sorry for the delay in this installment. Actually, as you read this section, I am working on the epilogue of Poisoned Wells. It’s unreal that I’m writing the last few pages of this story in my notebook. It was much longer than I anticipated. And ya’ll have some sections to go before the end. After I post the ending, I’ll definitely post some afterthoughts and revision notes. But for now, enjoy this next section. We left off with the wraiths turning the demi-liches to stone and the dust settling to find Karfa dying in Peter’s arms. *

Looking at her face, it was hard to see anything wrong with Skala Karfa. She looked as serene as she had been as an ordinary maiden bathing in her village lake. Not a stitch of pain contorted her face. Earth soldiers were good at hiding the hurts of war, no? Though betraying her was the sound of her voice, which was raspy. And though her mouth was coated with blood and thick with saliva, she did her best to soothe Peter’s tears. Ending his pain was what mattered at the moment.

But there was no doubt that she was dying. She could feel the curved sword. Had felt it slide from the side of her stomach upward to only reappear right under her armpit. Really, she was surprised she was still breathing even though filling her lungs burned and made her want to rip her skin to shreds, but she had little strength left and it needed to be given to Peter. She felt how his fingers held her hair tightly, less like a solider to a sword and more like a baby grasping for his mother.

Each person is born from a woman. Therefore, each person will have the torturous grief of a mother’s death.  It is written for every being. Even Death suffered the loss of her mother, no? No one can avoid it. Peter’s mother died before he could’ve known her. In his heart, there had been no memories of this woman that birthed him, so he believed he would be spared such heartbreak. Who could possibly take that place in his heart? He was safe, no?

He clung to Karfa as if she’d created the sun for him, as if her screams had awakened him to life. His were the tears shed for a mother. It almost made Karfa want to laugh—she had thought she’d be safe from that too, but she felt her heart tremble as Peter’s tears ran down her forehead. He kissed her face softly, hoping she would find the strength to swat him away. He begged her to get up…that it was just a scratch. Please get up.

Karfa tried to form words to give to the boy but her eyes were drawn to a figure she’d lost seven years before and she knew her end would come with the next exhale. How different he looked without his armor. How serene. How beautiful. She cried tears that she thought would never fall, hadn’t for so long. And here she was, a warrior crying. Magic clearly existed, no?

In her hair, her tears mingled with Peter’s. And then she was still.

Gone.

Poisoned Wells, Imaginiers Save Us From (Serialization 026)

*Enjoy this installment. *

First a strong wind.

One that moans and bangs from frustration before unleashing gusts of howls. Howls that in their lives, ghosts were unable to let out…to let them out would’ve been undignified but after death, emotions are weighed far differently by the world’s witnesses.

These were howling winds that clawed at bodies, wrenching steel from hands, demanding tears, and the falling to one’s knees.

Then shadows: the burden of death so that souls could fly.

Hovering. Chanting: a long dead language—no, a language only the dead could even know or use. The shadows chanted the verses from the tome of Nabos, the poet of the dead. He who spent his wait as a scribe writing, fervently and with reverence, the many whispers of Saravia’s realm: the chants she crooned to soothe souls lost without the notion of time or narrow sight to guide them.

And behind the shadows? Weaponless because they were wholly weapons: Death’s wraiths.

They held the faces of once kings that then blurred rapidly into black pulsing pits only to return to a jigsaw semblance of once flesh. Their skin smelled burned. And the skin that was visible was branded with Death’s symbol. But there was not a stitch of pain on their faces. Simply determination.

They did not chant.

They walked directly towards their targets. Directly towards the demi-liches and with a gentleness that is only ever saw between lovers, the wraiths brushed their thumbs across the papery flesh of their once brethren. They stood like stone and watched as the demi-liches turned to stone—trapped for a thousand years until Death came, herself, to end their penance.

Not one of the earth soldiers dared touch the polish stone, to lash out at it with steel, knowing the searing pain they would encounter. A wraith’s touch trapped and bound pain. And that was what was inside those statues: agonizing, searing and scorching pain—a pain that would cleanse the tar from hearts. Then earth soldiers gave what were once demi-liches  a wide berth as they sank unto grateful knees to regroup and mutter thanks.

The wraiths now finished with their tasks were no longer blind and all of them tipped their eyes to the blue sky above. Then wordlessly as they arrived, they bowed to a vision only they saw and soon became part of the morning mist; with them they took the dust of battle to reveal a crying boy cradling the head of the dying Eivyn Karfa.

Poisoned Wells, Imaginiers Save Us From (Serialization 025)

*In this installment, we begin to see through the thick fog of war magic. Who will win? What slaughter awaits? As always, happy reading! *

The boys, at first, weren’t expected to join in the morning prayers. As long as they were quiet, they could sit on the side and rest. The problem came with the fact that the morning prayer was before breakfast and before breakfast was when Peter was at his most ravenous. His stomach grumbled, breaking the calm of the first light’s awakening.

With this in mind, the soldiers would each give him a morsel of food, the heel of a loaf, or a few berries—anything that would hold him off until the morning meal.

But Peter had never grown up in a royal palace and without realizing, so tired as he was, he would fall into a trance of watching the movement of prayer and he didn’t realize he chewed like a cow. Not even Cara’s elbows to the ribs could interrupt Peter’s chewing. This, of course, didn’t go unnoticed.

Distraction. Giggles. Zero balance. Even Thea, who led the chants, broke into snorted laughter.

“No more bread. To prayer. Both,” Eivyn Karfa instructed, cuffing the boys’ ears lightly.

So Caragris and Peter learned the morning prayer to Mother Earth: 3 rounds of a 9 bowing sequence, facing the rise of the sun meant to give thanks to the earth bride for bestowing the women with the magic to manipulate rock and sand and metal—Earth’s body. The prayer was also to keep the soldiers moving, to get their muscles warmed up, so they may be ever ready. And Thea’s chants brought balm to their hearts and for a space of time they needed to think of nothing beyond the movements. Muscle and breath.

Though clumsy, the boys at least learned to keep pace and by two weeks their bodies no longer ached at the final position: on their knees and toes, with arms outstretched with palms hovering over the ground in a sign of thanks. This was a bow only warriors were taught to give to other warriors, but Karfa had deemed it acceptable for the boys to learn it, citing that the more they learned, the less they chewed.

Perhaps if the boys had not been following the sequence, the outcome would have been much different.

As Eivyn Inye inhaled deeply for the final chant, a long sword was thrusted through her back and stomach, pinning her to the ground and in the final pose indefinitely. The demi lich only had time to let out a raspy gurgle as Karfa’s dagger struck his chest and Meroc beheaded him with her curved blade.

And then the field became thick with magic from both sides. Pebbles, rocks and dirt pulled and shifted from the ground, melting to form armor and shields for each woman. 6 demi liches commanded dozens of razor teethed rodva—monsters created from sewing together the parts of dead animals. These beasts were a magic that wept ichor that scorched the ground, so the earth soldiers had to spend more time and energy digging deeper for clean earth.

Roeze and Maeve kept the boys at their backs as they took down each snarling, clawing thing that leapt towards them.

Karfa and Meroc used their steel as they ran straight for the demi-liches. They gleefully sawed off arms from shoulders and broke brittle noses.

But they were strong, the demi-liches, were dead meat and so they simply kept fighting. They had inexhaustible magic. One burned its fingers through Meroc’s thigh as she twisted her blade through its face, ripping the jaw off.

A demi-lich ripped and clawed at Thea’s back, but there was a reason why she was the commander of the earth soldiers. She laughed at his attack before creating an army of dust women that, at her command, attacked the enemy by slipping down their throats and choking them from inside.

“They won’t stop coming,” Meroc called from over her shoulder.

“Get the boys to safety, Maeve.” Thea yelled.

“Die royal traitors,” Karfa growled as she ripped the eye of the demi-lich trying to claw at her.

The dust was so thick, the boys had trouble following the movements of battle. Their trembling gazes, when not shielded by an Eivyn, sought the ground for fallen friends. Cara realized how different this was from the wars he had read in his books. No matter how terrible, the battle in books were dulled, translated and made not to burn writer or reader. Cara would gladly have taken 1000 of those stories, rather than a single breath more of the torturous chaos in front of him.

Despite their training, the earth soldiers were faltering. The demi-liches blocked their energy sources and refused to remain cut down. The rodva would simply come together again, more deformed and with more rage.

The earth soldiers would not stop, no matter how bleak it looked. They would all fall. They would lose the battle, but they would not let a single monster attack their charges. They would ensure that the boys remained safe and without a scratch. Thea instructed Maeve to take the boys, to be their guide. The others would stay and play at distraction.

How Maeve wanted to protest, but Thea’s eyes were hard. An order was given and she would be a fool to fight it. There was no energy to be spent on buts and perhaps. Maeve simply nodded.

The boys weren’t soldiers—they hadn’t pledged their blood and breath to this way of life. They would do great things. Maeve would see to that.

 

Poisoned Wells, Imaginiers Save Us From (Serialization 024)

*It pains me to say, that in the next installment, horrors will happen. Can’t we delay it? Does it have to happen? Ean has sent the demi-liches. Saravia has sent her own warriors to combat them, but will it be of any use? Blood will be spilled. However, before we get to that installment, let’s see what the earth soldiers have taught our two heroes. It is better to have a passage of joy before…the inevitable. *

They had 4 weeks of peaceful travel. Cara was content to be protected and Peter was content to learn how to be a soldier. They were so content that they nearly forgot Peter’s original intent and journey.

And the warriors? The earth soldiers doted on the boys, especially Thea and Skala—in their own ways. Thea told them long yarns after dinner or read from the books the women carried—Cara had been surprised to find out that each woman had a favorite volume they kept strapped to their chests. Though the covers were worn and gouged, the pages were all intact. They were as sacred as the weapons they carried.

Thea read each night from one of the books, not mattering if it was a beginning or an ending, a poem or a simple observation—she read like someone who had studied the arts of the stage. And when there was a song, she sang as if she were in a royal palace. As if her audience were Sharus and matriarchs and kings.

On the other hand, Skala treated the boys like a mother wolf does towards her rambunctious and unruly cubs. She spent her time scolding Cara for not eating enough and pulling Peter by the collar as a way to keep him from whatever danger he’d found to play with.

Each woman had something to teach the boys that would keep the curious gleam in their eyes and their hands busy. Eivyn Arjun taught Peter how to land from a high jump without breaking his ankles. Eivyn Maeve showed Caragris the magic of dyes. Eivyn Inye taught the boys to play the flutes that Eivyn Karfa had made them. Eivyn Meroc taught them how to move with stealth in the forest and how to hunt with honor. Both boys sang with softness and full of respect for the hunt. Eivyn Roeze taught the boys how to prepare the meals—Peter showed an intuitive skill at making stews and on their hunts, he searched for roots and mushrooms ever puzzling on new tastes. When Peter learned sword fighting with Eivyn Karfa, Thea taught Cara how to sew as well as how to pretend how to sew when really they were spying (because an interesting word can always be ransomed for coin, no?). And while Eivyn Karfa taught Cara how to use everyday objects as dangerous projectiles, Thea taught Peter how to address a princess, how to fold a napkin, how to be a gentleman at a palace.

They spent their days laughing, travelling idly, bellies full. But sadly, this will end, no?

 

Poisoned Wells, Imaginiers Save Us From (Serialization 023)

*In this installment we continue to see what happens due to Ean’s decision. As you remember, Ean subconsciously enchanted Peter to journey to the Ancient Library so as to gain access. However, Peter has been delayed with the help of the Sharu of Death and her kin. Ean has decided to put an end to this constant interference by sending the demi-liches. And so our story continues…*

Eyes suddenly shot open to look upon night stars that casted down diamond light so as to admire their own glow in the water’s reflection. They were lovely. How long had it been since he looked up to see such beauty? How long had he spent hunched over texts and scrolls?

He was aware of not just his eyes, but his body as well. He was on a boat—he could feel the sides sway with the water in a soft dance.

Then a voice.

“Do you know…most pregnant women are not keen on nighttime boating trips, even if they are with handsome kings.” Then a face hovered over him and a forest of black curls fell onto his face. “Wouldja help paddle? It will help this go much faster,” she said with a smile.

Then he felt hands on his shoulders and around his wrists, pulling him to a seated position. Then another voice, a familiar one, “Look over the side of the boat, Fardus.”

Complying, Fardus bent over the side and what he saw was astonishing: looking back at him from the star-reflected water was a smooth face and a long black beard and not only was his hair gathered neatly in a king’s knot but his head was adorned with a gold wreath crown. His shaking hands shot up to touch his eyes and his nose and though his fingers no longer held the magician’s rings he had spilled blood for…his hands were strong. He couldn’t fight back the cry that crept out of his mouth. He had teeth and his voice…it was his…the one he had used to sing his children to sleep.

“What punishment is this? What sorcery have we learned, my brothers?” Fardus muttered.

“Not sorcery. It is Death. Lady Death,” his companion whispered. Fardus gave his friend a shaky smile as he watched the young king clutch his ruby encrusted crown to his chest. This felt like a dream and the three of them wanted to desperately cling to all they had let go astray.

“You can call me, Saravia.” She turned to look back at them and Fardus swore there were stars clustering in her eyes. “I know you are in shock, but the boat, in order to keep moving, needs us to paddle.”

The men took the oars and soon found a rhythm. How good it felt to use their arms, their muscles. To breath in fresh air and not smell the rot of their skin and bones.

Fardus cleared his throat.  “Where are we headed?”

“Only the universe knows. It’s very different for every soul. There are those that must bathe in the river of forgetting. Some must spend a lifetime in the waiting room as they compile and write their story. Others are greeted by their beloved. Some remain ghosts. Some become something akin to a god.” Saravia shrugged. “I am only privy to the journey, but what happens after? Do they stay gods? Do they become trees? Do they get a new life? That is a lovely secret that I do not even know.”

“So this is to be my last morsel of knowledge,” Fardus whispered.

“Or the gate to endless knowing,” she countered and wiped the tears from his face and smoothed back the strands that had come undone from his knot.

They remained silent for a few minutes. Saravia tilted her head towards the night sky and the stars whispered to her…and Fardus laughed because he understood what they were saying. Such silly muttering and yet they were full of a visceral laughter that made him mourn for the days he had lost in his brooding. It’s what made him nod to his companions before addressing Death once again.

“Even for a few breaths, we’ve been given back our humanity. Why this honor?”

She shook her head. “You always had your humanity. You just forgot what that all entails. It’s my job to remind you of the things you closed your eyes to. To bestow compassion. I am the kind side of the coin the universe carries.”

“Thank you.”

“It’s is my honor to serve you, my lords.”

Fardus shook his head. “We have been bad men, for what? To succeed in the title of tyrants? We deserve no kindness. No gentle touch from the likes of you, Sharu Death.”

“Everyone deserves this—it is only the truly despicable ones that dismiss me.” She shrugged. “Is there more you want to discuss? Because I have a list of baby names I’d like to get opinions on”

The men conferred as Saravia pulled a tattered page from her black robes. She found that flowing and hooded robes were excellent during pregnancy as they promoted comfort and, as a bonus, gave her an air of authority that stopped people from touching her stomach. She’d wished she’d learned this trick when she had carried Sleeping Echo.

“Lady Death?”

“It’s Saravia. And yes?”

“We’d gladly advise you on names, but…we think we can be useful in another way.” Fardus paused. He waited for the chains of disloyalty to yank at him and to coil around him with the intent to choke out his insolence and traitorous intent. But nothing happened. Death broke all mortal bonds, no? Breathing out his uncertainty, Fardus made sure his voice was clear and strong as he said, “Please allow us in your service. If we—“

Saravia shook her head. “I cannot extend your lives. You already—”

“No. We simply ask to be vehicles of your wrath.”

Saravia frowned. “No…I mean that’s very sweet of you but I don’t usually need to be wrathful and when I do, I don’t need help. I’m pretty good at it. But thank you.”

“Perhaps I’m not going about this correctly.” He licked his lips—it had been a lifetime since he spoke diplomatically. “The Lord Magician has sent our brethren to kill his servant’s escorts…” He added before Saravia could protest. “And a young boy. Caragris.”

Suddenly the waters they had bobbed pleasantly on began to darken and it seemed as if the water was tied to the dark robes Death wore. It was as if ink spilled from her body, onto her clothes and fell from the sides of the boat. Surely this was what it felt like to be inside a painful bruise.

Death’s eyes hardened. There were flares of lightning around her hair. “You’ve got to be kidding me? He cannot be that blind. That stupid.” She covered her eyes suddenly and wearily said, “I can’t interfere. I can’t…there isn’t enough time to manipulate…there is no way for me to warn them from here. They’ll be attacked.”

Fardus, with a bravery he did not have, took Death’s hands in his. There were icy and he rubbed warmth into them. “My lady, we do not ask you to extend our lives. We died because we refused him. We held on to whatever honor we had left. And he punished us for that. And we accepted that. We accept death. But it feels only right to finish our deed of honor and let you know his plans…and perhaps stop a piece of his madness.”

She tightened her grip around Fardus’ hands and her eyes looked at his companions. “If I send you back cloaked in my wrath…it would be to stop your fellow sorcerers. Could you do that to men you’ve called brothers? My wrath is not gentle.”

“Gentle or not, we are the only ones that could ever bring them a compassionate end. Better us than the King Magician.”

“And you understand that once you are done with my bidding—”

“We would not delay our reunion with the universe. It is as you say, the beginning of all knowledge. We were fools to ever run.” He kissed her hands.

“All right.” She nodded. “I’m sorry. This will be excruciating.” She smiled gave a weary smile. “Do well and be brief.”

And then she grabbed each of their throats with her claws before branding them, with fire, her symbol.

Poisoned Wells, Imaginiers Save Us From (Serialization 022)

*In this installment, we pause our journey with the boys to see what the King Magician is up to. Remember he is the one who put Peter up to this adventure of sorts. He needs Peter to get to the ancient library, but it doesn’t seem to be going the way he planned. Let’s take a glimpse of what Ean is plotting, no?*

To keep his crown, what must a king do? To what lengths would a sorcerer go to hold on to the knowledge he spent his life obtaining? How does one keep what Death takes?

These were the questions many sought answers to. Some truly searched. Few formed intentions into action. And only 1 had succeeded without any nasty consequences. There was a reason why Ean was King Magician, no?

Perched on a rock during low tide, Ean contemplated the land of his second birth—this rocky cavern off the Icelandic Seas. This land, his sister Penelope had explained, was once home before the Fae King Oberon pillaged and burned, broke and destroyed…for fun.

And as Ean breathed in bits of ice, he wondered: had Oberon not taken him as a child, as tribute and gift only to be stolen again and adopted into the Dazain…had he stayed in the icy plains of the Dali—would it have taken him so long to find out his true self? Or would he have fallen victim to loneliness and become an Ice Man? He shook his head. He was much stronger than that. Had he grown up properly, he would have had Penelope and his tribe. He would’ve have the stories of the Dali to fill his mind and he would’ve learned magic without barriers.

Surely, he wouldn’t carry such wounds he held onto now. Certainly, it would be easier to accept Death’s love, no? His would reign a land of honey and not marred by wounded armies and scorched land. Things would not feel so…temporary. His aches would be forever kissed away by his Queen. Saravia.

Ean raked his face. He knew it didn’t earn him a thing to ponder these potential pasts. The chunks of ice still drifted past him and he still carried wounds. He still carried lost time. How he hated these parts…any place that asked him to think beyond magic or plot.

He was a king. He was a magician. He had been child tribute. He had been a scholar. He had been a warrior. But none of these titles really mattered. What he was…well, he was adept at magic. He didn’t need to be good at remembering or feeling. All he needed was his power, his potions, his charms and words. That was all he needed to survive, thus it was all he wanted.

Content with this lie, content that he had fooled himself once again, he sat up. With palms up, he began to twist and break each finger to look like crooked branches. He would have to be quick with his incantation before his body healed.

Kris, dộ, chem

Silvonus maldoc

Kri, kri, dộ, kri chem

Bas-kil, donivalp

Kri chem, kri, kri dộ

Camchida, kri, camchida kri

He repeated the words in a hurried whisper so low that only he and the energy he called could hear.
This was magic he enjoyed—he was not one to show off his abilities. That was the False King’s downfall. Ean would never allow himself to fall because of vanity. Let everyone underestimate his skills.

Without breaking a sweat or becoming parched, his chanting soon gave way to 9 bittersweet guests, bowing as much as their mummified skin would allow. The sight of the demi-liches made Ean smile.

One, with half a crown struggling against a hungry rust, stepped forward. He smelled of rotting paper and cobwebs, of sea salt and sediment. His leathery skin held the inked symbols that kept his body and magic one. These were the symbols that kept him breathing. Kept him animated and curious.

Such beautiful symbols. Ean had them too, but his were on the inside, etched in his skull and spine—this had been before his second birth…when he had been transitioning from warrior to scholar, when pain meant nothing but the fact that he was still alive. They were regained when he crossed into the laylines and took back his crown.

Looking at the demi lich that had stepped forward, he expected the voice to be raspy and wheezing yet he was surprised to find a strong deep baritone that held no sign of deterioration. Siren’s blood, perhaps? Ean would surely look into it.

“You have summoned us, my lord?”

“Indeed.”

The tide would come in soon and with it the ocean’s prying eyes and ears and watery limbs eager to grab.

“A proposition.”

“An order of service, my lord,” replied the demi lich.

“We magicians like a gamble, a game, a riddle, so proposition sounds better, don’t you agree?”

“We agree if you have us do so. But these things you speak of—we magicians loathe all these things. We seek only knowledge and its practical use.”

“Very true. Fine then. I won’t try to be diplomatic. Let us speak frankly.”

The 9 tilted their head in unison, awaiting their orders.

“I’ve a child in my service. He must get to Saros where the ancient library is located now. There are those that would not like me to pursue my knowledge so I am unable to enter myself. But now they are impeding the child’s journey and inevitable entrance. I do not take his delay kindly. So dispose of those that interfere and chaperone the child to his destination.”

“Who do we target?”

“A few war weary earth soldiers and a boy that goes by Caragris.”

There was a pause in which only papery skin rustled and water trickled through rock pits.

“Well?”

“The earth soldiers only take on jobs of honor, Lord Magician. They are not like the water fae—they are not mercenaries. They protect innocent blood, yet you ask us to strike them down.” There was a dry whistle from the ranks and their leader nodded before he added, “And you ask us to kill a child as well.”

“You have scruples now? After you’ve killed your own kin to keep your crown.” Ean gestured at the rusted head piece.

“Yes. Our kin…they were threats. But this boy…he is no threat to your crown.”

“He is in my way.” Ean clenched his teeth briefly, but then smiled. It did no good to show anger to his subordinates.

“Then send him on another path.”

“You are ordering me now? Don’t you think questioning my orders was enough of an infraction?”

“My lord, a good king takes heed of his advisors.” The demi lich bowed.

“Do not flatter yourself. I do not ask for advice because I do not need it.” He took a breath and stood a bit taller. “Fine. I’m reasonable. Step forward if you choose not to accept my offer.”

Along with the demi-lich that spoke, two step forward without hesitation. What was left of their eyes did not show defiance or hatred, but an acceptance of what was to come (for magicians were not a stupid lot) and also pity. There was pity for their king and it was this that made Ean grow hot with anger. How dare his subjects show him charity. The whole thing made Ean chuckle, making those that had not stepped forward wince.

As easy as taking a breath, Ean whispered vengaz three times and without even a glimmer, the remnants of the defiants’ symbols dripped from his clenched hand. And without them, the 3 began to disintegrate to ash into the air with only the slightest susurrus.

To the others, Ean wiped his hands clean on their rags as he said, “Use this as a reminder. Do my bidding or the magic you so desperately cling to will be forfeit.” He paused, relishing his own doomsday speech. “And it will be a far more painful event than what you witnessed here today. Do you understand? Because if you cross me, you will live forever in these decaying tombs but without a shred of power. My puppets, how you will feel the maggots birthing and burrowing. How you will feel the break of your body as pollen sows and grows from your swollen bellies.” Ean grinned madly and snatched them away before the icy water drowned them. He could kill. But, see, he could also save.

 

 

Poisoned Wells, Imaginiers Save Us From (Serialization 021)

*In this installment, we see what happened to Peter after he was attacked by the trolloc.*

That night, despite feeling the comfort and safety of the soldiers strewn around the room, Peter was unable to fall asleep. Even Cara, who fretted for long stretches before sleep snuck in, had dropped into Dream’s domain as quickly as a raven with a message for its lord. It was understandable—being surrounded by women was a norm at the palace of Grey Slopes where Cara grew up. With the earth soldiers, it would be easy for Cara to close his eyes and pretend he was surrounded by family. Peter supposed his friend was dreaming of royal slippers whispering across a marble floor, of harps playing in one of the many gilded rooms, of women whispering on hushed matters.

Cara had once invited Peter to visit the Royal Palace, but Peter had declined. He knew he couldn’t go—that a visit there would only leave him ever wanting. And, of course, even hungrier, because Lord Claray Benoit would take on a new messenger in Peter’s absence. Of course, his job was gone now, but it didn’t bother Peter as it once did. He wasn’t going back to that town. Not after what he had seen and felt. He’d moved forward until he was reunited with Death, no? Was this what it meant to become a man—to recognize the ever movement forward?

There felt to be a compass burning in his chest moving him to the unknown, to something wonderful. He itched to keep moving and was only satiated by the new sights and sounds and people he encountered.

And like a fool he almost missed it all by dying…

Peter wasn’t a fool and wasn’t one to pretend something hadn’t happened, especially when he still felt the phantom tusk in his chest. Cara had changed things, had managed to rearrange time. But it didn’t matter how his friend did it. What matter to Peter was that he remembered dying.

Death’s waiting rooms were filled with books and windows that let in a warm bright sunshine that was so strong it blocked out any chance for an outside view. There were people scattered, lounging about…but they were all writing furiously, thoughtfully.

They were penning their life catalog, their death dreams, the remains of attachments, letting go of self-control. Peter looked and waited to receive his own paper and pencil. As a messenger, he’d been allowed to learn how to read and write in classes given to the palace servants. But something told him that here in the waiting rooms, everyone was learned.

He hoped that he could sway whoever read his story to let him see Cara in the next life. Cara was his shred of self-control. His regret. His laughter. His everything. He needed to be able to see his Caragris once more.

Instead, he found her. The woman from the bridge. Peter’s stomach dropped. He should’ve traveled with her, made sure she had found a safe haven, no? What kind of gentleman was he…a terrible one as he could see.

He walked over to her slowly, heavy with sadness and a burning in his chest. But then she smiled at him and he realized that the aches of his body were gone. The grief gone too.  All there was now was the scent of lavender and her smile.

“How did you die?” He asked which made her laugh.

“That’s not very polite to ask here,” she said gathering her black robes. She wore layers of black gauze and silk to form the skirts of a mourning dress. She was sitting on the floor. “Besides, I’m not dead.”

“We’re not?”

“You are.” She place her hand on her pregnant belly, which was much more apparent than when he had seen her on the bridge. “Come. Sit.”

“Will you explain?”

“As much as I can.” She reached for his hand. “Do you know who I am now?”

He opened his mouth to say no, but here in her realm where everything followed the rhythm of her heartbeat and the room opened, shifted to her whims, Peter knew. He also knew he was crying but he wouldn’t acknowledge his tears. But he did take her hand. How could he not?

“Come here, Peter, Rest while we talk. It has been a hard journey for you. It always is.”

He placed his head on her lap and she smoothed the hair away from his face. Like any good mother, her hands were cool and warm, soft and firm. A mother’s hand had to be all things.

Saravia sighed. “I’d wanted you to get through this little adventure without having to visit here. Or, I assumed you’d come much later. I didn’t think this would happen so soon. Silly me.” She sighed again. “Trollocs can be an irritating bunch.”

“Except Dari-Daru.”

“Of course. He was a hero.”

“Cara said the Sharus were keeping an eye on us.”

“Mm-hmm. I asked them to.”

“Oh.” He knew he should ask why but instead he said, “Cara and I got into a fight. And I abandoned him. I’m a dolt.” He gulped in air but he couldn’t seem to stop the rivulets of tears from streaming down his face even with his eyes screwed shut. His crying made his chest tight and his throat sore. But the pain was acceptable because he’d left his friend alone and scared. He deserved every torture imaginable. He hiccupped and sucked in air. He sat up and, through his trembling, boldly asked Death, “Send someone…a Sharu to take him home. This was all my stupid idea. He doesn’t need to die. He can just go home…please.”

“But the adventure isn’t yet finished, Peter.”

“But I’m dead,” he screamed in a voice that shredded any bravado he had left. Now he was simply a dead little boy searching and wishing.

“Lower your voice, Peter. This is a sacred place and not meant for jackal howls. Do you think your death and your pain is more important that anyone else’s here? Her face was stern but not lacking in kindness. She cupped his face so that he would look at her. Once again a wave of lavender scented air surrounded him. He took in a deep breath.

“I’m sorry.”

“This is the place of balance, the great equalizing. Every soul here is cared for even if they did not care for others. Everyone’s story here is important. Everyone is treated gently. Whatever their mistakes or triumphs—that is dealt with in the beyond. But not here. Do you understand?”

“Y-yes.”

“No, you don’t. Not really. And that’s okay. You’re not meant to understand it. Not yet. Because you’re not meant to be here yet. You’re only temporarily dead.” And then she winked and kissed his cheek.

And that was when Peter understood why there were no other queens in the Dali.