15 December 2012

ELVEHELM: Starmeadow XVIII - Contractor Reports


            “Er...Master Joraz?  Your pardon?”

            The monk blinked, coming out of his trance and back to the firmament of reality.  He was sitting comfortably in full lotus, hands folded on his knees, and – more out of habit than need – breathing deeply, enjoying the cleansing rush of the winter air.  The winter’s chill was no longer oppressive; now he found it refreshing.  Stimulating, even.

            When he opened his eyes and looked down, he recognized Cayless.  Unlike him, she was wearing a heavy cloak against the renewed blizzard that was blanketing the capital in white for the third time in a week.  Also unlike him, she was struggling to keep a look of shock and dismay off of her face.  He had to think for a long moment to realize what was causing it.  When the answer struck him, he said, “Ah,” and stepped down out of the air.  During his meditation, he had, it seemed, drifted up into the sky again, and had been floating at about the level of Domus Casia’s rooftrees. 

            He wasn’t certain why it happened without conscious volition, but he found it amusing rather than alarming.  Some sort of exaltation had suffused his mortal essence.  Out of idle curiosity, as he touched down he felt for the substance of the air, and stopped his descent just above the level of the snow drifts that dotted the garden.  He found that, by dint of concentration, he was able to walk above the snow without disturbing a flake of it.

            When he glanced at Cayless again, she looked even more aghast than before.  “What?” he asked, taken aback by her frown.

            “You said you weren’t a caster!” she exclaimed, clutching the cloak more tightly around her throat.

            “I’m not.”

            “Then how...” she shivered violently.  “How are you doing that?”

            Joraz shrugged.  “I seem to have been afflicted by a certain lightness of being.”

            “I don’t even know what that means!” the elf-woman objected.

            “Me neither,” he grinned.  “Were you looking for me?”

            She nodded.  “Can we talk inside?”

            “If you like.” 

            Moments later she was shaking the snow from her mantle.  Bending over, she flicked heavy clots of flakes from her braided hair.  When she was finished, she threw the monk an accusing glance.  “You’re dry.”

            Joraz nodded.

            “Why aren’t you wet?  Or covered in snow?”

            “It didn’t land on me,” he replied reasonably.

            “Why not?”

            “I didn’t want it to.”

            “Magic!” she snapped.

            “If you say so,” Joraz shrugged.

            Cayless opened her mouth, a retort burning on her lips.  Then she closed it again.

            “Problem?” he asked.

            “Flying with magic is unnatural,” she muttered.  “Even so, it’s pretty common around here.  But flying without magic – that’s…it’s just…”

            “Birds do it all the time,” Joraz said reasonably.

            “You’re not a bird!”

            “If you say so,” he repeated, grinning at her consternation.  “Look, if you like, I’ll take you flying some time.  I know some very unnatural places.  No magic, I promise.”

            “I’ll have to think about that,” the elf-woman replied in a tone that implied, You’ll see me dead first.

            Joraz kept smiling.  Neither said anything for a long moment.  Finally, Cayless’ eyes widened.  “Oh!”

            “There it is,” he nodded.

            “Visitor!” she yelped.  “You’ve a...somebody wants to see you!”

            “Just me?” Joraz frowned.

            “No, all of you,” the elf-woman admitted.  “But Colonel Mastigo and his apprentice aren’t back yet, and the master and mistress are abed, and Karrick has left the House for...er...he’s at the...”

            “Where else?” Joraz sighed.  “So it’s just me, then?”

            Cayless nodded.

            “Who’s here?”

            Domina Latentra.  The Queen’s number-one handmaiden.  The one that…who didn’t turn out to be a dragon, like your friend’s daughter.”

            It was all he could do not to laugh.  Ara was a dragon.  “Where is h…she?”

            “I put her in the mistress’ private dining room,” Cayless replied.  “There’re tea and cakes, too,” she added somewhat irrelevantly.

            “Thank you.  Let’s go hear what she has to say.”

            “Me?” the tattooed woman squeaked.

            “Surely,” he shrugged.  “This is Amorda’s house.  She should have ears she trusts at any meeting within its walls.”

            Cayless didn’t look too happy at his invitation.  He was about to carry on down the hall when the elf-woman put a hand on his arm.  He turned back to her.  “Yes?”

            She appeared flushed.  “You...um...you might want to put something on.”  She cast a meaningful glance down.

            Joraz wrinkled his nose, puzzled.  Then he realized that he’d been meditating in his loincloth.  “Right,” he sighed, changing course for his bedchamber.

 

♦♦♦

 

            “Where is Thanos?” Ara asked, looking at the monk strangely.  They hadn’t spoken at any great length, and she was clearly uncomfortable bringing her information, whatever it was, to him.

            “Traveling,” Joraz replied shortly.  “He took Valaista with him.  And Breygon is...ah, otherwise engaged.”  He spread his hands.  “I’m all that’s left.”

            “When do you expect him back?”

            “Breygon?”  The monk laughed.  “Not for a few hours at least.  I hope.”

            “I meant Thanos,” she replied flatly.

            “A couple of days.”  He leaned forward, lifted the tea-cozy, and filled her cup.  “Why?  Has something pressing come up?”

            “No,” she replied, sounding a little miffed.  “No.  But...”

            Joraz waited.

            Ara snorted heavily.  “He asked me to look into something for him.  I’d assumed it was urgent.  And now I’ve completed the task, and I find he’s hared off somewhere.”  She seemed agitated.

            Puzzled by her obvious discomfiture, the monk sat back in his chair and folded his arms.  “What was the task, if I might inquire?” he asked politely.

            “Research.”  She tapped a manicured nail impatiently on the tabletop. 

            Joraz cocked an eyebrow; that she was only denting the wood was a mark of restraint.  Her nail could probably have punched through the beechwood, he knew, if she’d been of a mind to try.  “On what subject?” he asked. 

            “The Labyrinth.  Caecusacrum Mirosata, in the elves’ tongue; the Hidden Temple of Miros,” she replied stiffly.  “The Servants of Miros have no hint of its secrets among their records, or so their high priestess, that Castrana woman, claims.  Perhaps she’s even telling you the truth.  But even if they are, they do not have access to the various libraries at the Palace.  In particular, Tîor’s Bookshelf.”

            “What’s that?” Joraz asked, suddenly interested.

            “The ancient magister’s own library,” Ara replied.  “It’s in his observatory at Arx Magnificus, the royal residence.  As one of the ancillulae, I can make use of it whenever I like.  Thanos asked me to do so, to see if I could find anything out about the Labyrinth before you lot attempt to penetrate it.”

            Joraz found that his fingers were trembling with anticipation.  “And did you?” he asked eagerly.  “Find anything out, I mean?”

            “Fragments,” the dragon replied, shaking her head in frustration.  “Bits and pieces.  Nothing concrete or consistent, even.  Just...scraps.”

            “Anything’s better than nothing,” the monk urged.  “Even scraps.  Are you sure you covered everything?”

            “What do you mean?”

            He shrugged.  “Well, there are a lot of books, I presume.  You couldn’t read them all in only a few day–”

            She cut him off.  “I didn’t have to read them all.  I mindswept them to find which, if any, spoke of the Labyrinth, or of the worship of Miros, or of her secrets.”  She snorted.  “Then I simply read the ones I found.”

            Joraz whistled in admiration.  “That’s a spell?”

            “A good one,” Ara smiled.  “One of Kalestayne’s old students devised it.  It’s called ‘Kalena’s Swiftsearch’.  Tricky, but worth the effort.”

            “And it helped you find...?”

            “As I said, bits and pieces,” Ara sighed.  “Geography, architecture, legends, magic.  And traps.”

            “Traps?” Joraz exclaimed.

            “Oh, yes,” the dragon growled.  “Danger piled upon danger.  That place has been keeping would-be thieves out since the Darkness.

            “Most of it’s simply a matter of misdirection, I suspect,” she went on, assuming a scholarly air.  “The entrance to the catacomb, for example; it’s near the pyramid, not beneath it.  It can only be opened by a benediction from a priest of Miros.  There are ways around that sort of thing if you’re a clever thief; scrolls, for example, or spelltiles.”

            “We were invited,” Joraz mused.  “I imagine they’ll open it for us.”

            “Likely enough,” Ara agreed.  “And they’ll doubtless see you through the great doors, too, that lie within; and as none of you serve the darkness, you’ll probably not have to worry about the ‘divine breath’, either.”

            The monk’s eyebrows rose.  “And that is...”

            “I don’t know,” she shrugged.  “It lies just beyond the great doors, and keeps servants of the Uruqua out of the Labyrinth.”

            “Couldn’t that be tricked, too?” he asked.

            “Possibly.  Depends on how it’s triggered.  In any case, you’re none of you evil, so you shouldn’t need to worry about it.  At least, that’s what my research suggests.”

            He nodded, a little perturbed.  “What else?”

            She cocked an eyebrow.  “Are you planning on taking notes, or am I going to have to repeat this when Thanos returns?”

            Joraz grinned.  “You’re the scholar, not I.  Are you telling me you didn’t prepare a summary?”

            Ara snorted and slid a sheet across the table at him.  He picked it up and gave it a cursory glance.  “Oh, my,” he said after a long moment.

            “Indeed.”

            “An angel?  Really?”

            “That’s what the book said,” Ara replied curtly.  “An angel, ‘just beyond the breath’.  Although the term...it translates directly as ‘shining herald of divinity’.”

            “And that means ‘angel’?” he exclaimed.

            “That’s one possible interpretation,” the dragon replied, clearly frustrated.  “The elves write scholarly works in poetry.  It’s maddening.  And divine beings are not my area of expertise.  Even this much I had to cobble together out of bits and pieces of other texts, and I don’t understand the half of it.”

            “You could always come with us, and find out in person,” he suggested only half-jokingly.  “We could use your help.”

            “And throw away my disguise?” the dragon snorted.  “Thank you, no.  Besides, Venastargenta charged me with safeguarding the Queen.  He’d be…annoyed, if I abandoned that duty to go crawling around a catacomb with you lot.”

            “ ‘Annoyed’ doesn’t sound too bad,” the monk observed.

            “The last time Venastargenta was ‘annoyed’ at someone,” Ara said flatly, “he levelled a mountain range.”

            Joraz blinked.  “Really?”

            She nodded.  Mons Sanguinus, in Ensher.  It was the lair of Hagastyllax Verileikkuri.  Hagastyllax the Bloodrender.  The puna who killed his son’s lifemate, Cymballinostyra, in true battle.  It was only a few years ago.”

            “Gods,” the monk breathed.  “And Venasta killed this…Hagastyllax, did you call him?”

“No, he just obliterated his lair.”  She snorted approvingly.  “Along with most of the surrounding countryside.  He left Haga to Svarda.  That’s his duty, as Styra’s mate; to slay her slayer, in True Battle.”

“That seems appropriate,” he nodded.  “Sorry, what does ‘poona’ mean, then?  Is it some sort of curse?”

Puna,” she repeated, enunciating carefully.  “It’s short for Punainen lohikäärme.  Red dragon.  Haga is probably the oldest and foulest red in Erutrei.”  She smiled grimly.  “But Svarda will settle him.  Sooner or later.”

            Joraz scratched his head.  “Well, if you can’t come with us, then I suppose we’ll have to find out about this ‘divine herald’ the hard way, won’t we?  What else?”

            “Prose,” Ara snorted.  “The archives are full of it, all in bits and pieces.  Meaningless fragments.  Here’s one: ‘Life’s legend reliving, and offspring attending / All bitter pain ending – in glory, depart’.”

            “That sounds vaguely familiar,” the monk mused.  “What does it mean?”

            “Something to do with instructions for navigating the Labyrinth, I’d imagine,” she replied.  “It was a skald who penned that particular scroll.  He seemed to think that piece important.  He refers to other scraps of the same poem all throughout his discourse on the Labyrinth.  Vigilant misers growing richer and wiser, that sort of thing.”  She frowned.  “It sounds familiar to me, too, now that you mention it.”

            Joraz, for lack of anything better to do, sniffed his tea.  He pushed it away.  “This is all a little...vague.  We were hoping for something more definite than disjointed verses.”

            “Like what?” Ara laughed mockingly.  “An architect’s plan?  A parcel of keys and passwords?”  She tapped the parchment emphatically.  “Trust me, this is all there is.  The Servants have been keeping secrets since before the Holy Mother walked the earth, and they’re so good at it that their own legitimate successors, like Castrana, can’t breach their vaults without your help.” 

She laughed darkly.  “Besides, I know this stuff is genuine.  One of the scrolls I found had fallen behind a cabinet; I only noticed it because the Swiftsearch spell made it shine like quickspark.  It was buried under a stack of census reports from King Allarýchian’s reign.”

            The monk raised his palms.  “Who?”

            “He died a thousand years ago,” Ara sighed.  “My point is, these documents hadn’t been disturbed in an age.  If there was anything more to be found at the palace, I’d’ve found it.”

            “I wonder if there’s anything more at the College,” Joraz mused aloud.

            “You’re welcome to look.  Or Thanos can.  If he’s not too busy preparing his testimony for the Queen’s inquiry.”

            “I haven’t heard of any inquiry!” Joraz exclaimed.

            “There’s sure to be one, as soon as she returns.  Or sooner, if your friend’s uncle manages to prod Landioryn into acting.”  She grimaced.  “Could happen.  Landioryn’s a good man, and a good commander; but around the palace he can’t decide which fork to use unless his mother tells him first.”

            “All right.”  Joraz squared his shoulders.  “So, I guess we’re on a schedule in that regard, too.  Thanos won’t be of much help in the Labyrinth if he’s cooling his heels in a courtroom. What else was there?”

            “Bits and pieces, as I said.  The whole place seems designed to keep out interlopers, but to let ‘true servants of Holy Miros’ pass unmolested.  No surprise, really; according to legend, much of their wealth is concealed below.  Treasure, books, and assorted bric-a-brac.”

            “Enchanted things?” he asked, mildly curious.

            “Of course,” she replied disdainfully.  “They’re an order of mage-priests.  They support themselves by enchanting items to order.  But I’m not talking about talking clocks, glowing swords and fire-wands.  The Labyrinth is reputedly home to artefacts of terrible power.  Things that had to be buried not to safeguard them from thieves, but to protect the world from their might.”  She shrugged.  “Makes sense, I suppose; no brigand or second-story man would dare the kind of death-traps the place is full of simply to purloin something he could nick from a drunken mage’s haversack.”

            “So, it’s heavily defended, then.”  He ground his teeth.  “Wonderful.”

            She nodded.  “As I said, there’re a great many traps, misleading devices, defensive spells.  And of course, guardians.”

            He perked up at that.  “What sorts of ‘guardians’?” 

            Ara shrugged.  “Apart from the ‘shining herald’, I’ve no idea.  The Servants are all casters, so probably constructs.  Maybe summoned elementals, or…other things.”  She shook her head.  “There’s certainly no shortage of power to sustain that sort of magic.”

            Joraz raised an inquiring eyebrow.

            “Right, right,” she muttered.  “I forgot to mention that.

“The Labyrinth’s home to the Putealis Mirifucus,” she explained, leaning forward and tapping the parchment.  “The Font of Wonders.  It’s said to lie below the pyramid; its waters flow from some source beyond Anuru, and they wash throughout the Labyrinth.”

“Is that like the ‘Well of Stars’?” Joraz asked, confused.

“No!” Ara exclaimed.  “No, no!  It’s something entirely different!  The Well of Stars is the source of all magical might in Anuru; it produces pure, unadulterated power.  The Font of Wonders is a trickle by comparison; it’s just water from another world, that happens to bring that world’s magic with it.”  She grimaced.  “And because it leaps from world to world, the magic is a little…unpredictable.”

“That sounds risky,” the monk muttered.

“That’s an understatement.  But one of the ancient priest-archmages among the Servants supposedly learned how to concentrate and maximize the potency of the waters,” the dragon explained.  “It’s where their arcane power originates.  Why they’re so powerful here, in the capital.  Anyone can tap into it, apparently...if you’re willing to risk it.  If the Servants haven’t been able to get to it, then the Font hasn’t been monitored.  The flood could’ve gone wild again. 

“And besides,” she shrugged, “you can only access the power if you’re a true servant of Miros.”

            “What does that mean?”

            “Just what it says.  When Ceorlinus mentioned the Labyrinth in one of his plays, he said ‘only a True Servant of Miros may pass the Adamant Guardian; only a True Servant of Miros may approach the Hidden Temple; only a True Servant of Miros may raise the Golden Flammifer; only a True Servant of Miros may touch the Burning Flood’.”

            “ ‘Adamant Guardian’?” Joraz exclaimed.

            Ara nodded.  “I thought you’d fix on that one.  That’s why I said that you should expect constructs.”

            “I hope you don’t have to be a ‘true servant of Holy Miros’ just to survive the place,” the monk said darkly.  “Because none of us qualifies.”

            “I don’t know,” Ara replied.  “But I would imagine that an honest prayer to the Mistress of Magic and Dragons would not be out of line, especially in such a sacred place.”

            “Maybe we should get down on one knee, and ask her for the Eye,” Joraz muttered.

            “Maybe you should,” the dragon snorted primly.  “According to one historian, ‘the most perilous of gifts may only be sought at the feet of the dragon throne’.”

            “ ‘Dragon throne’?  That sounds like the Starhall!”

            Ara shook her head.  “That quote was very specific.  The writer was talking about the Hidden Temple in the Labyrinth.”

            “So there’s a throne in the temple?” Joraz mused.

            “There must be.  Unless it’s a metaphor for something.”

            Joraz snorted a laugh at that.  “That wouldn’t surprise me at all.”  He tried the tea again.  It held no attraction for him.  “You said,” he mused, “that an ancient archmage had learned how to harness the power of the otherworldly water.  From the ‘font of wonders’.”

            “Yes.” Ara, unlike Joraz, appeared to like the tea, draining her cup and holding it out for a refill.  “His name was Aboshat of Krimm.  He was both an archmage, and the archpriest of Miros for many years.  He completed the design of the Labyrinth, tying its disparate elements together.”

“You seem to know a lot about him,” Joraz noted blandly.

“He was powerful and influential, and a famous mage,” Ara replied.  “Plus, he taught at the College.  Such people have a hard time keeping a low profile.”  She shivered slightly.  “He was supposedly fascinated by the discoveries of Tîor and his son Xîardath.  About the Void.”

            “That’s not good,” Joraz muttered, recalling Fifth Child.

            “No.”  She grinned feebly.  “Although he did have a lighter side, it seems.  One skald wrote a song called ‘The Bishop’s Bath’.  It contains verses about Aboshat’s bathtub, and how it was hidden in the Labyrinth along with the other artefacts belonging to the Servants.  Because of its ‘terrible power’.”  She giggled.  “He seemed to be implying that Aboshat used it infrequently, and left a ring whenever he did.”

            Joraz pursed his lips.  “After what I’ve seen, I’m not going to balk at a magical bath,” he chuckled.  “Although I might check it for traps before I scrub up.”

            “Use hot water if you do,” Ara advised.  “Cold is bad, it seems.  Part of another poem I found states that ‘Without the hidden temples gates / The dry bones clack and skitter / The heartless cold cannot be tricked / but he can be bought for glitter’.”

            “And that means...?”

            “Again, no idea.  Just a piece of doggerel connected to the Labyrinth.  There’s another one, too: ‘If thou would’st the future know / Then dare the caverns deep below / There, to descry thy heart’s desire / Seek out the ancient sage of fire’.”

            “At least it rhymes,” Joraz complained.  “Is there any point in asking what the ‘sage of fire’ is?”

            The dragon shook her head. “Nothing else I found even mentioned it.”

            “Maybe he sits on that throne you mentioned.”

            “I don’t think so,” she replied pensively.  “I found another quote – one that says that ‘only the Divine Servant of Holy Miros may sit the Throne of the Hidden Temple’.”

            The monk’s eyes widened.  “At least that confirms that there’s a throne at the temple!  So, maybe this ‘sage of fire’ is a divine being, who serves Miros!”

            “Maybe,” Ara sighed.  “Or maybe it’s the ‘shining herald’.  Or maybe the two phrases have nothing to do with each other.  Or maybe they have nothing to do with the Labyrinth at all, and were just scribbled up by some harp-tinkler trying to amuse an audience.”

            “I wonder,” Joraz pondered aloud, ignoring her, “if this fire sage…if he’s the one who guards the Eye?”

            “There is more there than just the Eye of Hîarhala,” the dragon said gravely.  “Its power is immense, true; according to legend, it breaks all protective charms.  Its bearer can see magic.  And, according to one writer, destroy it.”

            “It sounds like a terrible weapon,” the monk murmured.  “No wonder the Servants locked it away.”

            “It’s still only one weapon of many.  Many things, as I said, were secured below.”  She perked up suddenly.  “That reminds me.  As you can imagine, it was hard enough digging up a word here and there about the Labyrinth.  But there was this, too.”  She tugged a small, torn page out of her scrip and smoothed it onto the table’s surface.

            Joraz examined it closely.  It looked like a drawing, badly faded.  “What is it?”

            “An inked stamping made from a woodcut,” the dragon replied.  “It’s a common way of making penny copies of popular paintings.  I found it among a list of works of art belonging to the Servants.  Art that was supposedly hidden in the Labyrinth for safekeeping.

            “That’s not the point, though.  It’s who it is that’s important.”  She tapped the picture.  “Look closely.”

            “It looks like trees,” he muttered.  “And a woman playing a...is that a harp?” 

            “Yes.  A ‘great harp’, according to the elves.”

            The monk shrugged.  “Who is she?”

            “I can only make out the title – Cantora Magnifica – but if my guess is right,” Ara gloated, “then it’s Amalux Semiferia.  The half-elven skald who took the elf-realm by storm in the centuries following the Darkness.  Nearly two thousand years ago.”

            “That sounds familiar, too,” he frowned.

            “It should,” Ara snorted.  “As ‘Amalux Cantor’, she penned half the songs the common folk sing.”  She looked up at him, frowning.  “You still don’t understand, do you?”

            “No.”

            “She was famous for more than just her songs.”  The dragon tapped the picture again.  “If this is really Amalux Cantor, then that is –”

            “Morning!” Breygon said cheerily, padding into the dining hall and struggling to force his head through the neck of his blouse.  “There any tea?”  Then he noticed Ara, and bowed perfunctorily.  “Brother.  Welcome, again, to Domus Casia.”

            Ara nodded.

            Joraz checked the tea-pot.  “Empty.”

            The half-elf nodded.  “Tua!” he shouted.  He turned back to his friend and their guest, who was eyeing him speculatively.  “What’d I miss?”

            Joraz barked a laugh.  He kicked a chair towards his colleague.  “You’d better sit down.”

 

♦♦♦

29 November 2012

Silviu the Thief - Now Availabile!

Hello all,

My new book, Silviu the Thief - the first book in the Hero's Knot series - is now available for sale at Smashwords and Amazon.



As always, you can also find my books via my website, www.alexanderneill.com.

I had a lot of fun cranking this one out during National Novel Writing Month, and I'm looking forward to following the adventures of Raven/Silviu through at least two more books.

I hope you enjoy it!

Cheers,

- Don

26 November 2012

SILVIU THE THIEF - DONE

Hello all,

I'm happy to announce that I've completed and submitted my novel to the National Novel Writing Month competition. That makes me a winner according to the contest rules. So, yay!


Of course, the real work comes next, formatting the book for publication at Amazon:Kindle and Smashwords (and its various affiliates). I should have it done by next week.


And then on to the next book. Not sure at this stage whether it'll be Book II of The Hero's Knot, or if I'll go back to the Chronicles of Anuru and finish off Book I of The Brotherhood of Wyrms. I think I might take some time off and get back to writing over Christmas.

Anyway, for the moment I think I'll just indulge in a little triumphalism and take a break. Yay again!


And as always, thanks for reading!

//Don//

17 November 2012

Silviu the Thief

UPDATE 20 November 2012, 1628 hours:

DONE!

I've completed the first draft of Silviu the Thief. It clocks in at 70,000 words - pretty short by my usualy standards, but chances are the tale will "grow in the telling", as another author once said.  And for now, it's long enough for the NaNoWriMo contest.

Now on to the proofing!

------------------------------------------------------------------------------


As part of the continuing serialization of my new novel, The Hero's Knot, currently in drafting stage for National Novel Writing Month, here's part III.

Fair warning; upon reflection, it's going to have to be a trilogy. So The Hero's Knot is going to be the title of the whole mess.  My NaNoWriMo submission is going in under the working title, Silviu The Thief.

59,000 words down, -9,000 to go.  But you know me; brevity is not one of my flaws.

This one's headed for 100,000 words. The other two will be just as long by the time they're done.  Maybe longer.

 
Those are provisional titles, of course, but they'll do for now.
 
And for now, here's the next instalment of Silviu The Thief, as currently written.  Lots of proof-reading to come, but for the time being I've got a stranglehold on my dreaded Internal Editor.
 
It'll get better, trust me.
 



His first appointment necessitated a walk of a little more than a mile. After only a couple of blocks, Raven tired of his disguise; the freezing mist had become a drizzle, a chilling spray of near-ice that slicked the sidewalks and transformed his illusory boot-heels from an inconvenience to a danger. He’d used his charms to cure minor injuries and incidental ills before, but he’d never had occasion to try to mend something as serious as a broken ankle, and had little interest in finding himself compelled by importunity to do so. Passing the metro station at Delancey and Essex he stumbled on a curb, and that was the final straw; he put his right hand into his pocket, found the silvery imp, flicked it with a gnawed fingernail, and between one breath and the next, allowed his disguise to bleed away into the dusk. His right boot-heel clacked against the cement, but when the left struck, it did so with the squishy thud of a well-worn running shoe. Skirt, short jacket, ponytail and lip gloss faded away into the night. Raven stepped out of the illusion without breaking stride. Passers-by, their necks tucked tightly into coat-collars, their eyes downcast against the freezing rain or glued to illuminated digital screens, saw nothing.
Sure-footed now – he wore his runners through all the seasons, even in the snows of winter, preferring their comfort and reliable grip on the skin of the world to the conveniences of warmth or water resistance – Raven walked three blocks up Essex. At East Houston Street. He paused for a longing leftward glance at Katz’s Delicatessen (pockets bulging with cash sparked all manner of thoughts in his brain, not least of which were the hungry thunder pounding against his consciousness, and his fondness for latkes and vereniki, and similarly artery-clogging conglomerations of dough and cheese, onion and potato), then shook himself and crossed over to Avenue A. Dismal apartment blocks, an art gallery, shop fronts, sidewalk cafés and the utilitarian brick of the East Fifth Street Con Ed plant rose before him and receded in his wake.
A shadow followed behind him, but he didn’t notice.
With the persistence of a dentist’s drill, the drizzle worked its way down his collar, and he briefly considered holding back a few dollars for a new hat at one of the Chinatown street vendors. Up until a few weeks ago he’d had a Yankees cap, an old and tattered thing thick with filth and reminiscence, but had been forced to part with it as a favour to one of the watchers at Saint Joseph’s near Washington Square Park, in payment for a clean escape from a couple of street cops who’d happened to witness him sliding out of a liquor store with a handful of crumpled bills. They’d been a little more astute than the norm for their type, and Raven had had to think on his feet. He didn’t like to offer sacrifices to work the magic; each time he did it, it felt as if he were carving away a chunk of his being. He was scattering little pieces of Raven all over the city, leaving himself naked and exposed to its raw, elemental might, laying bar his activities, the very core of his being, to anyone with the eyes to see. That he’d had no choice was no balm to his wounded pride; with careful planning, he could work all the wonders he needed with his charms alone, and not be forced to fall back on the might of tokens like his cap, rich with essence and memory. He didn’t like the thought of one of the watchers keeping it, wearing it even; or worse, trading it in turn to some darker being in a further exchange of favours. There was power in personal objects. Raven didn’t know how he knew that, but he did. He knew it in his bones.
Six more blocks, and he was there: Tompkins Square Park, the heart of the East Village. Normally one of his favourite places in the city, he knew it with the intimate familiarity of a lover. He’d been there in summer time, luxuriating in the scent of oak buds and ash, walking barefoot, the better to feel the sparse and struggling grass between his toes. He liked sitting atop tree roots, leaning back against the towering trunks, feeling the life and wonder of living wood quivering beneath him, drawing strength from the vitality of the timber, and returning it in equal measure. He’d had a moment of awakening here, once upon a time; years ago, when he’d still been young in the world, before the darkness had come to cloud the light of day, and life had become a burden. He’d been at the park and had been caught unawares by a sudden rain-squall. He’d taken shelter beneath a leafy maple, only to discover that the tree had been struck a foot or so above the ground by some thoughtless lout behind the tiller bars of an earth-mover of some sort. The bark had been entirely torn away, half of the heartwood beneath it had been splintered into kindling by the force of fire-driven steel. He’d put a hand upon the groaning trunk, and felt the tree’s dying; and with the empathy of the pre-pubescent (an empathy tempered by hardship that kept tears at bay even when he’d happened across a human corpse), he’d wept.
Fumbling through his pockets, he’d grasped the runestone in his left hand, fingers working feverishly against the silver as he thumbed his way through the ten charms that he kept upon a leather thong. He had already learned the trick of knowing whether a charm would serve him in any given instance; either the old, worn silver token would feel alive and electric in his grasp, or it would lay still and quiescent like an old bone. He’d tried the nisse, the paired ravens, the hammer, the shield, the bull, even the crossed, crooked spears, the newest of his charms, the one that had come to him by mysterious paths on his tenth birthday. None availed him. It wasn’t until his questing fingers lit upon the horse – the peculiar eight-legged destrier, rearing and magnificent, that he’d had for more than half his life thus far – that he felt the pulsing tingle of possibility. With the runestone in his left hand and the horse-token in his right, he’d leaned forward, touching his forehead to the wounded tree...and worked a wonder.
Hot, golden light burst from him, exploding from his body like the radiance of a star, spilling from his eyes, his mouth like the very benediction of heaven. An effervescence of the spirit, the light washed over the wounded maple, cloaking it in health, in life, squeezing vitality into its very pores. Before Raven’s astonished eyes, the breach in the bark closed over, filled from all corners by new growth. He embraced the tree, glorying in the new access of strength that he had summoned, breathing in air charged with the shattering weight of possibility, laughing and weeping at the same time. Though it did not move, though not a single branch did more than quiver, it felt as though the tree had embraced him in turn, granting him life and strength in equal measure; and as it did so, Raven felt his senses expanding, his nerves running through the living wood of the tree until he could sense the distant Sun beyond the clouds. Through his fingertips he could taste the air, tainted with the dust and brimstone of upwind power plants; through his toes, the water, drawn from deep in the earth, the foulnesses of the rivers leached from the life-giving fluid by filters of porous stone. He and the tree were one, sugary sap and blood running together, shared in perfect, temporary harmony.
He’d learned another lesson, too; after so vast an expenditure of power he’d fallen prey to exhaustion, collapsing to sleep at the foot of the tree he’d healed. He awoke the next morning, rising wiht the Sun – with the tree itself, he’d realized later on – to find himself warm, dry and safe. The tree had sheltered him against the rain and the night’s chill, in gratitude perhaps for the gift of life and strength that he had imparted. Before leaving he’d thanked the new-healed maple with a touch, and had been a little disappointed not to feel the same explosion of glory and might. He never felt it again, but that didn’t change his memory of the majesty of what he’d done. For years afterward, every time he’d passed the park he’d looked in on the tree. Just to see how it was doing.
Now, as he stalked across East Seventh Street and entered the park from the south, hunched forward against the ever-increasing rain, he didn’t bother looking for the tree. It wasn’t there anymore; a few years ago, it had vanished overnight, hacked to the earth along with dozens of other maples to make way for a studio that advertised modern dance and something called ‘pilates’. Apart from the biblical reference to a former governor of Judea who (insofar as he’d been able to gather) had been conspicuously lacking in both decision-making skills and moral courage, Raven had no idea what ‘pilates’ were. But he was certain that they were a poor substitute for a living tree.
His appointment was behind the studio. There was an awning above the back door, nestled between a dumpster and an old Ford truck that had been parked behind the building shortly after it opened and didn’t appear to have moved since. These features made for decent shelter against the elements, and thus it was here, beneath a single overhead light bulb that was either burned out or had been partially unscrewed, that Two-Beats was generally to be found. Raven had no idea what the fellow’s real name was; everyone called him by his street handle, uttering the moniker with contempt or quivering respect, depending upon whether they looked up at him in fear, or not. Raven didn’t fear the man, but he respected him, just as he respected other dangerous features of the city, like speeding trucks or condemned buildings. Out of caution and customary politeness, he approached the back of the building in the open, walking slowly but steadily, keeping his hands in his pockets.
As he drew closer, he saw his contact’s head come up. The man’s right hand crept towards the back of his waistband, but stopped as recognition set in. Raven nodded at the compliment and stopped a couple of paces away. That left him under the rain instead of the awning, but it was prudent. Two-Beats was considerably larger, and had both a longer reach and an unpredictable temper. If it came to fisticuffs, Raven planned to beat a retreat. Fighting was for fools; for fools with a death wish, in fact.
His contact spoke first. “Blackie.” The word came out in an exaggerated drawl. Two-Beats was himself black-skinned, and embraced every aspect of the stereotyped culture portrayed on television. Raven knew that he had been born in Western Connecticut, in a milquetoast town that bore as much resemblance to Harlem as it did to Pakistan.
It didn’t bother him; as far as Raven was concerned, everyone had the right to smith-craft their own legend. It was what he himself did every day, more or less. “Beats,” he replied with a deferential nod. There was a glassy sheen in the taller man’s eyes, and Raven thought it might be cocaine. Two-Beats, he knew, had expensive tastes. Best to be polite, he thought. It usually was.
“You buying?”
“Paying.” Without moving too quickly, he pulled his left hand from his pocket, opening it to reveal a tight roll of bills. His right hand was still concealed, his fingers caressing the star-shaped silver slug that he thought of as the horn-charm.
Beats’ moist eyes widened. “Okay, then,” he exclaimed, reaching for the money.
Raven pulled it back a hand-span. “It’s for Sherlyn. A thousand. For what she owes you.”
The other man snorted. “Bitch owes me more’n that. A lot more.”
“I’ll get more,” Raven promised. “Tomorrow.”
Two-Beats blinked once, twice, working the offer and its implications through the thick, alkaloid-sodden sludge of his mind. “Three G’s,” he said, “on top o’that.”
Four thousand, Raven thought. A lot, but it might have been more. He waggled the roll. “Three more, and she’s clear?” He watched the tilt of his contact’s head, the set of his jaw, the narrowing of his eyes. The horn-charm granted loquacity, but it also helped the speaker read the truth of what he heard.
Beats nodded. “Yeah.”
Lying. Raven’s cheek twitched, but he gave no other sign. He put the roll of bills in the pimp’s outstretched hand. “Same time tomorrow, then?”
“Why you care, anyway?”
Raven blinked. “Sorry?”
“’Bout Sherlyn. She just Jersey ass, man.” Beats grinned, displaying decaying teeth. “You in love or something?”
Raven cocked an eyebrow, then shrugged. “She helped me out.”
“Ah just bet she did!”
Raven decided to let that pass. “Just trying to help out,” he said soothingly, grinding the horn-charm between thumb and forefinger and willing the magic to work. “Same time tomorrow?” he repeated.
Two-Beats frowned for a moment. Then his face cleared, taking on an almost beatific cast. He caused the money to disappear. “Yeah.”
“And she’ll be fine?” Raven said clearly, fixing the other man with his eyes, unclenching his will a little and letting their unsettling colour show through.
The fellow heaved a theatrical sigh. “’Course, man. My word’s good, right?”
“Right.” Raven’s cheek twitched again; he couldn’t help it. “See you tomorrow.”
Beats nodded. “Ah’ll be here.”
Raven dipped his head in farewell. He left the park, heading eastwards, crossing Avenue B towards Alphabet City, heading for the riverfront. There was a mission at Saint Emeric’s where he could usually find a lukewarm meal and a cold bed, and he planned to stuff the rest of his ill-gotten gains into the donation slot near the arched front doors.
Between the rain, the mounting wind, the slickly treacherous sidewalk, and his preoccupation with his bargain with Two-Beats, Raven failed to notice the old woman until he was practically atop her. At the last instant his brain registered the presence of a clot of shadow huddled in the corner between a mailbox and the crumbling brick of an artisanal bakery, and he stumbled to a halt the barest fraction of an instant before treading on her.
She was old; he saw that at once. Old, and wrapped in shawl and blanket like a film stereotype. The peculiar appropriateness of her attire caught Raven off guard; and when she looked up at him, her eyes caught the rain-dampened streetlamps, reflecting glints of feral yellow and scarlet. There was something atavistic, medieval even, about her appearance, and he found himself recalling the severed head he had seen only an hour ago, wide-eyed, staring, clotted with foulness, and swirling haplessly down into the maelstrom of the rain-tide. Despite himself, he took a step back.
A hand – a claw – age-gnawed, gnarled and spotty, crept tremblingly from beneath the shawl. “Milostenie?” she murmured. “Ofranda?” Though her voice was as decrepit and tremulous as her frame, he heard her words clearly, as if they had been coins dropped from a great height into still water.
Raven cocked his head. “I don’t...I’m sorry, I don’t speak your language.” He’d been about to say that he didn’t understand her, but shied at the last moment away from falsehood. He had no idea what tongue she used, but he knew what she’d said. A plea for alms.
The ancient, bird-like eyes didn’t move; they remained fixed upon him, like nails driven through the planks of his soul. The hand quivered again. “Halp,” she quavered.
There was curiosity in those eyes; assessment, evaluation, even interest. Raven could sense it all. But there was no compulsion. Had he known more about the temper of the world, he might have walked on; but it was not in his nature to deny someone in need. That, after all, was what had drawn him to Sherlyn’s plight, and into the dangerous world of Two-Beats and his ilk.
He didn’t stop to consider his next action; he simply plunged his hand into his pocket, drew out the remainder of the money he had purloined, and pressed it into the old woman’s hand.
The ancient eyes widened, although their colour and focus didn’t change. “Too mach,” she protested, shaking the wad at him. “Too mach!”
Raven took her hand, suppressing a shiver of disgust at the damp, crepe-like texture of her skin. “There’s no such thing,” he said gently, folding her brittle, twiggy fingers over the roll of bills, “as too much help.”
That brought a grin to cracked, ancient lips. The old woman tucked the money away with a conjurer’s finesse, and began to laugh – not a clean, hearty guffaw, but a chilling chortle, a cackle of glee that sent a runnel of spittle trickling down her chin. “No...no such thing!” she crowed.
Raven cast her a nervous sidelong glance and stepped back. The withered hand shot out and seize him by the wrist. Her strength and dexterity shocked him, and he tugged reflexively.
She held on, patting his hand. This time he did shiver. “You good boy,” she said eerily. “Very good boy, yes.” Her sleeve fell back, and he saw something on the inside of her left forearm; a scrawl of some sort. A tattoo, possibly.
“Lucky boy, nu?” she went on, almost crooning now. Behind her words the wind had fallen silent, and the tinkling tumble of sleet had ceased; glints of ice lay along the edges of roofs, silvering the power lines and glazing the streets. “Son of Sun and Moon, grandson of sea.” She tugged him closer, and he stumbled towards her; and with her free hand she grasped his forearm, kneading the muscles. “Strong son. Strong arm, strong heart. Very good.”
Alarmed, Raven reared back, yanking his hand out of her grasp. He felt her nails score his wrist, but forbore to glance at the scratches. “I – I have to go,” he stammered. His hands were empty, his charms buried deep in his pockets, all but forgotten, and his eloquence had deserted him.
Fii bine, fiul lunii,” she murmured. She patted her bosom. “Thanking. You see me soon, nu?”
Raven stumbled backwards. “Sure,” he grunted. Turning his back on her, he pointed himself at the river and threw himself into motion. He could feel her eyes on his back, touching him, probing him like cold, lifeless fingers.
The eyes followed him until he passed behind the apartment building at East Tenth and Szold. The instant he turned the corner, he paused, then glanced back around the edge of the structure.
She was gone. The streetlamps shone cold and passionless on the lip of stone where he’d spoken to her.
Raven took a deep, calming breath. By the time he’d let it out he was chuckling at himself, laughing at the megrims that had him staggering through the night like the liquor-stinking derelicts that gathered with their gauze and lighters beneath the Queensboro Bridge. By the time he was done laughing, he couldn’t recall what he’d been laughing about. A few moments later, lost in thought, he strode past Saint Emeric’s, wondering idly what had happened to the money he’d planned to drop into the church’s donation slot.
When Raven slept that night in an unheated room on a stained and musty-smelling mattress, wrapped in a threadbare blanket against the coming winter’s chill, he dreamed of the Sun and the Moon and the Sea...and of a dark god, tall, majestic and terrible, with lips and loins stained with blood, and a great stag’s head crowned with horns that towered over the earth like the dead branches of the world-tree against the starry sky. The vision shook him, and he woke screaming, but when he did he could remember none of it. All that he could remember was clammy, parchment skin, strange-sounding words...and an old woman’s cold, yellow eyes.

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