As the stars glittered indifferently over the natural recesses that let in the chill air, the black-robed men gathered in the cave; the folds of their robes were over their mouths and noses, but their breath was still visible even though it was not winter.
The parents, also wrapped against the mountain cold, stood on either side of the basket that contained their twins, a boy and a girl.
Sensing they were no longer in the safety of their home, the babies began to stir and cry, opening their eyes and lifting their arms, but their parents remained looking at the black-robed men.
Reaching toward one another, their hands joined, and a warm glow lit the skin of their hands from the inside.
At peace now, assured they were not alone, they turned curious eyes on the black-robed throng before them, and their parents on either side of them.
A robed man stepped forward, broad of shoulder, tall and strong.
The mother, wide-eyed, began to whimper. “No, no please…” and stood in front of the basket, shielding the babies from his reach, as their father stepped into the man’s path.
The tall man stopped, and looked over his shoulder inquiringly at an old stooped figure lost in the folds of his own ebon robe.
The old man looked at the father and said, “We will keep them safe.”
“You told us you just wanted to see, and that we could keep them, raise them until they were prepared to come to you!”
“And now,” the old man said with something resembling compassion, “we have deemed that will not be necessary.”
The mother plucked the daughter from the basket, and the father his son, but the ensuing chase and struggle were tragically brief.
The tall man collected the restive infants from the arms of their lifeless parents, and the gathered throng left as quietly as they came.
***************************
The tall man returned alone to the cave entrance, casting light around his hand in order to see.
Finding the murdered couple, he put their arms around each other, propped up their broken necks so they faced each other, and closed their eyes.
“I’m sorry.”
He was surprised to find his voice raspy with emotion, the taint of taken lives like a thin layer of slime on his hands.
“We will keep them safe.”
As he walked away, leaving the bodies in the dark, the light around his hand dimmed, and went out as he left the cave entrance for the last time.
© Alfred W. Smith Jr. 2015
What if a prince fell in love with a rebel?
The last of the notes rang out over the plain, a minor note, mournful and haunting, fitting, given the surroundings.
The Aaralyn Sisters, linked through holding hands, their auras overlapping, stopped their singing and pulled their minds back from the focused blast they collectively sent into the midst of the warriors bearing down on their surviving remnant.
In the waning state of their collective trance, they heard the bodies of men and horses falling, weapons clattering and clanging as they fell from the dead soldiers’ hands, or fell to the ground, tossed from too far away.
They heard the cries and gasps, curses and screams, as men, used to the power of their strong arms and cruel methods, fell like slaughtered bulls at a pagan feast before the power carried in the singing voices of women half their size.
In the moments that followed, as if from a dream, they opened their eyes.
Gradually, the effects of so great an incant took its toll: some collapsed, most began crying, some cheered, others embraced.
Singer Krista, the Elder among them, merely looked out over the carnage, and gave a deep sigh.
She had given everything, and in victory, felt as empty and afraid as when they began fighting.
The multi-sided attacks decimated their numbers, and there were things that now needed doing that took her beyond the immediate sense of relief and celebration.
The priests, the wizards, the witches, the sorcerers and sorceresses had all come a-killing, to take the voices, and power of the Aaralyn, because they dared not abuse it to rule the world.
The warriors were the last.
In not fighting, Krista knew now, the Aaralyn made the world think they could not.
They’d just proven the world wrong, though the cost was dear.
The sun was low in the sky, and the clouds were breaking.
In the distance, the birds began to circle.
“Is it finally over, Singer Krista? Do you hear anything?”
The speaker was young, new to them by two years, gifted, but untried, until now.
Krista turned weary eyes to her, and saw the young woman trembling, eyes wide, still fearful, full of nervous energy and adrenaline, but skittish now; the carnage had overwhelmed her resolve.
Had the battle continued, this one would have bolted, or died, but Krista could not hold that against her.
“We are all that remain, Singer Willow.”
Singer Willow embraced Krista tightly, needing something solid to hold onto, physically as well as mentally, and Krista returned the embrace, looking out on the carnage as the girl’s body shivered against hers, her quiet sobs muffled in Krista’s dusty robes.
She cries on me, for she believes me to be strong, but there is no one stronger to comfort me.
I hope the Victory Canticle is completed, or the last thirty years have been for nothing.
***************
By the time they returned to Singers Hall, the snow was falling, and they had just made it in before the storm.
Baths ran long, wine flowed freely, sleep ran deep, and as the days passed, the sick were tended, the wounded bound, the dead buried, and those who needed help to deal with what they’d seen and done received it.
In the weeks that followed, as the snow melted, and the roads were muddy and troublesome, but passable, and the sea more or less temperate, if cold, some packed to return home, renouncing the elite sect of Singers.
Singer Krista bade them farewell, and wished them the best, and released them to their destinies outside of the Aaralyn’s ranks.
It was not a calling for everyone, and those who tried to force themselves to be a part of something that went against their better judgment, went against their own souls, were counseled to voluntarily leave.
They forcibly expelled those who did not take that option, but continued to struggle.
******************
Singer Janis knocked on the door, and Krista bade her enter.
“How are you, Krista?”
“I’m tired, Janis, in more ways than I care to count, but we are here. The Canticle…?”
“It’s finished. I saw it personally, looked it over. We tested the incants, and they didn’t penetrate.”
“And the protection?”
“Made from the finest, by the best in the realm; it will be well protected.”
“I’m pleased.”
Janis turned to go.
“Stay a moment, Janis. I need to talk.”
Janis turned, surprised.
“All right.” She sat.
Krista sat up straighter, folded her hands in her lap.
“I’m disbanding the Aaralyn.”
Janis sighed, shifted in her own seat. “I was wondering…”
“You’re not surprised?”
“Not at all. I even understand why.”
“Why?”
“Our numbers are greatly reduced; we lost a lot of power in those battles. We need to replenish, and these young women can’t do that here.”
“Exactly. You do understand.”
“But they will marry common men; there’s no equivalent to our order among men.”
“True, but there is nothing to be done for it; the mothers will recognize the daughters who have the gift. We’ve had Aaralyn who’ve abandoned our ranks throughout history.”
Janis nodded.
“But as for the Canticle of Victory, I have a plan.”
And as the night unfolded, she told Janis about it.
**************
“Seems a bit dramatic, Krista, but all right; you know that even crystal can shatter at the right frequency.”
“That may be true of ordinary crystal; this isn’t.”
“How so?”
“All of the factions have contributed, but we put in the final piece, the key that unlocks the Victory Canticle to draw it out, without shattering the container, and its protector.”
“And what is the key?”
Krista smiled.
“She hasn’t been born yet.”
“There’s something you’re not telling me, Krista…”
“There is, but see it done, Janis. Please.”
Janis took that as her cue, and rose to leave.
“I’ll see it done.”
2)
Toward winter’s end, as the battle weariness began to fade, and the women began to return to a sense of life, if not normalcy, Singer Krista felt the time had come, and called a gathering in the ampitheater.
The Aaralyn came, curious, excited, and nervous, as they’d more or less passed the winter in idleness, left to their own devices.
Some practiced, some studied, some pursued hobbies, and there were the usual amounts of squabbles, clique fighting and infighting, but now they were eager to get on with things.
Krista and Janis had seen to the nobility that called on the Great Hall after the cleanup, seeking their alliance in gaining this throne or that throne.
Krista let it be known that having been attacked from all sides, they would take no sides, since they’d had no allies in their hour of need.
Soon, it wouldn’t matter.
The ampitheater carried sound, so there was no need for her to raise her voice.
When Krista took the stage, the ladies grew quiet.
“Welcome, Singers. There is no easy way to say this, but this will be our final gathering.”
There were some surprised gasps and cries, but the Elder put her hands up for silence.
“We’ve known this day was coming for some time.
“Look around you.”
She gave them a moment as they did.
“These are all that remain.”
She let that sink in.
“The time has come for us to rejoin the world.”
More cries of resistance peppered the air.
“Singers…sisters…we must be realistic; our times and purposes have been fulfilled, and the Aaralyn have emerged victorious.
“But we must ever be present in the world, lest these times come again.
“And for that, we need children, and for that, we must rejoin the world.
“My own time is past, my children long taken from this world at the war’s beginning, to break me. To stop me. And it almost did.
“But those of you who remain are young, fertile, and for the most part…”
She smiled.
“…beautiful.”
There was a ripple of laughter, as intended, and she waited until it passed.
“And then, there are the Canticles.”
They once more gave her their attention.
“The books have survived, and been copied. There are compendiums, hidden, and individual copies, the ones you received. The ones you used to ensure our survival.
“When we depart, you will have these books among you, so they will be scattered throughout the world as we know it. Guard them well, with your lives if need be.
“But as you leave to start your lives over, and start your families, there is one Canticle that will remain here, buried and unmarked.”
Murmurs of surprise filled the theater.
“This Canticle will be used to defeat any more factions that may gather in the future; it is the most potent of all. It will supersede all others, even those written by the factions against us.
“It was worked on in secret by the most gifted Aaralyn, centuries before most of your births.
“We had to search for it, and in the searching, we lost more of us, even as we were devastated in the killing that almost consumed us.
“The remnant of factions against us that survive already works its opposite to counter, but as yet have not succeeded, according to such spies as remain among them.”
She noticed them beginning to shift, and knew she had to close.
“This is the last piece that needs to be done before we go.”
She removed from beneath the podium an ornate teak box with bronze reinforcements and locks.
Opening it, she removed a faceted crystal, light blue, with an opalescent vapor slowly swirling about within it.
The women admired its beauty as Krista held it in sure hands.
“This is the Canticle of Victory.”
She placed it back in the box, and removed another; this one was black with silver reinforcements and locks.
From that, she removed a coiled serpent, wrapped three times, also of crystal.
Some of the women murmured at that, some looked away.
She then took the crystal out again, and placed it in the serpent’s coils.
The opalescent vapor in the crystal came out, and entered into the coils of the snake.
As it filled, the snake’s hood spread, revealing it to be a cobra.
Krista could sense the repulsed fascination, and indeed, as Janis said, it was dramatic.
Her audience gasped.
“The Canticle of Victory is now sealed, until the next time it is needed. It will be left in a mountain cave with nothing to mark it, the passing of time burying it further still, but don’t worry, Singers.
“Whoever needs to use it, they will find it. She will be told of its existence, and if she is the right one, at the right time, she will find it on her own.”
Another silence, but this one was heavy, as the Elder began to weep.
“It has been my life’s honor to fight beside you.
“Your bravery, though unrecorded, will live on in the fact that the world still exists, tattered and bruised though it may be.
“Our power, and our unity, did that.
“The earth you now walk is the one you helped save, and as we depart from here…”
She sniffled, and dabbed at her eyes.
“May your daughters be blessed to fill our Great Halls once more with song, and our world with peace.”
“We are adjourned.”
She put the serpent and crystal in the black and silver box, and sealed it with an incant.
Her attendant came, took it, gave a brief nod, and left to start toward the mountain cave.
Applause thundered, tears flowed, cries, songs, and ululations rocked the ampitheatre as the women hugged, kissed, and embraced each other.
Krista moved among them, smiling, blessing, and as the sky darkened and the theater emptied, the sun set and the moon rose, and the chill winds blew snow from the peaks, the age of the Aaralyn passed into history, faded with time.
And the final notes of their farewells soaked into the stars above, to disappear in the light of a new dawn.
**************************
When Singer Lisa arrived at the cave, the moon was high.
The horse was somewhat winded, but she’d explored the mountains often as she hunted, and she’d remembered to bring oats, carrots, and let it drink from the stream where she’d spent many an afternoon poring over her Canticles.
With deft movements she exposed the cave’s covering.
When a gust of wind blew sparkling virgin snow, she placed her scarf over her mouth and nose as she retrieved a lantern from another pack she’d fastened to the saddle.
This needs to be done quickly.
She left the pack with the box on her back; she’d endured its discomfort there for the sake of its importance for the whole ride; a few more minutes wouldn’t make a difference.
She slipped inside the cave.
In the narrow tunnel she had to bend, but it would open back up to where she could stand again.
She reached the space, allowing the lantern light to fill the space and her eyes to adjust.
A figure in a black robe lined with silver sat on a rock, and turned to look at Lisa.
Its eyes were blood red, and glowing, and its skin white as the virgin snow surrounding them.
It stood up, and in its left hand was a walking stick of old bone.
Its lips were thin, and flushed with red as well, darker than its eyes, but stark in contrast against its face.
Langorously, it extended its right arm, and the hand, with long fingers and hooked red nails, was palm up.
It spoke to Lisa in a woman’s voice, low, almost sultry, belying its bizarre appearance.
“Ah, welcome, Singer…” it tilted its head a bit, “…Lisa, is it? I see you’ve come to return my pet.”
© Alfred W. Smith Jr. 2015
3)
The taste of her blood was bitter and cool on his tongue, and his jaw clenched.
It was in that moment he knew she was fully aware of what he’d done, and in his eagerness, he played right into her trap.
He made no sound, and she did not stir.
A contest of wills, then.
The aftertaste was sweet like raw honey, and his spine tingled as the sugar infected his blood.
His stomach roiled, but it was too late.
What did you do to me, Janyris?
**************
Her father stood there, mute, dumbfounded that she would walk out on him.
“Janyris, who will take care of me?”
“Mother has taken lovers from the Underworld; you have choices, father. Exercise them. I will not stay here tending you in your dotage, I don’t want her crown, and I have my own life to live.”
Her father’s voice was gruff from grief. “How have you come to be so selfish?”
“In much the same manner as you came to be impotent: gradually.”
“Your mother, it seems, was a whore at heart. They are voracious creatures.”
“Mother enjoys sex; that does not make her a whore. She married you, and had none before you. Whatever perverse delights you introduced to her, she took a liking, and has now chosen to indulge.”
He hung his head, remembering those long, lust-filled nights when his own voraciousness had exhausted them both.
“Go then, and return not. I will die alone.”
She gave him a pitying look, reinforcing his.
“And you will die unloved; that’s what truly sad.”
She closed the door on him, and jumped as an axe blade split the door, heard him roaring damnation at her, the power of his words seeking to bind around her soul, and she felt them hit, and soak in. Her heart twisted in her chest, and doubling over, she retched,
Staggering out into the sun filled day, wiping her mouth on the sleeve of her gown, struggling to breathe, she began running, her father’s curse on her life pursuing her, running effortlessly alongside, filling her ears with mocking wrath.
**************
“Is that what brought our paths together, dear Janyris: I in you, and you in me, in a way far more intimate than physical love?
“We hold each other’s strings now, and the better puppet master will win this fight.”
He left.
What a tawdry, common life. No wonder she fled.”
He returned to his own tower, the effects of her blood still at work in him, not quite making him intoxicated, but doing things to him that he remembered distantly feeling as a mortal.
His walk was unsteady, and he was shivering, but he felt flushed with heat.
Rest, I need to rest.
He stumbled, and grabbed a lamppost, sagging, but trying to pull himself up.
In reaching out, he saw his skin was changing, the veins prominent and shades of bruises against his flesh.
The tower was too far away, and the sky was turning pale.
He saw lights begin to come on in windows, for those who had to start early.
If they saw him, if they called the authorities…
With the last of his remaining strength, he saw an alley up ahead, and as his vision blurred, he shuffled past a couple of vagrants already in occupancy.
No one will pay attention to me here, except these vagrants, but I’ve nothing to steal, and they can’t murder me.
There was cardboard, dirty, wet, and doubtless crawling with things.
The alley, being what it was, and where, reeked of things best not considered.
Covering himself as best he could, the infection took him under, and what it would do, for good or ill, he would not know until he was awake again.
It’s like a virus.
Then it came to him, her new name, partly what she’d done, partly to show ownership of her. It was a term used by the young when something was widespread in their world of technology.
Viral.
Vy Rill. That will be my name for her, and I will make her embrace it, and me, until fate claims us both.
The illness pulled his eyelids down; darkness took him under to let the infection have its way, and he had one final thought before he surrendered.
I will be a new creation.
© Alfred W. Smith Jr. 2015
1)
By the light of a single candle, she lay sleeping.
He knew from what she’d told him before that the glow made her feel warm inside, the color and motion of the flame always pleased her eyes; she’d fallen asleep watching it.
High above, the moon shone what light it could from the cratered crescent slice hanging in the heavens.
Her raven braids, thin and intricate, languished across the pillow that cradled her head.
Her honey brown skin glistened with amber highlights.
He looked at her form, outlined in the covers; it was curvy and full, and if he’d still been mortal, he’d have found himself stirred as in the days of old.
She was beautiful, but it wasn’t enough; she was good, kind, loving, even-tempered, patient, and loyal.
Long were the months he watched her, through seasons, through years, past her first decade, just short of her full second. He observed her almost daily then, interacting with the people in her life. The times she lost her temper, her composure, and control were rare, but she was human, after all, and he’d seen those times as well.
Even then, she would not lash out; she would cry and rail and scream, but she never hurt anyone, or anything. For the most part, she carried out her tantrums in the privacy of her room.
In his last choosing, he’d chosen an exceptional girl; she’d been so in every way, but he soon found there was nothing to mold, nowhere for him to begin to groom her for who she was to become.
Her inherent arrogance, combined with her beauty and her newly bestowed gifts, made her insufferable, and in the end, in a violent, savage act, he took her life.
This girl, while above average, would prove to be more pliable; her heart was naturally giving, and that would be to his advantage.
He was indeed grateful they’d evolved; no longer the red, messy biting and tearing, however subtle and sublime, of tender flesh, warm to the touch, the coppery ambrosia of life flowing into, and down, sating hunger, inciting passion, as lips, teeth and tongue formed a trifecta of perfect murder, picturesque deaths.
Now, he had but to take her hand, so he did.
She didn’t wake, but stirred, undulating under the covers, a soft little moan on her sweet lips. She instinctively pulled her hand back, and he let it go.
The deed was done. The pinprick of his fingernail had drawn her blood in through the flesh pads of his fingers. He smeared her blood across them, felt the warmth of it, saw the soul-glow inside of it.
He licked his index finger and almost swooned at the taste. It was tempting to take more than he needed with this one. Her blood was as sweet as her personality, but he refrained.
There was something else in her blood,, something he didn’t expect.
There would be others to draw from soon, and he would have his fill, but this one was special.
He’d met her years ago as a child, and there was something in her eyes that recognized him for what he was, yet she’d shown no fear.
She was enchanting, until she told him something that piqued his curiosity.
“I’m going to kill you one day.”
A pinprick of rage briefly altered his features into the demonic, but it was only a flash.
She was the only one who saw it, and she grinned.
He saw the red glimmer of the seed in her eyes as she looked at him, and vowed he’d come back for her.
This was that time; he was calling her to him, and would mark her as his.
If she could still kill him after that, it would be no small feat; her power would be great indeed.
Greater than his.
And that, he could not allow.
© Alfred W. Smith Jr. 2015
I was watching how she held the gun on me; not a tremor, a waver, a twitch.
“Why are you looking at the gun? You should be looking at me.” Her voice was tight. “It’s not like if I pulled the trigger, you could get out of the way. I’m talking to you, and you’re looking at the fucking gun.”
I looked at her. “It’s sort of distracting me from what you have to say.”
“You weren’t listening before.”
“So this is how you solve things when people don’t listen to you?”
“No. It’s how I solve them with you.”
“So killing me fixes the problem.” I was trying to keep her attention; the longer she didn’t pull the trigger, the longer I’d live; it was a pretty big gun. Truth be told, I didn’t know if she could handle the kick, and that meant the bullet could fly anywhere.
Okay, clearly, she wanted to talk.
“I just said I wanted to leave. I don’t feel loved by you anymore, and I want to go. I was hoping you’d take it better. You never even told me you had a gun. I feel like you don’t trust me, not telling me that. And all great relationships, as you well know, are built on trust.”
“And I can’t believe you’re trying that psychobabble on me. Who is she?”
“Who?”
“The other woman you have.”
“There is no other woman.”
The gun went off, and the bullet zinged past my ear.
“Try again.”
“Her name is Miranda. We met at the bar. You were away on business, and I wanted a drink, and…”
Her eyes had welled up, and her mouth was trembling. She couldn’t hold the toughness together. I felt like crap, but I wasn’t going to risk grabbing the gun from a woman mad enough to kill.
“What bar?”
“Honey, it’s not –”
The gun went off again, the bullet flicking the edge of my pants leg, leaving a burn.
“Don’t call me that.”
I sighed, my fright turning to anger, but the gun was still steady.
“Fine. Why don’t you just let me go, then?”
“Why did you have to cheat? You could’ve broken up with me first, then went to Miranda. We’ve had sex since then. Did you have sex with her? Is she inside me now, too?”
“We didn’t have sex that night. We wanted to, but we were both so tanked that it never happened.”
She looked at me a long time, but the gun never wavered, never lowered; it’s cold, empty eye watched me like a cat, ready to swat a fly.
“What are you doing?” I said, just to break the silence.
“Trying to decide if I believe you.”
“I’m telling you the truth.”
The gun went off again, this time past my other ear. This woman was psychotic, but she was a great shot, and oddly enough, I was getting a bit turned on.
“The truth would have been less painful if you’d left me first.”
“But now you know, so what are we going to do?”
“Are you still seeing her?”
“I wanted to, but I haven’t since that night. She was embarrassed by what happened; she hasn’t been returning my calls.”
“So you’ve called her since then?”
“Yes.”
She came toward me, her gun hand retracting as she closed the distance, but she never lowered it. She reached into my pocket, pulled out my phone, and stepped back.
The warmth of her body in close was a pheremone ; I was shivering with fear, and heated with lust.
She scrolled until she found Miranda’s number; I thought of rushing her, but the gun never moved.
I heard Miranda’s.voice. “Hiiii, baby.”
She smiled, and said “Hi baby.”
Miranda hung up.
“She called you ‘baby.’ ”
“Yes.”
“I do too.”
“Not so much anymore.”
“Is that what you miss?”
“Among other things.”
She moved in close again, put the barrel of the gun on my forehead, pushing my head back a little until I felt some tension in my neck, her lips brushing along the side of my throat.
“I’ll give you what you miss, baby. Take off your clothes.”
“What?”
“Did I stutter? Take off your clothes.”
I fumbled them off, adrenaline pumping, wanting to do something quick and drastic, and not daring to risk it. The circle of the barrel indented my skin as I worked things off.
She walked around me, keeping the barrel of the gun against my skull, and her other hand went to work. It didn’t have much to do before I was ready.
“On your back.”
I lay on my back. She settled herself, the gun now against my left nipple.
“Don’t lose me, and don’t go soft.” For emphasis, she cocked the hammer back. “And don’t touch me.”
Her breathing changed, and her free hand wandered, but the gun never moved at all.
She had her way, looking into my eyes the whole time, her brow furrowing with concentration, her mouth issuing little moans of pleasure.
The adrenaline rush in me crashed under her attack, and I could no more have grabbed the gun than used it. I didn’t have the strength to push her off, much less fight back. It went on for awhile, and her motions and teasing kept me as she wanted me.
In her release, the nails on her free hand raked, the barrel went into my ear, and her tongue went into my mouth as she rode out her pleasure.
Both of us spent, she lay on top of me until she got her breathing under control, then emptied the gun and kept the bullets, leaving it on my chest as she disengaged herself.
“Where are you going?” I asked, my voice weak, my body weaker; she could’ve stabbed me slowly, inching the knife in, and I wouldn’t be able to stop her.
“To take a shower. There’s money on the dresser. Don’t be here when I get out.”
I listened to the water for a time, and struggled to get my legs under me before it stopped; eventually, I managed. I got dressed, took the money and left.
And I deleted Miranda’s number.
© Alfred W. Smith Jr.
In the aftermath of the devastation, none of the Great Halls remained.
Stone, marble, fine cloth, weapons, and instruments from around the known world lay in smoking, shattered heaps, among lumps of broken bone and shredded flesh, littering the valley, and the smoke, still thick, roiled back on itself and grew larger, like a confused stampeding crowd. Sprawling across the cloud-strewn sky, it hid the bodies from the view of carrion birds, and small fires, safe from the coming spring rain, still burned in protected places, unchecked, but unable to do anymore damage.
******************
Singers Hall was completely destroyed.
Lorelei woke up, her throat raw from the smoke, her eyes bleary and bloodshot, her clothes torn, and her thoughts rambling. Her book wasn’t far from her, but it was singed.
Gingerly, she picked it up, lifting with her fingertips; bits of charred paper fell off and flew away, but only from the edges. The book itself was sound, its pages untouched by fire, still readable, with all of her notes in the margins.
That, and the clothes on her back, were all she had.
She was able to stand, and slowly got to her feet, not wanting to be prone in case whoever did this was searching the rubble to kill the wounded.
She took a look around, and tears not born of smoke filled her eyes…
That was good, because it caused her not to focus.
There was a general impression of carnage, of blood, of bodies broken and torn, but she didn’t look at anyone’s face, didn’t allow herself to recognize, and remember, because she’d be paralyzed by fear and grief, and there was no telling who was coming.
So she waited, and collected her thoughts, as the soft spring rain began to fall.
********************
Footsteps crunched over stone.
A fallen pillar hid her from view, but hiding didn’t occur to her.
She wanted to see if whoever it was had been responsible for what happened; what she would do then, she didn’t know.
Her throat, however, was still raw from smoke and dust, so a canticle of binding was out of the question. She had her training, but no weapons, so with the only recourse left to her, she picked up a sharpened piece of the fallen pillar.
There would only be one chance.
*********************
A boy stood on the fallen pillar, but above her.
Shielding his eyes against the rain with his hand, he scanned the remains of Singers Hall, and Lorelei used the time to observe him.
He was brown, all over, from his skin to his clothing, to the small harp in a brown case strapped to his back. She could see the burnished scrollwork at the end poking out of a corner of the case. He was a stranger in these lands, but if he’d made Musicians Hall here, he was indeed talented.
She looked some more.
He was bald, almost hairless to the point of babyhood, and had a dark gleam about him, brimming with some unknown power, but he seemed whole, and strong, and about her age; he wouldn’t need looking after then, but she was still reluctant to reveal herself.
Seeing nothing, he turned to go.
If he leaves, you’ll be traveling alone, for who knows how long, facing who knows what?
“Wait!” She stepped out from hiding.
He turned, surprised, but wary.
She scrambled up the pillar, put herself on level with him, and they stood, taking each other in.
“You survived,” he finally said.
“So did you. Did you see anything?”
“Bodies, ruin, and fire, not much else. You?”
“The same. None of the Halls are intact. I thought they might be walking around to kill the wounded, so I got up.”
“I don’t think they needed to; they were pretty efficient. And it might not have been wise for you to get up, since they would’ve killed you for real.”
“I’m no good at pretending to be dead if I’m not.”
“No,” he smiled, “me neither.”
He walked back toward her, but didn’t offer his hand.
She didn’t take offense; the Musicians never offered their hands, which they held as transporters of their craft to enter this world from the next, so they were sacrosanct, and kept untainted.
“I’m Devon.”
“Lorelei.”
“Now there’s a name for a Singer.”
She smiled, pointed to his back.
“Harp?”
“Among other things, none of which survived; this will have to do for now.”
The rain fell harder.
“Let’s find shelter, and we’ll figure it out from there.”
“We already have shelter.”
He looked at her.
“We can stay right here, under this pillar, and wait out the rain.”
“You could do that? Your friends’ corpses lay here, your teachers…”
“None of whom would mind. Is there any point to blundering about in the rain, not knowing where we are, or where we’re going?”
Besides, I’ve already mourned, in secret, where no one could see.
He opened his mouth to say something, but couldn’t argue the validity.
She was already scrambling back underneath the pillar.
Intrigued by her practicality, if surprised at the hardness of her decision, he followed.
2:
The rain continued falling, steady, after dark, and they went hungry that night, though they managed to make a fire.
In the morning, the sun came out, the smoke cleared, and a herald crow sounded the breakfast bell.
They left, still dampened in clothes and spirit, and began to try to find a path out.
As they searched, she thought back to her first day.
*****************
Her teacher was a walking willow stick; everything about her was wispy, like the pink, fluffy candy of country fairs, sweetness without substance, but that was only on the surface.
“You have been chosen as Singers; you are above the pale and beyond the norm, and this is now your home. Everything, and I mean everything, you need, or ever will need, is here.
“There is no need to go skulking about in the woods, like trolls and brigands. The sacrifice of your voice in offering replaces what is left of your life. You no longer have families, or friends, or lovers, save those you meet here.
“You are given no outside indulgences to detract from your training, for while you are superior, you are not yet fully formed.
“And it is I who will form you, from now on.”
*****************
The days were grueling, the nights sometimes more so.
Willow, for that is what Lorelei called her, was relentless, merciless, and sometimes cruel.
Lorelei had been at turns beaten, starved, made to sleep standing up, and a few things in between, but last month, at the end of her fourth year, Willow had given her the book, Blessed Canticles. Her own copy, signed with Willow’s own hand.
“To Lorelei, you have been blessed beyond your worth, but you have earned it, and done well.”
She later found out, when she went to see what Willow had written for the others, that hers was the only book signed.
Gradually, they’d fallen off, wondering what she’d done to gain such favor, when they had all been equally punished and rewarded, seemingly solely based on Willow’s whims.
The imposed shunning hurt, the exile to a table of her own as they left at her approach even more so, but there it was.
***************
“And now, I’m all that’s left…”
“What?”
“Nothing. Nothing, Devon, just thinking out loud.”
3:
“We’ve flushed her out into the open, Lord Karis; she travels with a bard.”
“A bard? Indeed, two for the price of one. I’m pleased, Jahrin.”
Jahrin smiled; he didn’t like when Karis wasn’t pleased.
“May I ask a question, Lord Karis?”
“You may.”
“What do you want with the Singer?”
Karis looked out the window, distracted, but he’d heard the question.
“I will answer you, Jahrin. If I hear it on the lips of anyone else, your tongue is forfeit. Have I made myself clear?”
“Yes, Lord Karis.”
Karis sighed, and walked over to a table, where he took a book of white and gold, and placed it before Jahrin.
“I…I can’t read, Lord…”
“I know, Jahrin.”
Karis walked away, and began to sing, a minor key, that sounded something like a dirge, slow, sonorous, and foreign sounding, and Jahrin closed his eyes, shuddering in his seat, held by something that frightened him beyond words.
His teeth chattered, and tears leaked copiously from his eyes, and when the song ended, and he was finally released, he slumped forward.
The cover was bleary in his vision, and he clumsily wiped his eyes with an overlarge hand, breathing hard.
And the cover said,
The Canticles of War
“Lord Karis…Lord Karis…I…I can..”
“I know, Jahrin.”
Jahrin remained speechless, reading the words over and over again, wanting to hug the book to him; he dared not touch it, and ran to the shelves, pulling things at random, reading, books and parchments gathering around him like sand.
Karis, enjoying his servant’s excited mood, stopped on his way out to give him a look.
Jahrin’s eyes were bright with happy tears.
“Now imagine what I could do, Jahrin, if I had her power.”
He thought about taking the words from Jahrin, leaving him illiterate again, but that would be cruel, even for him.
This might be actually prove to be useful, later.
He could hear Jahrin’s laughter echo in the hall, and the crash of more books falling off the shelves.
Quite useful, indeed.
4)
Amia was in the garden when I walked up.
“What are you doing back here, Haskell?” She hadn’t turned around.
“Using your witchy skills, huh?”
She turned to face me then, smiling a little.
“Never you mind.”
“We need to talk. I need you to change my face, and I need to hire Alazne.”
“Yes to the first, no to the second.”
Amia stood, smoothed the dirt off her apron. She’d tied her hair back, and looked like a perfect housewife. The last thing I’d expect her to do was blow me apart with a bolt of light from her hands, but she could.
I would’ve smiled in amusement if she couldn’t.
“Alazne? She’s vulnerable, and that makes her volatile. I’m just getting her to where I can trust her. Leaving her alone in my house was the turning point. I half expected to return to find her gone and my place looted, if not a pile of ashes.”
“Maybe she is, but she has advanced stalking skills for her age, and she looks like a beggar child. I could use both to help me further your efforts in stopping the council.”
She paused to consider it.
“Come on, then. Tell me what you’re thinking, while I work on making your face be what I’ve always wanted.”
I felt my face do something between blush and blanch, which set her chiming laughter pealing.
***************
“How would you like to look?”
I told her.
“Close your eyes,” she said. I did.
The blackness that my lids created began to lighten to a deep blue, the color of the sky when a full moon shines, and I felt the light scrape of her nails and the pads of her fingertips begin to caress my face.
My skin tightened, and there was some pain, but it was bearable; caught off guard by its suddenness though, I gasped.
“It’s all right,” she whispered, sending a relaxing wave across my body. “Trust me, Haskell.”
“I do.”
The light began to darken, and I was once more in natural darkness, but then I felt a slight change taking place through my body as well. I had what I would call an average build, but it seemed to be getting thicker.
She was making me more muscular, a bit wider, but not preposterously so.
“Is this all right with you?”
My laugh was sardonic.
“Did you leave me a choice?”
“No.” I could hear the smile in her voice.
Oh, Amia. What might have been…
A few moments of silence passed, and then:
“I’m done. Rest a moment. I’ll find a glass for you to see.”
I took a few deep breaths, feeling the increase of the expanse of my chest; it felt good, solid.
She’d gotten a lot stronger; her powers had increased. I should’ve been concerned then, but I wasn’t.
“You can get up now.”
I took my time, getting used to maneuvering with the larger frame.
She left me nude, and the glass showed everything.
“Madam, please,” I said with false modesty, covering myself with my hands.
She laughed again.
“What do you think?”
I took my hands away.
“This isn’t what I told you, but I’m not sure.” I looked like a pirate: curly black ringlets of hair down to my neck, swarthier than I was, and for added effect, a pale scar along the right cheek.
“How am I supposed to fit in with a face like this?”
“You don’t like it?”
“I said I wasn’t sure…”
“Close your eyes, and picture the face you want.”
“What? Amia…” my voice took a warning note, but she just gave me her ‘innocent’ look.
I closed my eyes, pictured the face I wanted, and felt the slight pull on my skin and the elongation and shortening of bones. It was a creepy feeling.
The sensations stopped, and I opened my eyes again.
More average features looked back at me, with no scar. I could be a servant or a merchant.
Just for kicks, I closed my eyes again, pictured the face of a nobleman I met once, and once again the magic crackled across my face.
Bearded, regal, with piercing eyes that struck fear in the hearts of men and made women weak in the knees, or so I hoped.
I looked back at Amia and smiled. She returned it, pleased.
“I didn’t know you could do that, Amia. You’ve gotten stronger.”
“A woman shouldn’t be defenseless, Haskell. You know that as well as anyone.”
I did, and I was glad she was among those who could do it.
She came up behind me, and put her hands where I had mine moments ago, and put her lips by my ear.
“Let’s try this new body out, and see how it works for you.”
“Shall I keep this face?”
“No, Haskell. I like you for you.”
Changing my face back, I turned toward her, kissed her long and deep, my own hands busy before I picked her up and carried her to her bed, the place she’d denied me the night before, a deed which I promised her she was going to pay for, and she rose to the challenge..
As it turned out, the new body worked just fine.
5)
It was evening when we were done with each other.
“Where’s Alazne?”
“Out, hunting dinner.”
“She’s a scary girl.”
“I agree. One step up from feral, really. Even I haven’t gotten all of her story from her yet.”
“Do you want it?”
She laughed. “Not sure.”
We finished dressing in silence, and Amia poured some of that wine from Inkara.
The clothes were a bit tighter, but would cover me enough for now.
“I need her, Amia.”
“Why? After the power I gave you, you can fit in anywhere.”
“I need a scout though, a spy, if you will. She’d be able to get into places unnoticed.”
“I don’t know, Haskell. Ragamuffins aren’t welcome in most places; they’re the kids who get watched in the marketplaces, the ones cast out into the street. People do see them.”
“They do,” I agreed, “but only when they get careless. Alazne doesn’t strike me as careless, and she’s got a whole host of skills we don’t know.”
“How do you know?”
“She gave me the lantern, and found her way back to you in a dark forest.”
“By now she’s familiar with the path, the direction; it’s no great feat, Haskell.”
“I’m telling you, even with all that, for one of her age to go skulking about as she does, it is. I need her eyes, and I need her to gain access to places where I won’t fit in.”
“I’ll do it,” said a voice from the doorway.
“How long have you been standing there?” said Amia.
“For most of it.”
I turned to Amia, grinning, and just managed to dodge the empty wine cup she threw at my head.
***************
As I told Alazne of my plan, and she cooked a late night rabbit, we spent another couple of hours ironing out the details.
She helped with the logistics of where she’d be able to go, and we both agreed that Jonas provided the only real threat.
“Kill him first, or last?” I asked her.
“Let me think about it.”
“All right.”
“Haskell?”
I turned to see Amia in the doorway of her room.
“Are you spending the night?”
Alazne rolled her eyes.
“Actually, no. I need to get back to the inn, make sure everything’s intact, and where I left it.”
The door slammed so fast and hard that Alazne and I both jumped.
Alazne looked up at me.
“You’re a stupid man, aren’t you Haskell?”
I sighed, looking at the door where just seconds ago, I’d seen a vision of erotic loveliness.
“Yes, Alazne. Yes I am.”
Beyond Panic 