I wake uneasily, from uncertain dreams. I only remember glimpses. Brief visages that wave in and out of clarity like weak flames. They look like faces, not of a race I knew, but still somehow familiar. I could hear a word, or a name, reaching me from them––if it was a name, it was not mine.
It was the fifth morning after my transformation into a human, and I still wasn't used to the way they slept. It was customary to use bird feathers for their pillows and wool for blankets here in Aquitaine, and while such things were soft enough, I missed lying down on my own feathers as well. Now that I was actually a human, I did not envy them.
I looked around me at the other convalescents, lying on mats in one of many hastily erected recovery areas for victims of what had been deemed the Black Death. They and the other humans I'd seen walking around looked the same as I remembered, with unembellished features, little control over their emotions, and a lack of magic. I'd tried summoning the Flame myself, to no avail. The only magic I saw now was merely residing, not being used, in the so-called plague doctors that pledged their services with their various insipid accouterments and their wide-brimmed hats. One was approaching my own mat, its large beak mask protruding, an ugly brown thing that was about as large as mine had been. The one part of their disguise I intensely disliked.
It bobbed its head, extending a crudely woven basket filled with wax dolls and dark red mushrooms. I shook my head. They never spoke, after all. It only peered closer, to which I turned over on my mat. It emitted what might have been a low cackle before walking over to the next mat.
Perhaps it had realized that I wasn't stricken with the plague. These quacks had magic in them, I could tell, even if I couldn't use mine anymore, a fact that was terrible the first day but had somehow lapsed since into a mere awareness.
Regardless, the mats weren't worth it. I watched the plague doctor finish its rounds, some of the hapless sick actually taking mushrooms, before my body slowly rose and stood. I stretched my human hands towards the ceiling of the tent, taking in what filtered through the fabric from the sun. Habit. The light didn't do anything for me except hurt my eyes when I looked directly at the high globe striding the clouds.
I stopped straining to see through it and walked out of the tent. A medic looked at me, surprised, but I ignored him and continued walking.
Outside, it was brighter, and a poorer sight. What few people there were staggered their way through the street, accompanied by small clouds of dust kicked up by their feet and a general cacophony of retching and groaning. These were the ones that could walk. Many of the others were sitting where they could, clutching their heads with horrifying black bulbous protrusions dotting their bodies.
It wasn’t my first time seeing the plague, but I still almost gagged as I searched for my preferred waiting spot. I’d been spending the nights in different tents and while the town of Aquitaine was no less familiar, something about the general architecture was different, even though it was the same as before. Before––the thought almost made me choke, but I was plague-free and there it was, The King’s Parley, my favorite dilapidated tavern, its faded paint still revealing an unrecognizable coat of arms.
I stumbled over––I wasn’t ill, but sometimes the earth felt unsteady––and pushed my way into the building. Here too were the sick and dying, although the barkeep, Loire, looked alive as he did yesterday. I found an unoccupied barstool and perched––almost fell, but grabbed onto the edge of the wooden counter to stabilize myself. I then with some difficulty let my legs hang over the stool. Some low chuckles came from the sole conversation in the room that wasn’t punctuated by groans, one between some sturdy-looking men at the table nearest me. I ignored them.
“You all right, Ren?” Loire asked me, actually looking concerned. I attempted a faded smile in response. “Still recovering, I’m afraid.” He nodded and resumed polishing his mug. “Anything I can get you?” he asked, as I turned my head to take in, as I did each day, the dusty bottles of the forgetting drink lining the shelves behind him. I stared, but couldn’t seem to find it.
“I can’t recall its make, but it has this sort of taste to it, you know, it makes you feel like you’re in the sky, or something.” I closed my eyes and imagined it. An image of the moon filled my mind, and I opened my eyes again to see my hands making waving motions. The men who were eavesdropping laughed again, more loudly. “Do you have that drink here, Loire?”
Strangely, he didn’t look surprised. “I’m not sure what you’re referring to, but I’ll give you some of this, it helps with the headaches.” He turned around, did some wiping and pouring, and turned back with a full mug. “I call it the Firebreather.”
I took the drink and sipped. It wasn’t bad, and tasted familiar.
“Thanks, Loire.” He nodded and resumed wiping a different mug this time. I didn’t pay, but then again, no one did for Loire in these times. I took to sipping the Firebreather and trying to recall the image of the moon. But it was hazy, and as I wasn’t providing them entertainment anymore, the men resumed their original conversation.
“I tell you, we’re fortunate this sickness is happening now,” one said, holding a hand to his forehead. His shirt sleeves were damp with sweat. “Otherwise the Black Prince would’ve come through and massacred us.”
The second man was nursing his mug as one might hold a child. He nodded in agreement. “I’d rather face the Black Death than Edward’s son any day,” he said, fervently.
“And we’re alive to say it, aye,” the third man affirmed. “One of the two Blacks will kill us, but before it does, good ale does us good.” He raised his own mug and downed it in a hefty gulp. “Loire! Give us another!” he shouted, even though their table was fewer than ten hands away from the counter. Loire stopped his wiping and walked over, wiping his hands on his dirty apron before picking up the three mugs. I looked down into my own and saw only the cracked bottom. What looked like a dead fly stared back up at me. I stared back.
Their conversation was nothing new to me––but before a couple days ago, I hadn't heard of any war. And every time I solicited The King’s Parley, I heard talk of a Black Prince, an Edward, and battles stopped due to the plague. And every time I strained to remember the way things were before the plague, my mind got all feathered, and I had to take a drink to clear my head. It wasn’t any different on the fifth day, and somehow I knew that unless I did something, I didn’t know what, I’d be talking to Loire day after day, trying to find a certain ale when all the bottles had the same stuff.
Which reminded me, my mug was empty. I waved to Loire for his attention.
“Another one of this Firebreather, it does just the thing.”
I woke from a dream I forgot upon waking, with only the brief awareness of forgetting lingering in my head as I sat up on my mat. It wasn't as hard as the one from yesterday, a fact which I attributed to today's tent being the furthest from the tavern so far. It was still hard, though, and as I got up to stretch and reach for the low top of the tent, my back ached terribly. I sat back down.
Not for the first time, I watched with more than a little curiosity the mysterious plague doctors, just two of them, strutting around the grey confines of the tent, their beaks and baskets bobbing to and fro. The recovering, well, mostly dying, victims of the plague reached up trembling hands to accept their offerings. I waited for my turn, wondering if I would select a mushroom or a doll.
After some minutes, the nearest plague doctor approached my mat. It extended its basket, beak bent towards me. I peered into the basket.
Today’s mushrooms were blue, cap to stem. A bit more favorable than their red counterparts. I reached in and took one. Held in the hand, it was quite soft.
The grey wax dolls stared blankly up at me from the basket. There were six of them and they were carved in great detail, each different from the others, yet somehow appearing very similar. I instinctively reached for them, but then pulled back. It felt strange––as if I were going to take someone from their family. I shook my head, and the doctor gave what might have been a grunt as I lay back on the mat holding the mushroom. The beak-masked, cloaked figure walked over to its next patient.
I inspected the blue mushroom, wondering if I would eat it. I looked at the plague victim who’d been visited before me to see if they were eating theirs––and they were, or rather, they were sucking on the stem. The cap sticking out of their mouth, covering part of the lips, was a uniquely comical sight, and I had to laugh.
Well, it was a rare treat, and wouldn’t be as suitable for someone not struck by the plague. I got back up, pocketing the mushroom, and walked out of the tent, ignoring any medic who might’ve tried to stop me. I had a mission this morning, one that wouldn’t be inhibited by false remedies.
Outside the sun was a heavy globe sitting above; it was warm, but comfortably so. I tried not to look at the swathes of the plague-stricken as I passed by building after building to my destination. Tracks made by wagon carts made well-worn depressions in the dirt and flies flitted about. I managed to sight The King’s Parley just as an actual cart crept down the street towards me from the opposite end, and I managed to enter the tavern well before the smell reached me.
Loire looked up from his polishing as I entered. He was still alive, wearing the same dirty apron and ragged brown hair strewn about his face. He gave a nod as I pulled up the nearest unoccupied barstool and promptly sat in it. I allowed my legs to swing over the edge.
“What shall it be today, Ren?” Loire queried.
I was not alone at the counter today, I noticed. Most of the usual crowd still populated the dry confines of the tavern, but today a stranger was also looking at the rows of dusty bottles.
I pointed to one that looked some cleaner than the others. At least, I could tell that it still had drink in it. “I’ll have some of that, Loire.”
His worn face showed a glint of surprise, which he almost as quickly concealed as he proceeded to deliver the ale.
Upon closer inspection, the stranger’s brown hair, short enough to be a man’s, failed to conceal her smooth features. I couldn’t see all of it from the side––but an unblemished nose, a mouth pursed in silent contemplation, and clear eyes that beheld the bottles as if they knew exactly what they were looking at. I smiled. That meant she wasn’t fooled by the different labels Loire put on them.
She didn’t say anything, though, let alone get a drink. Loire came over with the mug now filled, and I nodded in thanks. He frowned and returned to his rag, which he now applied to the counter.
A dark green traveling cloak with a hood; boots that had seen much use, but that were well kept; a bulky knapsack by her waist; and a squarish object bound snugly in cloth across her back.
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I sipped from the drink, and waved for Loire. He did, and I beckoned for him to bend his head. I whispered into his ear: “Who’s she?”
“A traveling painter,” he replied, and returned to the counter. “She doesn’t drink.”
“Ah.” I understood now, I had heard tell of these folk. I generally tried to avoid them.
I stared deeply into my mug. A murky, reddish liquid greeted me in return.
I decided to eavesdrop on a trio of burly men sitting some spans away. They seemed to be drinking, and drinking well.
“And we’re alive to say it,” one said, raising his mug. The others chuckled into theirs. “Black Death or Black Prince, one will come, but before that I drink, is what I say.” They nodded in firm agreement.
I shook my head. This was not news to me. I turned back to the painter.
“So you’re a painter,” I said. I knew little of the craft. The object on her back must have been a painting. “What brings you to Aquitaine?”
She turned to me. Her eyes were a soft grey.
“I do paint, if that’s what you’re asking, good sir.” Her left hand fell to her knapsack, almost unconsciously. “I’m just passing by.” Her eyes settled on mine as she said it. “Do you have interest?”
“In these times, seeing something pleasant is much appreciated,” I replied. Not only did she look alive, but well, even after days’ travel. “What brings you to a tavern? Not much to look at here.”
She continued to gaze at me, almost as if preparing for a portrait, but in a manner that is not unpleasant. “In these times, those you find alive and untouched by the plague in the lowest of places often turn out to be interesting people,” she said. In a smooth movement, she untied the wrapped object from her back and laid it on the counter. “Interesting people provide for good study.” With the same balanced hand movements whose fluidity seemed somewhat familiar, she gently pulled back the fabric folds to reveal a stack of paintings in wooden frames. “Would you care for a look?”
I nodded, almost unconsciously, and noticed peripherally that Loire had stopped polishing the counter. The painter smiled lightly and almost glided over the two barstools between us, sitting on the one next to mine. I barely noticed the movement. But I craned my head forward to examine the topmost painting.
Or rather, three portraits laid side by side in the same painting. The leftmost panel showed a bare-chested warrior, known by the sword he carried, hilt held upright in both hands, the crossguard almost the width of the panel. There were many scars streaked across his shoulders and arms but the fixed, stern scowl on his face suggested a woundedness only in pride.
The rightmost panel’s figure was one in a cloak, their face concealed but for the mouth, which was set in an uncertain line. They wielded no weapon and were sitting on a rock facing a copse of dead trees with faded mountains past the horizon. More than boredom or desolation was a feeling of awareness, as if the figure knew the names of the trees and was mourning them.
The middle panel struck me. I did not recognize the woman, but more familiar than her cupped face or resplendent robes was the golden halo around her head. Lines of light radiated outward to hit the sides of the painting and a cross necklace hung from her neck. I knew that light, and was so close I could almost touch it.
In the next moment I found myself sitting back upright, away from the paintings, and Loire was pushing another mug into my grasping hands. “Here, drink this,” he murmured. I realized that my face had been but a finger’s breadth away from touching the painting, and looked quickly to the painter herself.
She was looking at me with even more focus than before. “I apologize, I didn’t mean to––” I started to say, before she put a finger to her lips. I quieted almost immediately. She tilted her head to the side, and I looked to my right to see the trio of gossipers staring at us curiously. I nodded. “Let us move from here,” she said, pressing a coin into Loire’s hand, extended forward. Loire smiled for the first time I had seen him, and I watched the painter return the paintings to their bundle and to her back as smoothly as she had removed them. Her movements were familiar. I had seen them before, in someone I once knew, but whose name I had forgotten. The painter got off the barstool and stood. I got off as well as I continued to search her face. Again, it was not the face itself that burned of familiarity, but something about her overall form that I knew.
“What is your name?” I asked.
“Octavia,” she replied. “Yours?”
“Render.”
I was walking in daylight, my shoed feet making headway through the paved streets of Aquitaine. It was the first time I was not spending the entire day with Loire. This was something I knew for a fact, as I could see the face of the painter called Octavia, who was walking beside me with light treads. It was not a face I had seen before, but a face that begged at memory.
“It’s not far from here,” Octavia said, pointing straight ahead of her across the grey street. “Where are you pointing?” I asked, seeing only more nondescript buildings and people staggering.
“Past the town, among those hills,” she replied, and indeed beyond the edge of Aquitaine were green bumps on the horizon, far enough away that I had to shade my eyes to make them out. “You have good eyes,” I told her. “That’s no trivial distance.”
She glanced at me but returned her gaze forward. “They’re useful for what I do,” she responded.
I nodded in agreement. “So you’ve escaped the plague as well,” I said casually.
Octavia let go an almost inaudible sigh. “That’s right,” she said. “We’ve both been spared.”
“Well, it only started six or seven days ago,” I affirmed. “Who knows, it may catch us yet.”
She looked at me curiously. “What do you mean by that?” she asked. “The Black Death hit France over a month ago.”
“You’re not from town, but Aquitaine was plague-free earlier this month,” I told her. “I may have been frequenting The King’s Parley for some time, but before that I was attending Edward’s royal tennis tourney. It was going without complications.”
Her look only increased in intensity. Was I saying something wrong? Something in the drink had cleared my head, and I now remembered more details––the glint of the sun reflecting off the racquets, the balls returning dutifully from the rose-spread walkways, the white rope stretched across the court. Both Edward and his son were excellent players, and the epithet “Rose Prince” had been sung by the crowds. Myself included.
Octavia, with one quick turn of her head, seemed to examine the whole of the street behind us, before returning her face forward. Again, it was so smooth I almost missed it. “I was there as well,” she said. “My memory works against me sometimes––can you remind me of the participants, besides the king and prince?”
“Certainly,” I said. “The best hitters had names given them by the court. There was the Lightweaver, for his skillful returns; the Fire Courtier, for his burning serves; and Face-changer, he who entered every match with a different face.” The last phrase made me start, and I knew not why I said it.
A sharp intake of breath––from Octavia. “We’re close,” she said, and I looked ahead of me to see that we were, somehow, already at the hills. Their well-grassed slopes swept upwards on both sides––they weren’t that high after all––and some moderately built trees lined their crests. Nothing like a house or even a cottage lay in sight.
My legs didn’t feel tired––in fact, it wasn’t my legs that gave me pause, but my arms swinging by my sides. They hadn’t felt as well-used in some time, not since––my head stung. A wisp of a moon peered into my mind. “How did we get here so quickly?” I asked Octavia.
“My home’s just this way,” she answered, walking to a nearby hill, one about fifteen, twenty spans high. I saw her give her surroundings an almost indiscernible glance again before walking some steps over and touching her hand to the side of the hill.
Nothing happened. I started giving Loire’s words of her inclinations a bit more thought before Octavia moved her hand a bit higher, and pressed. With her other hand she pressed upon the grassy bank some lower down, and I saw a door open on the side of the hill. Or rather, a door cut smoothly out of the hill, caved in slightly to reveal a glimpse of light from within.
The sight was so strange that I couldn't help checking my side vision––or rather, I had to turn my head around, to check that no one was within the vicinity––and yet so natural that I found myself walking towards the door and in after Octavia who gave the area one last look.
A spacious interior greeted my eyes. As Octavia closed the door behind me, I took in the dirt walls––which held paintings––several roots hanging from the ceiling carrying oil lamps, a desk and bed, and further inside another room, separated by an open entrance carved in the shape of a bell. Running my hand alongside the curved back of the desk’s chair, I recognized its design.
A small painting set into the wall above the desk showed Octavia with four other persons, the detail so precise that I could tell the artist had drawn in her own half-smile. I didn’t recognize the other four, but could tell that three of them were drawn with difficulty, their outlines rougher, the layering more mixed. It was as if those three were imperfect depictions––I was no painter, but even I could discern that. The other two, Octavia and a man with a tired smile on his face, were near perfect.
“Those were my friends,” Octavia said. I looked away from the painting to see that she had taken off her cloak and belongings, which now lay neatly stacked on top of a jar against the wall besides where I thought the door was. “We all caught the plague. I almost succumbed, but the others weren’t so lucky; and one is missing.” She cocked her head to the side, put her hands on her hips. “I’ve been searching for him since––and I think I’ve found him.”
I imagined her ears twitching. They didn’t, of course. But I knew that pose.
“Do I know you?” I asked. I looked at her face, and imagined some more. I imagined eyes not grey, but pearl silver. I envisioned the hair not short and brown, but long and verdant. I saw in my mind’s eye, I remembered, and I see in the present a mouth that quirks in not quite a smile.
“Do you remember now?” Octavia asks, and I take some steps back. The world seems to unfold before me. I see Octavia before me, Octavia who almost never smiles fully. I see her home, a home I have visited many times before and often in the company of Yaek. I see the painting of all of us, and it is different because Mareus, Basilia, and Octavia herself––as she is now, physically changed and yet still able to move as softly as she would and traverse distances––are drawn as if they were in nightform. But while nightform was a faculty we all shared, it was only I who would use it. And now I recognized that I was in some sort of nightform myself, but not so; and permanently.
And it was all due to the Magycal.
I did not feel the Flame within me, because I no longer possessed it. I cannot spread my wings in anger, because I am human. I could not muster my magic beyond the Flame, because I could not use magic. And I do not fly not because of the low ceiling but because I am no longer an Inmortalis but a Celbrian––what is now called ‘human’ in this world.
And it is all due to the Magy’cal.
I steady myself with a hand on the chair. Its slender back is marked by a flowing vine crossing a benign serpent. Benign, because I know which the serpent truly refers to. No human design, because I’d watched an Emulus weave the wood herself. And the human standing before me is certainly human, magicless, and yet something of the Emulus remains within her. I gaze at Octavia for a moment, standing still.
To paint what she can, and still be affected by them in the results.
“I remember. My name is not Reddus anymore.”
END OF ACT III