“Evelyn! Your wizard friend is here!”
I look up from the mess of dishwashing suds to see a spectacularly dishevelled Lucien blocking the doorway. He spots me and tramps over, his boots squeaking and leaving behind wet footprints. I’d sock him in the face for making a mess, but someone seems to have beaten me to the punch. Wait.
“Holy shit Lucien! What happened to your face?” I ask, an angry red blotch of bruised skin encircles his eye.
“Bar fight,” he lies – he probably just gave someone the shits.
“Hang on, we’ll go find Emmet – that looks pretty bad,” I poke his face and he squirms away. “I can literally see knuckle indents, are you going to be okay?” He brushes me off.
“We need to go,” he says brusquely, glancing furtively around the restaurant. He looks ready to pull me out the door but my manager looks over at the two of us, promising swift retribution if I dare leave my shift twenty minutes early. I smile winningly at her, then dip a cloth in a bucket of cold water and throw it at Lucien.
“Put that on your eye and wait over there,” I point at the fireplace. “Whatever’s going on, I’m sure it can wait until I finish my shift.”
He rubs his face in frustration then flinches as he touches his bruise. With a huff, he stalks over to the fireplace with the towel covering his eye. He stands there, gaze constantly shifting between the customers and the exit. Whatever’s climbed up his ass must be really freaking him out. Empty the rest of the dishes into the tub, then duck out when the manager wanders into the back.
“So, what’s up,” I ask. He flinches at my not-at-all sudden approach.
“The empire is here”, he says, lowering his voice and leaning in. “I just had a run-in with three of them – it’s those bloody wanted posters again.”
“Wait, you were actually in a bar fight?” I ask, that image sweeping everything else aside. He nods with an incredulous look. “Nice,” I offer my fist and he bumps it.
“I went back to the house and got our stuff,” he gestures to an over-stuffed satchel that I’d missed, “We need to find Emmet and get out of here.” He grabs my arm and starts pulling me towards the door.
“Hold up,” I say, pulling away from him. “What’s the Empire doing here? I thought you said that they didn’t go near the Northern Cities,” I say. “And what happened to keeping a low profile?”
“They’re not meant to be here!” he hisses back, making insufferable shushing motions, as if it matters.
“And how did they spot you anyway? Those posters don’t look anything like us.” His look of irritation is interrupted by a flash of guilt.
“They were looking for mages.”
“Of course they were fucking looking for mages,” I sigh, massaging my temples. “And you’re the idiot who can’t help but shoot a fireball at every candle you pass.” I jab him hard in the chest, “we worked hard these past two weeks – we all did. Couldn’t you just have kept a fucking lid on it?” he has the good grace to wilt a bit before the inevitable indignation takes over.
“I’m not going to let the Empire ruin my life – just because this town can’t muster up half a hedge witch, doesn’t mean I can’t use my magic,” he says, rounding on me, the satchel with all our stuff swinging awkwardly around him.
“Literally, two weeks – that’s all,” I say.
“I don’t have any skills apart from magic – it’s all I’ve got,” he hisses back.
He flinches after saying that, but no. Just because he’s a loser doesn’t mean he can just play that card. Just as we were getting settled, we have to deal with this bullshit again.
“We were meant to be looking for a way home today,” I say, frustration with him leaking into my voice. “How many more weeks do I have to wait if we get chased out of here? You promised me, remember?” He rears back to say something stupid, but catches himself.
“I know I said that – and I meant it,” he says, looking uncomfortable and contrite. “Look, I’m sorry for getting caught, I didn’t intend to get attacked by imperials.”
I take a breath and shuck off my apron, hanging it on the tusk of a stuffed boar’s head on the wall. I doubt I’m getting my last pay check anyway, so I’ll be damned if I have to wash and dry that. There was an incredibly tacky barbeque restaurant that seemed to specialize in burnt steak back home. The owner kept getting his pets stuffed and hung them all over the place. I can’t believe it managed to stay open, I wonder if it still is.
“Hey, we can still do my original idea,” Lucien butts in to my wallowing, poking his thumb over at the notice board in the corner of the restaurant. I push back the memories – though they feel much more distant than like, three weeks ago – and manage to quirk an eyebrow.
“For getting home?”
“Yeah,” he says, “I was going to look at the notice board and see if there’s any news of people with strange abilities – you know, like you and that bard.” I try not to think about the bard too much. I’d seen him in an ungooified state for maybe half a minute before I got shot. I try not to think about getting shot either.
“How is that meant to help?” I ask. He shrugs and shuffles towards the boards anyway.
“Well, there might be wanted posters other than ours,” he says. “Something that points back to the cult. They’re probably the only lead we have anyway. It’s not like alternate world transport magic is common – you’re statistically more likely to be a confused demon than actually from another world.” I lightly jab him in the ribs, but he both makes sense, and makes me feel slightly better.
The notice board is packed with posters, flyers and scraps of paper. Even more lie scattered and trampled on the ground. Everything is layered to bursting, the only rule seeming to be that no one dared to cover up anything that looks remotely official. This makes our jobs super easy, because surrounded by napkins filled with smudged writing and bad drawings, sits a familiar mug, with even more familiar text below him.
Those Empire scribes have worked their magic, and Sable’s rocking way more malevolent shadows than he could probably manage in real life. The hand-print burn scar over the side of his face has been sharpened up to look like cool claws marks – way more flattering compared to ugly smudge that Lucien left him with. Somehow, he’s managed to keep his smouldering good looks even in wanted poster form. Why does he get to smoulder? My sketch made it look like I’d been punched in the face.
I squint at the writing below Sable’s portrait, as if that would help it make more sense. Phonetic my ass, and why do they need fifty letters in their alphabet? I nudge Lucien who’s aimlessly sifting through pinned napkins.
“Agent of calamity?” He reads, “are they rebranding, or is this guy just special?” I give him a second to push through his face-blindness while I try to figure out how to read ‘calamity’. “Wait, it’s the cult leader – fuck this guy.” He runs his thumb against his jaw, tracing the little white scar that runs along it.
“Does it say anything else?” I ask, looking around for more Imperial wanted posters. I spot a few, all of them ostensibly looking for Sable, but his features get muddier with every new poster.
“Last seen in Havale – we knew that already,” he says. I tear off one of the posters – the scar taking up two thirds of his face in this one. “Last seen in Uçan – I think that’s nearby…” he trails off and moves over to study a region map that looks a little too medieval to be accurate. Though we are in fantasy land, maybe I should take the ‘here be monsters’ more seriously.
While Lucien figures out which way is north, I flip through the notice board, sounding out the letters like a five-year-old. There are a few more posters of Sable, which I hand to Lucien, but the rest of the board is covered in all kinds of ‘help wanted’ notices. Even after almost three weeks of crushing reality, my stomach flutters and my heart picks up the pace. I can’t properly read them yet, but I’m not expected to. Scribbled onto napkins and parchment scraps are rough doodles of monsters with a number listed below them.
A six-legged monster with whipping tentacles stalks above a juicy set of digits. The stick figure drawn for scale has got to be bullshit – the little crown drawn next to the number says otherwise, and I quickly put the notice back. I scan through the rest of the adventuring quests – because that’s what they’ve got to be. One of them is for a rat infestation, another has a bunch of goblins drawn around it, coloured a green that I’m almost excited to know is the wrong shade. I almost take that one, but I don’t. Jarring vibrations run through unfeeling arms and the squelch of flesh being parted sounds in the distance.
I sigh as the excited flutter begins to gurgle. I reach for a note with a smaller number. No picture, just words and a number – knights this time, our kind of pay-grade. I squint and try to parse the cramped text – vegetable lamb? I’m not that bad at reading, am I?
“Right, I think he’s heading westward,” Lucien sidles up, holding the most handsome variation of Sable’s poster. “If we follow the coast, we should be at least heading in his direction. We can even afford transport now – staying here wasn’t a complete loss, yeah?” he blusters along, halfway between defensive and trying to make me feel better. And he’s kind of right, west is totally better than no direction at all – also walking sucks.
“Cool beans, if you’ve got everything then we can swing by the church to pick Emmet up and head out,” I say and he pins the posters back up, completely upsetting the unspoken rules of the notice board. He probably revels in it.
We follow another table out of the restaurant – camouflaged as to avoid being seen by my boss – and flake on out of there. Lucien makes a show of glancing around nervously for hidden imperials, making him a million times more suspicious than he would be otherwise. Honestly, I don’t know how we lasted as long as we did.
Before we begin the long and no doubt arduous winding road down to the church, I pull him and his satchel into a nearby alley. The midday sun is already hanging spitefully overhead, the sea breeze doing nothing to stop the sweat from trickling down my back. While I can hardly blame the sun for being obnoxious, I can blame this bloody dress that they made me wear while working in the restaurant. They’d probably call it a traditional gown, I’d call it a tailored potato sack, and we’d meet halfway at completely inappropriate for the weather. And fuck me if I’m going adventuring without pants.
“Have you got that other pair of pants in there?” I ask Lucien, already grabbing the satchel.
“My other pair of pants, you mean?” he replies, letting go of the satchel anyway.
I rummage around and pull out his spare pair of pants. Farmhand-chic and smelling of old wool, but a far side better than wearing a full body carpet. I move back into the shadows of the alley and step into the pants. Lucien twigs onto what I’m doing at his own pace, and belatedly spins around. He shifts around awkwardly, looking not quite sure if he’s meant to be blocking the entrance, or how’s he’s meant to accomplish that.
“I’ve got the dress over it Lucien, it’s fine,” I say, pulling the pants up underneath the ankle length skirt.
“You can’t seriously think that that makes it fine,” he says. “Is this payback for getting found out?” Maybe a little, “It’s very immature if it is.” Getting into nagging mode – his element – he begins to twist his neck towards me. With a sharp pull, I rip the dress at the waist and tear the skirt off. Lucien’s head darts back to facing the alleyway entrance.
“All done,” I say, sighing in relief as the cool sea breeze is actually able to do its job. I’m left wearing the pants and the top of the dress. I throw the torn-off skirt over Lucien’s head. “There, you can use that as a hood or something – disguise yourself.” I wiggle my fingers at him and he actually considers the idea.
Unauthorized tale usage: if you spot this story on Amazon, report the violation.
We walk out of the alley and I hail down the tram as it trundles down the hill. I think it stops here anyway, but it’s basically a reflex from back home. We snag a seat and Lucien starts struggling to arrange to skirt into something not completely embarrassing. I don’t know why we haven’t just dyed his hair black or something – it’s definitely the most obvious feature out of the three of us. He’d probably have some excuse to stop us anyway.
He gives up, ties a few knots and wears it as a floppy bonnet. It’s pretty funny, but at least he settles back and calms down, even as we trundle past an imperial soldier.
“How come the Empire gets to set up shop here? Isn’t Kismet an independent nation or something?” I ask, watching the knight clank past. Lucien leans back in a huff as the tram rounds a turn.
“It’s an empire, imperialism is kind of their thing,” he answers entirely unhelpfully.
“Doesn’t anybody stop them? There’s got to be consequences, right?” I lean out the window and watch the chrome tin cans part the crowd as everyone hurries to get out of their way. Lucien just shrugs.
“Yeah, the consequences are that Caithurt gets more stuff,” he must sense an ephemeral aura of displeasure from me as I scowl and poke him, because he elaborates. “Kismet and the rest are city-states. No real military, no real allies, and they’re all probably making deals with Caithurt to stab the rest in the back. Y’know, politics.”
“Aren’t the public unhappy with that?” They sure tried to avoid the knights when they could. Lucien leans over me and peeks furtively out the window, skirt-hat flapping in the wind. With a snort, he pushes himself back into his seat.
“They do that with the city guard as well. Never hang too long around someone who’s got a sword in public. You must have noticed that all the peasants always suddenly find something else to do when the guards walk past? – you know, us basically having been peasants for a fortnight.” He catches the attention of the guy stoking the engine fire and gestures for the next stop. “Anyway, the imperials are technically here to help spread the Mother’s church – they’re a package deal, and they’re muscling everyone else out, apparently.” I nod, remembering Emmet being uncomfortable whenever it came up.
“It’s still bullshit,” I say. A bit low-key for an evil empire, but still pretty low. “The Empire could still have the decency to be significantly less scummy than the evil cult.” Lucien squints suspiciously at me.
“I don’t like the sound of that moralising – makes it sound like you want to do something about it.”
“I’m just saying that if we’re going to go after a cult, we may as well –” He interrupts me with a scowl.
“No, no. We’re prepared to go and ask them to send you back,” he says, “Worst case, maybe, hijack a ritual. No stopping evil – that sort of thing tend to works itself out eventually anyway.”
I huff and pointedly don’t answer him. I’m the one with the magic fighting powers anyway, I’d be doing the evil cult stopping – not that I’m planning to in any case. The tram grinds to a halt in front of the downtown church and we step off. Lucien inches behind me as we head towards the big wooden doors. Imperial soldiers mill around looking bored and making a nuisance of themselves. I didn’t realise that there would actually be so many of them here – maybe I should have reconsidered this and found a disguise. Hopefully we can just slip inside and find Emmet quickly.
“Hey fish-prick!” shouts one of the knights, making the both of us jump. I try to just keep moving but the knight is predictably pointing his finger behind me. Somehow, Lucien has pre-emptively insulted someone before we’d even had a chance to say anything. Record time really. The knight comes over, “like we told your bloody priest, stop trying to set up anymore shrines, and stop leaving fish heads everywhere – it’s disgusting.”
Lucien just stares at the knight in absolute bewilderment, fight or flight landing squarely on fucking off right now. “Get off me – what the fuck are you talking about?” His natural response of shoving the knight away and acting indignant doing him no favours right now.
“Don’t play dumb with me, I can see your stupid amulet,” the knight says, pointing at an ugly seashell necklace around Lucien’s neck. I’ve never seen it before, but it’s tacky enough to legitimately be his. I quickly try to nip this in the bud before Lucien panics and takes a swing at him or something.
“Sorry sir, we’re not planning anything to do with shrines or fish heads,” why would we anyway? Is this a religious thing? I can play into that. “We’re actually here to visit a friend – maybe even renounce, um,” I trail off and look to Lucien for the name of whatever this is meant to be. He looks back, utterly confused.
“I can’t remember the name,” he exclaims, as if incredulous that we’d expect him to. If anything, its that almost impressive lack of piety that makes the imperial completely lose interest and shove Lucien away. He swallows whatever he was considering shouting at the retreating steel plated back, and tucks the necklace into his shirt. Doesn’t look like we’ve been recognised. Without any more kafuffle, and not wanting to tempt fate, we reach the church doors and wait our turn to head in.
“Are you sure you’re allowed into a church,” I ask Lucien. “You won’t catch fire or something?” He rolls his eyes and keeps walking forward.
“Ha ha ha, very funny,” he says. Totally not hesitating a little as he crosses the threshold.
Our shoes echo sharply as we enter the church, the noise from outside falling into the distance with every step. We reach the pews and my feet sink into the carpet, the sensation travelling slowly up my leg. The candles that line the room flicker once and flare up as one, my limbs feeling long and detached, my hands and feet stretching across the room.
The candles pulse slowly, matching my heartbeat that throbs loudly in my ears. The rhythm slows down, each pulse of light and heart growing slower until my breath stills and vision blurs.
Then Lucien falls to the ground and starts convulsing.
O – O – O – O – O
I grip the red book tightly in front of me. The title, embossed in gold leaf like it had never been when I’d had it, shines up at me. Just as bright, the author’s name follows it. Silver filigree that had long since disappeared by the time I’d found it, wraps gaily around the cover.
I look around the library, floor-to-ceiling bookshelves packed tight with identical red spines. I slide the book I’m holding back into its slot and pick out another. Rothmore’s name shines with an entirely understandable amount of silver embossing. I flip open the cover of Darke Mag’kx and the spine creaks as fresh resin strains against the covers.
Instead of incomprehensible scrawl, words melting away like worms in a compost bin, I’m met with mostly incomprehensible scrawl. Awkward print handwriting, the sentences curving down slightly as they wobble across the page. Half a cup of butter, two large eggs, one teaspoon of cinnamon. I fan through the book then slide it back into the bookshelf. I walk slowly, trailing a finger over uniform, red spines. I fish out another.
Five teaspoons of baking powder and a cup of butter, I take out another. Twice the flour and half the baking powder this time. A little message in one of the margins, scratched out in cramped script, notes that this try turned out much closer than the rest. Gods my handwriting was atrocious when I was little. Prepubescence is no excuse for mediocrity.
I take a step back to stand in the middle of the library from back home, though dyed red from innumerable rosy book spines lining the walls. I kick the expensive carpet and feel my foot sink into the thick fabric, shorn off of something endangered. Feels real, and just like it had before I left.
Now, I’m not usually one for massive, total-sensory hallucinations. So, by my estimation, either I just died, or something significant is happening. Please let me have had a stroke – I don’t want a divine house call.
The fireplace splutters and dies, along with the rest of the reading candles in the room. I’m left standing in the dark, the only light remaining being a faint glow coming from underneath the door to the main hallway. Something’s getting awfully impatient. Never one to do as I’m told without complaint, I pinch my leg, bite the inside of my mouth and give my best shot at meditation. None of these measures result in me waking up. So, the ‘had a stroke’ theory is still holding water.
I give up and open the door, which predictably lets me out into the main hallway. The torches along the wall have gone out as well, and a chill descends on the old stone of the manor. The corridor to my left disappears into inky shadows, my room is somewhere down that way, but I turn around and go the other way.
My father’s study sits just next door to the library, the stained wood door just as tightly closed as it always is. I stand in front of it, some vague sense lightly pushing me towards it. I’m pretty sure that you’re not really meant to follow the directions of an alien presence in your head, but that’s easier to say when you’re not stuck in a detailed hallucination.
As if tired of my dawdling, a soft knocking sound echoes out from the door. My finely honed instincts fire and I flinch back at the sound. The knocking pauses politely before resuming its smart rapping against the hardwood door. I hesitate, trying to remember the rules about demons and inviting them in. I ignore my common sense, turning the handle and opening the door.
The manor dissolves around me and between blinks, reforms into a clearing, surrounded by a dark forest. I step out of the doorway and shuffle uncertainly into the clearing, the moon hanging low in the sky and bathing me in pale light. There’s a rustle in the trees above me and I glance up to see the branches filled with black birds. Hundreds of glowing red eyes blink back, staring almost expectantly at me, as if I’m late. They don’t make a move, so I try to ignore them, walking stiffly into the middle of the clearing. I’m not too clear on the status of my mortality right now, this probably being some kind of illusion.
There’s a small child crouching underneath a tree in the middle of the clearing. I wander over, giving the girl a bit of space, and wondering what the point to all this is. The girl doesn’t look up at me, she just keeps dragging a stick through the dirt. I peer closer and notice that there’s a centipede and a snake struggling in the soil as the child keeps flipping them over with her stick. Weird kid.
“Hey kid,” I say, almost startling myself as I break the silence. “How’s it going?” The girl looks away from her wriggling playmates and regards me calmly.
“Fine I guess,” she says, seemingly unconcerned about the entire situation. Strange, I’d expect a figment of my psyche to be more neurotic. “Kinda hungry though,” she looks at me with the entitled expectation of an eight-year-old. I sigh, cave in, and glance around for the food I’m sure is about to manifest.
Almost immediately, my expectations are answered. Drawing on my superior height, and paranoia of the surrounding birds, I prove my worth and see a golden apple hanging from the tree above us. I stretch up and pluck the apple. Nothing happens. I sigh in relief and toss it to the girl. She catches it and drops her stick in the soil.
Taking the opportunity, the centipede and snake flip themselves over and scurry off. The centipede disappears under the tree, but the snake wriggles its way over and wraps itself around my ankle before I even have the chance to freak out. I flail around and try to kick the snake off, but it stays put and ignores my efforts. Whatever, it’s a dream snake, what’s it going to do?
The girl finishes the apple before I even look back up, and throws the golden core over her shoulder. Without a word, and only a glance at me over her shoulder, she approaches the tree and crawls into a hole beneath the roots that probably hadn’t been there before. I crouch down and peer into the burrow. It’s predictably pitch black and barely wide enough to wedge myself into.
“Am I meant to follow you?” I call into the hole, my words are swallowed by the void and left unanswered. I call again for good measure, then flick a firebolt into the hole. It sails off into the darkness, getting smaller and fainter as it travels in an uninterrupted arc. Bloody dream tunnels.
I sigh and start easing myself into the tunnel – feet first because I’m not an idiot. The snake tries to wriggle up my leg as I lower it into the void, I push it back down with my foot. It can make itself useful and warn me if there’s something down there.
Contrary to my expectations, the hole just continues in a dark tunnel as I shimmy my way past the roots. What was up with that firebolt then? A clod of dirt falls into my mouth and I splutter. I roll over as best I can and spit out a mouthful of grit before pushing forward. I wriggle vaguely downhill, edging my way forward with my hips and elbows, and trying not to think about the loose dirt walls a hands-breadth above me.
After gods know how long banging my knees and getting dirt in my eyes, I feel the slope flatten out, then start going back upwards. The next thing I know, my foot connects with a dirt wall and goes right through it. The tunnel is immediately filled with blinding light and I’m left wincing and waving my legs around in empty air.
There’s a rustling sound above me and something grabs my foot. With a heave, the little girl drags me from the manky tunnel and I emerge into a small candlelit room. I stumble to my feet and brush dirt off me. The room is cramped and made of rough wooden boards. As I stand there, blinking dirt out of my eyes, I notice a slight swaying that doesn’t seem to be coming from my end – are we on a boat?
“So, uh, what now?” I ask the little girl.
In lieu of a useful answer, she stretches her jaw open and looks to the ceiling. A pale hand reaches out from her gullet and braces itself on the girl’s shoulder. Another arm slides out and gently stretches the girl’s jaw open a bit wider. With a firm push, a head emerges, and with seemingly effortless grace, a tall, robed figure pulls itself out the girl’s throat and lowers itself to the ground. The little girl clicks her jaw shut and pops out of existence.
The figure touches down and turns to regard me. White hair, white skin and white robes glare brightly even in the dingy room. The details of their face seem to coil around but constantly resolve in abstractly pleasant, feminine features.
“So, uh, what now?” I repeat the question to the probably-a-god. She turns to me and smiles with a thousand overlapping mouths.
“Greetings my child,” she says, her voice an echoing cacophony that morphs in my mind to manifest as a soothing, musical tone. I almost throw up at the sensation. “I have been waiting for your arrival for some time now.”
The Mother – because I’m pretty sure that’s what’s going on right now – lays her hand on my shoulder, turning me around. The flesh of the hand roils against me but all I feel through my shirt is a sensation of comfort and security. My heart rate picks up and my back grows cold and clammy as the divinity swings me around to take in the room.
Hunched in the corner between some barrels, there’s a girl sitting still. I don’t know if she’s been there all this time, or if she’d just manifested suddenly as everything else here seems wont to do. Unlike my other dream companion, this one is older – around my age, but who can really tell – with dark skin and darker hair. Her clothes are scuffed up and she looks pretty miserable. She shows no sign that she notices my presence, she just stays curled up in the corner.
“Who’s she,” I ask, my breathing is becoming more laboured and sweat is starting to bead on my brow. I brace myself for The Mother’s voice, but it doesn’t really help.
“Vile agents are plotting my downfall, my child,” she says. “We haven’t much time, but this girl is the key to preventing the coming dark.” Her voice buzzes against my sinuses and I stagger to my knees, hand clutching feebly at my chest.
“What?” I manage, a response compelled from me as I lean numbly against the floor.
“Find the girl, my child,” the voice rings, burning across my insides. “Find the girl and prevent the coming dark.”
My vision blurs in sweat and tears. Across from my body, the girl curls tighter and the lights dim to black. Emmet’s god fucking sucks.