At first it was just a vague blur of iridescence. And then it was a whirling ring of it, elongating and tapering until it was taller than she was. The space within the glimmering oval of energy began to warp, the air oddly displaced as though by waves of heat. Beatrice nearly dropped the precious book as she edged and tripped backward. Something fell from its pages and landed between her feet, but her eyes were riveted on the impossibility before her.
The singing in the distance came to an abrupt halt. An image began to resolve within the energy’s bounds, one of a man with a close-cropped beard, a great mane of rich golden hair—beaded and braided back from his face—and a pelt draped about his shoulders. There was a harp at his knee, and the whole scene was painted in the flickering glow of a nearby hearth. He wore an embroidered patch over one eye, but the other was wide and glowing with the reflection of what had formed between them.
His hands dropped from the strings of his instrument, and he set it aside as he stood. Then he began to approach.
Something solidified in the air within the glimmering oval and, like a sudden wave pulling her under, there it was again. That scent.
Beatrice gasped, reaching for the man, stepping towards him without truly meaning to. But though her body acted against her will and good sense, it was entirely aligned with her poorer senses…the ones housed in her heart and regions further below it.
There was one absolute need she had in that moment, and it was to close the space between them. But still she fought it, holding her ground and forcing her hand to drop once more to her side. There were things louder even than the Call in that room with her, monstrous things. Questions that demanded, no, screamed for answers.
And then quite a lot happened all at once. The crow screeched. The balcony door burst open. The Suit lurched noisily to the side as Darcy, Charles and Jemison all came crowding out past it, and the man on the other side of the energy field crossed through it and onto the balcony. The apparent portal wavered in the air and then vanished.
Beatrice fainted dead away.
----------------------------------------
She woke to the stinging intensity of smelling salts perfumed with lavender. Unfamiliar arms wrapped about her shoulders and back, propping her up. For a moment, after the confusion of unconsciousness dissipated, her head was lightning-flash clear—with no hint of the Call to addle or distract her.
And in that moment all she could think was what in all spirit’s names just happened, and how?
Then the hand holding the salts drew away, its owner no doubt realizing she’d come to. Within heartbeats the scent engulfed her completely—belonging, as it did, to the one whose arms in which she was cradled.
“Wha—whatever just—I don’t…”
Stammering in the presence of Darcy. Unacceptable!
But there was simply nothing for it. With some difficulty, she managed to drag herself up and out of the arms of the leather-and-lavender scented stranger, though it was the last thing in the world she wanted, and turned her back to the balcony railing to face the lot of them.
Like Jemison, the harpist kept his silence—but also like Jemison, his reactions to what unfolded before him played openly on his face. His gaze was intense, that one eye of his a piercing, pale blue. And it was full of the sort of distressed concern and conflicted longing that only had one explanation of which Beatrice could think.
“Breathe, Ms. Baraclough,” said Charles, standing to Darcy’s left behind the stranger. “Remember. Just breathe.”
“She’s a mage.” Darcy’s words cut through Charles’ soothing, sharper than the bone blade shining in her grip. “Congratulations, Ms Baraclough. You are officially the unluckiest young lady to walk the continent.”
“No!” She exclaimed, and in so doing near shocked herself back to silence. Only her indignation gave her the strength to forge onward. “No, I cannot be. Fox mages create monsters. They—” but her words stumbled to a halt, for in truth…no average citizen really knew what it was that fox mages did. The things for which they’d been blamed were varied and many, but only the crown, the church and their knights had the truth of it…and they held it closely.
To all others, the subject was forbidden.
But of course, Darcy was a knight. If she said Beatrice was a mage, then it was so.
Dread pooled in the pit of her stomach.
“Th—then what am I to do?” Beatrice blustered, brushing back tears as she looked from Charles to Darcy. “And are we ever to be introduced?”
Darcy scowled, an expression Beatrice was already becoming most familiar with.
The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.
“Ms. Baraclough,” she grated, gesturing with mock formality at the golden-haired man. “This is Lord Arron Stagston, our packmate and groundskeeper. He is forbidden from engaging in communication of any kind with you.” Narrowing her eyes, she flashed a poisoned look to Arron as he rose to his feet. “And for his part, he is quite aware of who you are. As for what you’re to do, I should think that would be obvious, now we all know you’ve got power.”
Darkness pooled in Darcy’s eyes as she glowered at Beatrice.
“Learn to suppress it.”
Beatrice gaped at her, clutching the book of fairy tales closer still. “But—”
“Furthermore, as a condition of your continued stay here, you shall swear to me that you will never make deliberate use of this ability again.”
“Darcy,” growled Charles. “She’ll make no such oath. You’ve no right to demand it.“
“I’ve every right!” Barked Darcy. “She’s a danger to us all, and you brought her here without my leave, against my will—”
“Just as you once brought Alice to our door,” interrupted Charles. “Be careful, Darcy. Your double standards are showing.”
“Don’t you dare make that comparison,” rumbled the other, shadows creeping from the corners to gather at her feet.
Somewhere in all the shouting and confusion and fear, Beatrice had begun to shake her head over and over again, hair falling free around her face. She hugged the book tighter still, as though it could shield her from overwhelm.
I don’t want this. I don’t want to be this. I want to go home. I need to go home!
She backed away until she was pressed against the cold, wet stone of the balcony rail, tears streaming freely now down her cheeks. It was all too much, far too much, and building quickly past her breaking point. Before she could think to contain it, power came crashing out of her all over again. A fresh burst of iridescence shattered the air, and a second portal began to form.
Beatrice stared through the flux of its interior, still able to see Arron’s face at the other side—his eye fixed directly on hers, expression unreadable.
“Close it! Close it now!” roared Darcy.
But Beatrice didn’t know how, and already she was growing dazed and weak from this second outpouring of energy. The warping within the portal intensified until she could see Arron no longer. But what she could see—or what she could only just begin to see—was home. And not just anywhere at home, but her own bedroom.
A great longing welled up within her, and she stepped toward the portal with a hand outstretched.
But then the wavering, translucent scene darkened. The color drained out of it, and it ceased to be her room. Though it looked much the same, there was an unidentifiable quality to it that was horribly, unspeakably wrong. Then something dark and dripping twisted its way forward from a shadowy corner, and Beatrice’s blood turned to ice.
So it’s true. She thought. We do make monsters.
The sinuous thing snaked through the air, an eyeless serpent of liquid darkness that sloughed off of it in strings and droplets as it moved. Then it parted its enormous jaws to reveal a maw studded in needle-pointed teeth the length of a forearm, every one of them more dazzling than a thousand diamonds. She was at once half-blinded and transfixed.
In a heartbeat, Darcy was there, positioned between Beatrice and the portal, her sword of bone upraised. Her shadows billowed up around her, shielding her and Beatrice alike from the blinding brightness of the diamond teeth. And then the serpent-thing struck, bursting from the portal as Darcy met it with her sword, the blade lodging in its neck. Her left hand releasing the grip, it twisted into a single complicated sign.
At once the blade began to glow with darkness—however that was possible—and the terrible creature screamed, sending sprays of black ooze everywhere. It shrieked on and on, beginning to shrink even as the darkness around the blade intensified. And then the beast was gone, and the umbral glow of Darcy’s sword was so strong it hurt Beatrice’s eyes to look upon. Drawing back the blade in her right hand, the knight executed another sign with her left. Then, both hands once more at the grip and roaring with exertion, she brought the sword down upon the portal itself.
There was another sound, something like a scream and the breaking of glass and nails across stone all at once. Then the energy shattered and dispersed, and the portal was gone.
The night wind howled and the rain sheeted down. Darcy was a darkened form half hunched at the heart of it all, back heaving with her breath as the rest of them watched. All of them silent.
And then the crow squawked.
Darcy straightened, her breathing slowed.
“Yes,” she sighed after a moment. “We’ll join you now.”
Then, thrusting the bone sword into the gauntleted hands of Beatrice’s guardian, she looked up to the others.
“Come, all of you,” she commanded. “We’ll speak with Gray of what to do.”
They parted for her as she made to leave, and she threw the door open to stalk through as though the structure had personally offended her. The others followed shortly thereafter, Jemison rolling his eyes and Arron throwing Beatrice a long, sorrowful look before stepping out of view. She made to go after them, but at her first step, the knight halted.
“Not you,” Darcy said, though she didn’t turn to face her. “You stay here.”
”But…my family…are they in danger? Are there more of those….those things… in our…their home?
There was a brief silence, and still Darcy didn’t turn to her.
“No,” she said. “There never were. That was not your home, but a place between. The portal failed.”
And then she left, taking her packmates with her.
Beatrice dropped to her knees on the stone and hugged the book of fairy tales, fighting back further tears—if only not to get it damp. Instead, she threw her head back against the door and released a grating cry of terror, want and frustration. The Suit dithered loudly on the spot, and she looked up at it, unable to stop herself from imagining that it was worried for her.
Ruffling its feathers, the crow emitted a caw and flapped down to peck about upon the stone. There lie the pamphlet that had dropped from the book as the first portal formed. Plucking it up in his beak, the crow hopped over to her and placed it in her hands.
“A Tale of Two Foxes” read the title in black. And below that, in red ink:
Warning, dear reader. Ownership of this booklet by anyone not in possession of special dispensation is illegal in the provinces of Dustren and all allied kingdoms. The reading of this story by anyone without special dispensation is illegal. The knowing or having heard of this story without special dispensation is illegal.
This version has been printed and distributed in defiance of the crown, for the sake of the people’s Right to Wisdom. Read at your own risk, or burn it to ash. It is your choice.
Beatrice held her breath as she read the warning again, and then a third time. Settling back as the crow fluttered up to her shoulder, she opened the pamphlet and began to read.