Deep magic second coll.., p.28
Deep Magic - Second Collection, page 28
part #2 of Deep Magic Collection Series
I used a thought wave to summon aid. Then I hurried to the net and began to cut it with an unsheathed nail.
The screams came when I was halfway through. I continued with my work, until the opening was large enough for the girls to come out.
The several screams waned until there was only one. Then that too ended in a shriek.
I looked at the girls and nodded. “That’s it. Let’s get your friend back to her senses.”
The hysterical girl had stopped laughing and started sobbing. It took her friends a little while to calm her down. They were almost done when Cecil ran in.
“A monster,” he blubbered, his face awash with sweat and tears. “I’ve never seen the like of him. He had two heads. He caught them. I could hear the bones breaking . . .” His body heaved with sobs.
“A good thing too,” I said primly. “Don’t waste any pity on them.”
“It’s a fitting end,” Kinnya snapped. She was the plump one. I was impressed by her guts. She realized what the men were about to do to her. But instead of fainting, she kept her wits about her. The moment she was free she set about helping me.
Her words somehow calmed Cecil. He gave her a tremulous smile and sat down by her.
“I think it was a yale,” he said after a while. “I’ve read about them. I couldn’t see well in the dark, but I think he had horns and four hands. Did you summon him, ma’am?”
“You don’t summon a yale, Cecil. You ask him nicely.”
* * *
The next morning we accompanied Kinnya and her friends to the edge of their village. We watched until they entered, Cecil’s eyes bright with unshed tears. Then we resumed our quest.
But I was done with walking.It was time to cadge a flight.
“Mickey” was what Dragon Makarakshaya wanted his friends to call him. I’d known him for six hundred and some years. I sent a thought wave requesting his presence.
Most people had certain expectations of dragons. Those expectations didn’t tally with reality in general. In the case of Mickey they were leagues off the mark.
Mickey believed white went best with his silver scales and pearlescent wings. Today he wore a white brocade bonnet, a white silk stole, pearls, bracelets, rings, and a choker as thick as a tree trunk. A white velvet reticule hung from a scaly wrist.
I waited for Cecil to display the usual reactions—popped eyes, gaping mouth, failing limbs. He didn’t. He looked frightened, but not more than usual.
He bowed deeply when I made the introductions.
“I’m honored to meet you, Sir Dragon,” he said, and sounded as if he meant it. “I’ve read many books, by and about you.”
So that was it. Books again.
“Pleased to meet you, young man,” Mickey boomed. Cecil went rose red with gratification.
Mickey turned to me, his eyes twinkling. “Medhi, what are you up to?”
“We are on a quest,” I replied blandly. “Cecil will explain.”
Cecil did, at length.
“Have you heard of this place?” I asked. I had noticed the wariness that crept into Mickey’s face as Cecil told his tale.
“I have.” Mickey’s eyes met mine. “Not quite the same story, though. There was a royal family, a very rapacious bunch. Violent too; they loved hunting.” He paused and added, “People. On horseback, with bows and arrows—poisoned ones.”
Perfect in-laws for Luki.
“You knew the mage Mayakkar, didn’t you, Medhi?”
“Of course. Didn’t he pass away to the Great Oblivion last year?”
“He did. He was born in that kingdom. The people sent a message to him pleading for his aid. He visited the castle and asked the king and the queen to curtail their activities a bit. The king and the queen agreed to limit the hunt to once a year, instead of once a month, if he gifted them and their baby daughter with eternal life.”
“A mistake,” I murmured.
“A mistake indeed, Medhi.” Mickey’s voice was gravelly. Like me, he avoided looking at Cecil. “Mayakkar agreed. He wished eternal sleep on the entire brood. No death; just endless sleep.”
Cecil was panting as if he had run miles. Mickey’s words gave the lie to his father’s tale. And in Cecil’s besotted eyes, his father was the epitome of truthfulness, just as he was the epitome of goodness, kindness, and bravery.
“The wish was to come into effect on the baby’s sixteenth birthday. Mayakkar told me he wanted to give her a chance. In case she turned out to be different from her parents. She didn’t. So he allowed the curse to go through.”
“Are you telling me my father lied?” Anger was one emotion I had not seen Cecil display. Now he looked livid.
Mickey didn’t answer. His eyes were filled with pity.
Cecil staggered to his feet and turned to me. The anger had vanished, leaving his face parchment pale. But when he spoke, his voice was steady.
“My father is the soul of honor, ma’am. He would never lie. Never. I mean no disrespect to Dragon Makarakshaya. Perhaps he has been misled by this evil mage. I’m not going to abandon my quest. This is my chance to prove myself to my father, to show him I’m indeed his son. I’m not going to throw it away.”
I bit my lip. His abhorrent father was his idol. He’d rather kill himself than admit that his idol had feet of poisonous slime.
“Stop being theatrical, Cecil,” I snapped. “I summoned Dragon Makarakshaya because he can fly us to this place you want to go to. Once we are there, you can go in and discover the truth.”
Mickey opened his mouth to object, met a dagger stare from me, and shrugged his massive shoulders in resignation.
* * *
The castle was a thing of beauty, from the sky.
Like all enspelled entities, it was untouched by time and elements. It gleamed in the morning sun, a vision in snow white and rose pink.
Makarakshaya landed on the immaculate lawn.
The garden had flowers, trees, ponds, everything except life. There was not even an insect or an ant. The silence was complete.
“What a beautiful place, ma’am,” Cecil cried, his face splitting with joy. I’d never seen him look so happy.
“Why don’t you go in?” I said. Some truths you had to face alone, irrespective of the consequences.
He kissed my gnarled hand and Mickey’s scaly one, ran to the nearest door, and vanished inside.
“What will happen if he kisses the princess?” I asked.
“I don’t know. I didn’t ask Mayakkar that. Perhaps he too will fall asleep,” Mickey drawled.
“He has courage,” I said, after a while.
Mickey lifted an eyebrow. “I thought he’s scared of everything?”
“He is. That’s how he has courage. Where there is no fear, there is no need for courage.”
More time passed. I tried far-sight, but it couldn’t breach the enspelled walls.
Suddenly Cecil was upon us. He collapsed on the grass and wept as if his heart was breaking. Perhaps it was.
“She was there,” he said at last. “So beautiful. So beautiful. But it doesn’t work.”
“You mean you kissed her and she didn’t wake up?” I asked.
“No, I didn’t. I was about to. Then I remembered Dragon Makarakshaya’s story. So I decided to look around. And I found this room.” His voice sank into a whisper. “A lovely room, with golden walls and marble floors, looking onto a garden full of flowers. There were heads mounted on the walls, human heads. Including children, three of them—one didn’t look older than five.” A sob shook his body. “I realized Dragon Makarakshaya was right. And that my father lied to me.” His eyes clung to mine. “All my life I thought the world of my father. I trusted him and believed him. I wanted to be like him. I don’t know what to do now.”
His eyes belonged to the dead. I made a decision.
“Cecil, I haven’t been honest with you. I have the power to remove the curse. You will lose your fear of the world. You can then go home and claim your rightful throne.”
I expected him to be elated. He wasn’t.
“You’re not being entirely honest even now, Medhi,” Mickey drawled. “You know the rules. First show him images of all possible futures.”
“It’s a suggestion, not a rule,” I snapped. The boy needed a reason to live, not another reason to die.
“I want to see, ma’am.” Cecil’s voice was low, but it contained a hint of determination. “I spent my life hiding from things I didn’t want to see. Better to know than not to.”
I closed my eyes and spread my hands, allowing my foresight to form the images. I knew what they would be. A king Cecil who would be a worse Luki, a much worse Luki.
That was the only future I foresaw when I peeped into Cecil’s cradle all those years ago.
I couldn’t see Cecil’s face. But the sound of his breathing filled my ears.
“I think I’ve seen enough, ma’am.”
I opened my eyes. Cecil was pale but composed. I’d never seen him composed before.
“Let the curse be, ma’am.” He took my hand and held it. “I think I’m the better for it. I’d rather be scared of the world, than have the world be scared of me.”
“What will you do now?” I asked. “I presume you don’t plan to go back home.”
Cecil shook his head, his lips pursed into a thin line.
“I want to make a suggestion,” I said. “Why don’t you go to Kinnya? I had the impression you liked her quite a bit.”
“It’s no use, ma’am. When I told her who I was, she said she doesn’t want to have anything to do with me. She said my father employed dasa catchers. They took her sister. I didn’t believe her.”
And now you do, I thought. No wonder humans clung to illusions. They are more bearable than the reality.
“You are not responsible for your father’s deeds, Cecil. You are only responsible for your own. I suggest you go back and tell Kinnya everything that happened. You said there was no purpose in your life. You saved Kinnya. You saved the others. You risked your life to do it. Even if she refuses you, there is much in the world you can do. The quest your father set you on was a false one. Your real quest begins now.”
“But I’ll always be scared.”
Mickey grunted. “Young man, you’ve learned to live with fear. You have a good head on your shoulders. And a kind heart. Those are what make a quest, not swords and horses.”
The silence lasted a long while. Finally Cecil nodded.
* * *
Makarakshaya landed in a broad valley, about a league away from Kinnya’s village.
Cecil tumbled off the dragon’s back, picked himself up, and bowed. “I thank you, most honored Dragon Makarakshaya, for everything you have done.”
“Call me Mickey.” The dragon took a visiting card from his reticule and gave it to Cecil. “Here are my directions. Drop by when you are out and about righting wrongs. My doors are always open to my friends.”
Cecil flushed crimson and thanked Mickey at length. Then he turned to me.
“Shall we go, ma’am?”
I smiled. “You shall go, Cecil. It’s your quest. Take my word for it. You don’t need me anymore.”
He knelt and kissed my hands. I felt his tears.
“I don’t know what to say,” he whispered when he was on his feet at last.
“See you around?” I leaned forward and kissed his forehead. “Go well.”
He walked away, stumbling over stones and roots, but never falling.
“Do you think the girl will take him?” Mickey asked.
“I’ve no idea. I think so. Either way he’ll manage. He might not do great deeds, but he will do some good. And he’ll never ever do any harm, not even to the tiniest, most defenseless creature. There won’t be any epic poems written about him. But this sorry world will be a little better because he lived in it.”
Mickey nodded. “And you, Medhi?”
“First an errand, and then home.” I grinned nastily. “Cecil has found his lost self, and I’d never forgive myself if I didn’t inform his father of the glad tidings. Luki is planning a little invasion. I must catch him before he departs.”
I waved at Mickey and vanished.
ABOUT SAM MULLER
Sam Muller is an emerging writer. Her writing has appeared in a Third Flatiron anthology, the Pedestal Magazine and Cosmic Roots and Eldritch Shores. She is currently in the query trenches, holding aloft her first novel, a fantasy.
SPLINTER
By Rysa Walker | 8,500 Words
A FLASH OF green pulls my eyes to the corner of the room. As always, my heart jumps, praying it will be Kate. Knowing it won’t be, can’t be. The heart keeps looking for miracles, long after the mind has abandoned hope.
The new arrival stares back at me, CHRONOS key still in his hand. Or rather, still in my hand, since he’s clearly a version of me. A future me, most likely, since I don’t remember any circumstances from my past that could have put another me here. Something is smudged in black on his forehead. It looks like one of those . . . can’t remember the name, but it’s the symbol Hitler and his Nazi thugs will use in a few decades.
And Future-Me is bleeding. The right side of his white shirt is drenched, the red appearing almost black in the green glow of his CHRONOS key.
Bloody hell. I’ve got a double memory coming.
When presented with a future version of myself who is injured, possibly seriously, the fact that I’m about to get hit with a double memory probably shouldn’t be my first concern. But it is. I can feel it starting already, gnawing away at my brain.
In memory number one, I’m sitting here all alone, flipping back to the front of my notepad, to see if there’s anything I missed the first few times I tried to reconstruct that night in 1893. It’s a tougher task than I’d imagined it would be, given that I’ve dreamed about running through that burning hotel hundreds of times in the years since. Or maybe that’s why it’s tough—the memories from eight-year-old me are all mixed up with the nightmares.
In memory number two, which is growing by the second, the notepad in my hands is still closed. And I’m staring at this second version of me who’s popped in out of thin air. Who I’m pretty sure has been shot.
The two realities feel equally real, equally true, but since I’m in the middle of the second reality where there are two Kiernan Dunnes in my room, that’s the one I have to run with.
“What happened?” I ask, as I reach under the bed to grab my makeshift first-aid kit.
“Tried taking his gun away. Doesn’t work. And don’t bother with bandages. I won’t last that long.” He registers my expression and then adds, “No, I’m not dyin’. Hurts like hell, but I don’t think it’s gonna kill me.”
“What’s that on your forehead?”
“A four.”
I squint, and I can see it now. Kind of. “It’s backwards.”
“Try writin’ a number on your own forehead when you’re in a hurry. I’m livin’ proof that you suck at it.”
I don’t even bother to ask why the number is a four. I’m pretty sure I know the answer, and it makes me physically ill to think that it’s not just a double memory I’ll have to reconcile, but a quadruple or maybe even quintuple memory. Never had one of those. Can’t say I’m looking forward to it.
“No,” he says, reading my expression. “It’s only a double memory. We just needed to keep track of which double I am.”
I open my mouth, but then close it again, pretty sure that any clarification on that point is going to make things worse.
“And stop askin’ questions. I don’t have much time.”
“How far in my future are you?”
He gives me an exasperated look, probably because I’ve just asked another question. But this one is kind of important, since it’s the best indicator I have of whether I’m going to still be here ten minutes from now—whether he’s the splinter or I am. The amount of time a splinter has varies, but Simon says twelve minutes is the longest he’s seen.
That’s the thing with splinters. They’re really easy to create, although I can’t say I understand the temporal physics or whatever that’s behind it. To create a splinter, you just jump back a few minutes into your own timeline and change some little thing. Keep yourself from doing whatever you were about to do. The version you see when you arrive in the past—he’s usually the splinter, and his clock starts ticking as soon as you arrive.
The key word there is usually. Under some circumstances, the one who created the splinter is the one who ceases to exist. No one seems certain as to why, but Simon thinks it has something to do with how far you jump back. Twenty minutes or so, and most likely, the other guy is the splinter. Longer than that, and the odds are reversed. I’ve only splintered myself once, and Simon didn’t mention that there was any ambiguity on this point until after we were both staring at our duplicates.
But then, that’s typical of Simon. He’s never been bothered by existential questions. Me, I’m not too fond of looking at an identical version of myself and wondering exactly what’s going to happen when time’s up. Simon treats splintering—and every other aspect of time travel—as a game. He once splintered himself so he’d have company on a roller coaster that looked like it was made of spit and twigs, after I refused to get on the death trap with him.
In one sense, I guess Simon has a point when he says it doesn’t matter who’s the splinter. The other guy is still you. But it gives me a god-awful headache. Judging from the expression on the face in front of me, Future-Me feels the same.
“I’m twenty-five days in your future. I’m pretty sure that makes me the splinter, but if I’m still here five minutes from now, you can pull out the first-aid kit. For now, just shut up and listen, okay?” He reaches behind him, grimacing as he pulls something from under his belt. A few drops of blood spatter onto the wooden slats of the floor, and then he shoves a handful of papers toward me. “Most . . . of the information you’ll need is here. Skip the stuff we already tried. Any attempt to rescue Kate before we get her grandmother to safety will fail, and it’s getting crowded in that room. And—obviously—don’t try for the bastard’s gun. He’s got more than one bullet. Me takin’ this one didn’t save her.”
