A Journey of Black and Red-Novel

Bickering in front of the princes would be a shame. Refusing advice from an undisputed master would be foolish. I must show unity with my kin since we are surrounded by strangers. If I repeat all those arguments often enough, it will distract me from Cadiz’ endless litany of observations.

A master must praise publicly, but chide in private. The rule is even more important when dealing with competitive apex predators born with a tendency for remorseless violence. Truly, the old Progenitor lacks bedside manners, and yet his insight is particularly brilliant. Perhaps this is why I tolerate his incessant babbling.

I hiss under my breath. Cadiz’ face appears in front of me, the man sometimes capable of moving without me noticing.

We glare at each other. Or rather, I glare while he stares fixedly into a point that could be my eyes or nothing at all.

It sounds like a supplication.

I stop, the two princes imitating me with eerie coordination. Their good manners allow us this moment.

Cadiz is the very image of the doomed artist, complete with hooded eyes and sickly body. Resignation haunts his gaunt features. Perhaps he speaks the truth, and he genuinely cannot play the delicate dance we keep between our instincts and the veneer of civilization. Perhaps his singular drive protected him from the savagery that comes with a lack of attachment.

I breathe out.

Cadiz does not comment. We start moving again.

Cadiz freezes midstep. His expression is one of unmitigated horror.

I accept. My essence expands into the usual sphere, now larger than ever before. I immediately grow a root under Cadiz in an attempt to trip him, but he effortlessly side-steps it.

What an infuriating man. I am starting to believe someone tossed him through that portal, after all.

While the old twit grumbles under his breath, I concentrate back on our current predicament. Revas outmaneuvered us in the first trial to succeed him, and I have no reason to believe the second will be different.

I hate so much to be so out of my depth that even the most basic task cannot be completed with any degree of surety. When we freed the fae from the fortress, it was Sinead’s project, but the details of the execution were clarified under my responsibility. The lack of control frustrates me. Perhaps some training would at least distract me from the deadly game. I walk up to Sinead, finding him despondent. It irks me.

“I am starting to think you were happier on earth, Sinead.”

The prince blinks, as if he had never considered the question.

“I was perhaps more light-hearted. You are right. My worries are getting to me.”

“What concerns you? The second task?”

Sinead casts an annoyed glance at Khadras but the hare fae ignores us, his attention devoted to our surroundings. It is true that we are still in winter’s domain, and yet the weather is more clement, somehow. The red fruits hanging from nearby frosted bushes are the crimson of ripeness, not blood. I can smell a hearth’s smoke on the wind. Besides, my Magna Arqa shows no threats anywhere close.

“I am concerned about the second task, true,” Sinead says in English. The message feels more diluted now that there is no objective meaning behind the words.

“And something the queen said,” he continues. “But there is more. I do not know if I should burden you with this.

“Better than burdening me with this dark mood of yours. The least you could do to redeem yourself is to entertain me, not present me with this gloomy air of doomed hero. Soon you shall write about ravens and casks and stare outward the battlement of some wind-swept fortress, cursing your cruel fate.”

“I cannot wait for you to become fluent in Likaean”

“So that I may nag you in your native language.”

“Oh, poppet, I would rather be nagged by your beautiful voice for a hundred years than serenaded an hour by Voidmoore’s greatest beauty.”

“Finally, some Sinead. Wait…” I add with suspicion, “given the local proclivities, it would not happen to be some sort of tentacled, eight-breasted creature? Because Nol has the head of a fly above a human mouth and I have to admit, I have seen better.”

“I have no idea! And yes, I am surprised you would tolerate him.”

“Strange appearances are tolerable, it is smell I cannot abide. Have I ever mentioned werewolf gatherings? I hate werewolf gatherings. I can always assess how many of them have engaged in coitus right before they attend.”

“It reminds me of my younger years.”

“As much as I want to learn more about your mysterious past, I believe details are not needed right now.”

“As you say.”

Suddenly, Cadiz throws a snowball at me, and I lean forward to dodge. I felt him in my sphere.

Cadiz relents, but I dread the coming weeks before the dragon hunt.

We arrive at the portal while night falls. From this angle, it appears as a circle of frozen ice, like a wave caught as it hits a rock. A pair of winter fae let us through without interruption.

I cast one last glance at the frozen lake and the castle hidden beneath. Despite the sphere’s apparent hostility, there is a certain beauty to it I regret leaving behind. There is so much to explore here, but I have so little time for now. I also know that the spheres are so vast and numerous one could spend a millenium traveling through them without growing tired. Immortality can be so frustrating at times. The passage of time will not kill me, but it can certainly stop me from living. Ah, well… Oh.

Rather than the warehouse I expected on the other side, we are drawn into a cathedral-like structure of stone and crystal.

Immediately, the bone-deep chill of winter fades, replaced by the crimson presence of the moon above. I lose control of my Magna Arqa, my essence contracting under the pressure of the one who is receiving us.

A guard of princesses and princes in silver garb wait in cold silence, occupying the space between massive diamond columns. Facing us is a throne of red glass in the semblance of a flock of ravens taking off, their red wings frozen forever mid-motion. The sovereign sits on it with impeccable poise. It feels wrong. She should be lounging.

Khadras does not stop so we follow him to the steps leading up. I spot my free gladiators and the flutterlings to the side, the latter held in a cage, which I find aggravating. The prince kneels with respect, hare ears still jutting up. The queen tilts her head ever so slightly.

TELL US.

“Our task is finished. The world is preserved. They acquitted themselves of the task to my satisfaction.”

WE ARE PLEASED.

THE DEBT IS ALMOST REPAID.

Sinead glares, and I recoil in horror. What does she mean, almost?

The sovereign stands slowly, and I resist the urge to fall. The pressure coming from her is oppressive. Her hand opens to reveal a strange device made of crystal, a handle ending with hooks around a small sphere.

Oh no.

ESSENCE WILL JOIN FORM.

“This is not what we agreed upon. I said we would retrieve memories.”

YOU DID NOT DENY US WHEN WE OFFERED THIS CHANGE OF THE TERMS.

WHEN IS A LIE NOT A LIE?

“Her maker will not allow it,” Sinead says.

The full attention of the sovereign falls on me. I suddenly exist much more, and cannot move, and intensely wish I were somewhere else.

“Our watcher is a jealous one,” Cadiz says.

BE QUIET.

The world itself falls silent. If I were to scream right now, the sound would decline its own existence.

WE HAVE NO TRANSACTION WITH YOU.

Cadiz handled, the sovereign inspects me. The experience is both intimate and rather upsetting. Eventually, she relents.

YOU HAVE A JEALOUS PATRON.

YOUR PRINCE DOES NOT.

HE WILL BECOME PART OF US.

A missing eye?

Dulled emotions?

“This is not what we agreed,” I state. “We would help you return memories once, not be drafted into your court.”

YOU WILL ANNUL THE AGREEMENT?

The pressure almost crushes me but this time, I do not relent. I know she is not using her true potential, but I do not care. She would betray the essence of the accord? With me? A Devourer? I think not. I push back and unexpectedly feel my essence expand by a tiny bit.

“PERHAPS I SHALL.”

“Ariane? It’s inevitable.”

WE WILL HELP YOU FACE THE OTHER PRINCE.

The sovereign leans forward.

And turns her head to my right.

We hear it first, and I suppose the sovereign must have felt it. It starts with a horn, but soon pipes join it, then merry drums. They rise in the blood moon sphere with a great clamor both defiant and happy, a clear statement as shameless as it is friendly, for it cannot be coming with her approval.

The queen walks towards the disturbance and I follow, grabbing the cage of flutterlings on my way since they cannot move themselves and make their desire to know very loud. We approach a titanic opening into the crystal and face the dark sky of the sphere from the height of its capital palace. The balcony overlooks the metropolis thriving inside of the crater, and in the distance, a portal has opened.

It would be large enough to let an old ship of the line through, with its masts and sail. Beyond, a blue sky can be seen. A multitude of fae cross the passage, singing and dancing and throwing petals around. Their music carries impossibly far and for a fragment of instant, it smells of the sea and of a meadow in spring. The Likaeans themselves are a strange lot, many humanoids and other satyrs or beauties made of bark. Beasts of burden carry pavillions and, in the case of a whale with feet, an entire gazebo on their back. Madmen juggle swords on fire, spells, or each other. A tall woman recites poetry while flowers bloom under her feet with each step she takes. Despite how far they are, I merely have to give one my attention to hear and see them as if they were right next to me.

The lot is presided by a grotesquely obese man lying on a chair moved by hundreds of laughing revelers who switch and change roles so fast it is a miracle he manages to stay aloft. He holds in his hand a golden goblet dripping wine with every step, but he is not the star of the show. That honor goes to a woman launching herself from the ground with a single step.

She arches her back, extends her arms while her light brown hair forms a cape behind her, lithe limbs gliding through the air. She is genuinely floating. The entire orchestra of wandering fae, hundreds of them, take a deep breath.

They play.

The young one is born under the boughs of black trees. It is spring. Silvery flowers bloom under the moonlight. She is awkward and innocent, her feet unassured in a way only a master dancer can simulate. She stumbles against trunks and rocks with an agonizingly beautiful enthusiasm. Her steps grow more assured. She leaps, she struts, she leans by a lake and watches her reflection for the first time. The young one wears a close-fitting dress of red leaves over her pale skin. Her arms are lean yet strong. She saunters.

Summer comes.

The young one feasts from heavy fruits and stalks the underbrush, scaring grey birds away she titters, the sound like rain falling on chimes. She is so silly, but she is getting better, and we can already see the predator in the grace of her gestures.

Summer is at its zenith.

The young one is a deadly huntress, her feet leaving no trace. We follow her, prowling the woods for prey. She rushes. She pounces. None can stand against her. The first of her prey falls — some beast hiding in a grove — and she drinks its heartblood under the light of the moon. The fresh offering drips down her carmine lips, dying them with the color of victory.

I take a step back at this moment because I can feel a foreign influence in my mind, but also because I have never wanted to draw more than I do now. If I could immortalize those moments on paper, even just a sketch, oh, I could create masterpieces to damn a soul to despair. The Seekers share my rapture and I think I see why. Below the incredible dancer weaving her tale in the air, the other Likaeans keep playing with a degree of mastery that would ruin opera forever to me if I cared more about perfection in art. There is something in the air, however, in the smirk of some of the players. It sends a shiver down my spine.

Above us, the woman keeps creating vistas and dances. Ghostly echoes make her moves more ethereal. Her dance is both animalistic and impossibly graceful. I cannot resist. I am drawn in.

Autumn comes.

The young one hunts beasts with unmatched mastery. The other creatures fear her, though they do not know what they fear, for she is a shadow, a sting that leaves no witnesses. Only one contests her realm, an old, scarred bear. He has survived a thousand challenges and readies himself to survive one more. Under the moonlit sky, they fight for dominion.

The old bear has seen much and lived through it. The huntress is strong but naive. He plays her, outmaneuvers her and conserves his strength. The huntress loses patience and snarls, but then a leaf withers and falls before her. Autumn has come and winter will follow. Patience is a necessary tool. The huntress takes her time. She studies her opponent. The bear is old and experienced, but he is also scarred. She tests him. She circles him to find his limits. She prods him, expecting a trap and finding it. She learns when he is faking a weakness and when he is not. The two opponents battle much more evenly. The bear is forced to go on the offensive or risk being cornered. He is no longer used to it. He makes mistakes. She makes him pay. He bleeds and she smirks. He roars and she giggles. Finally the old bear knows his end is near. He charges her in a last-ditch attempt to fend off his demise. She meets him midway, easily jumping over his swipe. She passes over him, and at the apex of her ascent, a hunter’s arrow pierces her heart.

She falls, broken.

Dead.

The dream breaks.

I recoil as if I had been smacked, but all my woes pale to the one of the sovereign. I assumed she could not feel, I was wrong. Whoever aimed that dance at her aimed to bite deep and bit deeply indeed. It tasted like the remnants of a forgotten past, brought back again to be murdered a second time.

The balcony in front of her explodes out. Chunks of stone and crystal fly through the air, crashing into the buildings far below. The dust left behind covers the deathly silent assembly.

The pressure from the sovereign makes me collapse against the balustrade. Even my Magna Arqa cannot save me from her, suppressed as it is by her presence. I dare not look at the sovereign. It is the dancer’s face that attracts all attention. She lifts herself from her corpse-like position like a blooming flower and salutes us. She pauses in the middle, the cascade of her hair falling strand by strand over a naked shoulder. She tilts her head. She is absolutely breathtaking.

Her smile is rather vicious, however.

“Another, milady?” the woman asks. Her voice is to die for. Poor Jimena would be undone.

Her words also carry a promise, one to bring a different sort of closure, but there is a condition.

There is always a condition.

The world holds its breath while the sovereign decides. Eventually, her terrifying gaze falls on us and I feel smothered, for she exerts little restraint.

LEAVE.

We are practically pushed out of the balcony and towards the exit. The flutterlings complain in their cage which does not surprise me as they seem devoid of the instinct of self-preservation. As an afterthought, she sends Khadras after us. He appears consternated in an unusual display of emotion.

We all move down the main crystal stairs and straight corridor of the keep with haste until we find more stone than crystal. Still, we do not slow. Only after we have reached the ground level and left through a monumental gate into a large, currently empty plaza do we finally stop. One of the chunks from the keep’s upper strata fell here, squishing a building and its occupants. Likaeans busy themselves clearing the debris with spells and sorrow. Some of the gladiators sit down where they are, complaining loudly. Makyas flies and lands on my shoulder, happy that my armor finally feels comfortable. In the ensuing chaos, I almost miss Khadras’ whisper.

“That was quite cruel.”

The short trip has not given him the time to recover. I realize we should not stay there and order the gladiators to form rank. Unfortunately, they are hungry, thirsty, and tired. I will have to find a place for them to rest before we can return to Voidmoore, where I assume the next trial will be announced. I share my thoughts with Sinead, but he is distracted.

“You know we were freed, poppet.”

“I assume this is the wandering court.”

“It is,” he says, looking into the distance without expression.

I follow his gaze. A woman approaches with two figures in tow, all wearing heavy robes. I recognize her as the dancer just from the supernatural way she sashays, every step an invitation to duet. She stops in front of my friend and places her hands on his broad shoulders. Her smile, which had been a sneer before, turns genuine, or at least as genuine as it can get for this strange race. Now that my attention is no longer taken by her story, the family resemblance is quite striking.

“My son,” she sings, “you have returned to us.”

Emotions spread from her like a perfume. She is delighted, relieved, but also concerned for the future.

I had never seen such happiness on Sinead’s jaded traits. They stay unmoving while we sheepishly wait, or rather I do. Khadras and Cadiz do not appear to care much.

Eventually, the emotions grow more subdued. Curiosity and amusement replace them as the woman inspects me, her deep amber eyes scintillating softly.

“And you must be Ariane. I have heard quite a bit about you. Sinead my dear, why don’t you introduce us?”

“Ariane, it is my pleasure to introduce the High Dancer Amaryll of the Wandering Court, my mother. You know Sivaya, of course,” he tells me as the elfin lady removes her hood. The last person is a man of noble stature, tall, with gray hair though not through old age. His dark eyes watch us with impassibility. His resemblance to Sinead’s mother would indicate that they are related.

“And this is Fanel,” Sinead concludes. “My son. Hello, Fanel.”

“Father.”

Hmmmmmmmmmm.

HMMMMMMM.

He looks older than me.

This is extremely, extremely awkward.

I curtsey to mask my embarrassment. I am entirely uncomfortable with the current development.

“It is a pleasure to meet you, Ariane of the Nirari,” Fanel says with a warm voice. “Sivaya mentioned your exploits, but she failed to mention your charms.”

Oh no please do not court me please please please someone let me jump into a lake of piping hot lava argargargargargargarg. He looks like Sinead’s older brother WHY IS EVERYTHING SO AWFUL?

“I see you take after your father,” I inanely blabber.

I wish there was a sun here so I could roast myself to sweet oblivion.

The Likaeans chuckle. Amaryll exudes mirth — at my expense, no doubt.

“Right, this is wonderful but could we move to another setting? My warriors need to recover,” I say to make it end. Amaryll approves and her mood shifts again to anticipation.

“Of course. You must all be exhausted! Come, join our encampment while we prepare the revels.”

I let Sinead have his moment with his mother, walking behind but at the head of the procession. The streets of the crater city hum with nervous energy, every person discussing the coming celebrations with excitation. Apparently, it has been eons since a troupe of the Wandering Court graced the Seekers with their presence. Makyas enlightens me by whispering into my ear, the experience only mildly disturbing.

“There are six large troupes in the Wandering Court. Lady Amaryll’s is one of the most famous. It is said she can dance a sovereign to tears!”

Well, she just did. I think. I could not watch.

The Wandering Court’s carnival comes in sight soon enough, and their members drag my warriors to tents in order to rest, eat, and pursue some other activities if my ears are not mistaken. I am given an individual tent while Cadiz leaves with Khadras. To my surprise, I fall into slumber almost immediately.

I wake up to music and laughter. Although my life is no longer governed by the sun, it appears my mind still requires some measure of rest. When I get out, the party is in full swing. Bands and performers delight the crowds with strange displays, forming clearings in a forest of pavilions. Strange games take place within the covered recesses. Moans of pleasure mix with the music and words in many tongues to form a peculiar cacophony, one that I do not mind much.

I do so, and the purple eye opens on the sky above us. I feel someone’s attention descending upon me.

On a small throne in the distance, the obese man inspects me with attention while tearing into some honey-glazed haunch. I ignore him, for now.

Cadiz shrugs, uncaring.

I groan, but soon we are on our way through yet another portal and back to the gloomy streets of Voidmoore with a rested complement of warriors. The first thing I find is Pookie, the house/ship moored nearby. She squeals when she sees us. I stare under and realize she has apparently given birth to a toolshed.

The spheres are quite a wild place.