SONG of EMBER

26

TOUCH OF THE OTHER

🙜

The trees were tall, slender and black—it reminded him of the tainted forest above Sisters Footstool—and something else was wrong about it aside from the forlorn appearance, though he couldn’t name it. The absence of something…

Something important.

He strolled past willowy trunks and drooping leaves, passing his hand across the living deadness of the cold bark, and shivered.

No sound.

There should be birdcalls in a forest of this size, but he could hear not one. It was a world devoid of comings and goings, of rustling, flapping, twittering, scurrying. The entire woodland held its breath, even his footsteps muffled by loamy earth.

Where am I, and why am I here?

He knew that it was a passing dream, though in all his life he had never dreamt of a stillness such as this. He was aware. Aware that he slept, even as the bark texture crumbled away beneath his fingertips, like ash from a burnt out coal.

Yet the notion of wandering until he waked had no appeal.

So he stopped, taking a deep breath of sodden air and staring at the motionless mists.

As if prompted by his shift in mood, a breeze whispered through the trees, disturbing the mist and hinting at a shadow beyond his sight. He remained still and silent, filled with wonderous dread as a familiar figure stepped forth, elegantly pulling a reddish wave of hair over her shoulder and letting it trail down to her ankles.

She stood tall before him, naked and shining in the light which came from nowhere, mouth curling into a toothy artifice of a smile.

“Hello, man.”

Ember swallowed hard, keeping his hand on the tree.

It was then that he realized he had no spear, no armament.

Only the clothes on his back.

“Hello, witch.”

Sil pursed her lips, black eyes sparkling—not displeased with the name. He noted a dampness at the corners of her mouth, but before he could quite comprehend it, her tongue flickered out and it was gone. She flared her nostrils twice, sniffing silently.

“And for what purpose are you wandering here?”

He paused, stricken by the resonance of her voice; she spoke as deftly as one of the townsfolk from his humble valley, though her words were more enunciated, and echoed forth with more commanding clarity—she lingered on each syllable, winding them round her tongue to taste their essence before they left her ruddy lips.

Yet there was a peculiarity to those words, an accent which he could not place, which turned his common speech into something of the otherworldly.

“I could ask the same of you,” he answered at last.

Sil grinned, fangs glimmering.

“I love it,” she crooned, “when men pretend they are clever.”

His heart pounded, and he slowly hugged himself, digging his nails into his arms in hopes that the pinching sensation would awaken him. But nothing changed.

“And you think you are, is that it? This is clever, whatever you’re doing here?” He tightened his grip and gritted his teeth. “Leave me alone. I don’t want to speak with you.”

This is only a twisted nightmare; you can’t forget what you saw in the oracle’s sanctuary, and that is all there is to it.

“'Tis you who summoned me, is it not?” Sil spread out her arms, sauntering another step. “Well met, young one. Ne’er has the daughter of Clan Veli beheld such power in a mortal thing—least of all a mere boy. Perhaps it is she who is at your bidding…”

His face flushed at her implication; the taunt brought a tangle of emotions to the surface: indignation, loathing, and a hint of desire. Yet at the word ‘boy’ he caught a faint twitch of her upper lip.

Derision.

But her remarks had given him a measure of courage: if he held the power, he could make her go away. Were they still linked through the well somehow, or was she towering over him even now, weaving her siren enchantments about his unconscious mind? Could it be another trick—more mountain magic, like the book of echoes?

“Now, that I very much doubt,” Ember couldn’t help muttering;

Her lip curled fully. “You never did tell me your name, did you?”

His heart pounded.

Maybe this isn’t a dream.

“My name…?”

“When I asked you, before—is that why you have summoned me here? For a meeting proper?” Sil relieved him of her sultry stare and cast her glance around the mist, inky eyes flitting from tree to tree. “There are some things sacred among all living beings, not least of which is this. If I am telling you my name, then you are bound to tell me yours.”

Her casual disinterest disturbed him…

For all her empty flattery, it left the impression that she had no concern of anything which he might do—and he supposed, were he a sirena with the world of sound and magic at his bidding, then he would not fear Ember Jarelsson either.

If there was even the faintest chance that Ember could cast her out of his mind, he decided it must be attempted, and the sooner the better. So he closed his eyes, thinking as hard as he could about nothing at all.

“This is my dream,” he declared very firmly. “And you aren’t in it.”

A cold breath chilled his face, and she chuckled—a whispering sound, like water tumbling over stones in the autumn. “Am I not?”

Ember turned and ran—faster, further, stumbling downhill, surrounded by the deadness of his own waking dream–but he had not gone more than a handful of paces before he tripped, pitching forward with a strangled cry and falling to the forest floor.

A chortle of laughter floated through the silent woods.

“Wake up,” he huffed. “Wake up, wake up!”

“Why do you run from me, boy?” came the fair, fell voice. “Or have you no real power after all? How disappointing that would be…”

The obscuring mist rolled slowly away before her lullaby tones, refusing to hide his shaking form. Shuffling leaves and moss whispered behind him.

WAKE UP!

He pinched himself desperately.

Smacked his face.

Scraped and clawed at the loamy soil.

“Where have you hidden the dark-haired one?”

A chill finger trailed the nape of his neck—

❧

“AAAGH!”

Ember yanked upright, fingers clasped around cold metal. Sweat rolled down his back and dripped between his eyes. A cool blue glow illuminated the blood-spattered corridor, and he saw a silvery rune-etched blade extended before him.

Fishbiter.

The shortsword was clenched in both his hands, trembling like a leaf in the winter.

For a moment, Ember remained very still, struggling to understand what had happened. The pool of Ky's blood remained as it had been when he had first reclined against the wall, except that it had begun to crack and flake, and Fishbiter's bluish aura glittered upon the reflective shards of glass. No fiend of the deep grinned down at him, ready to devour him whole.

Unsatisfied, he glanced about the stone hallway, aiming the sword in every direction. Not until several minutes had ticked by in silence did he exhale, slowly, and draw himself up onto his knees. The sword buzzed faintly and dimmed like a snuffed lamp, plunging him back into the darkness of the mountain.

He coughed, swallowing several times and attempting to spit the sour taste from his mouth.

"I'm alright," he whispered. "I'm alone..."

Alone, for the present.

But he decided not to dwell upon that thought.

"Guess it's just you and me for now, Fishbiter."

Ember rose unsteadily to his feet, taking a swig from the flask he had stolen. A drop of water tinked upon the blade and he glanced down at it, wiping an arm across his mouth; he was baffled as to how the sword had ended up in his grasp, or how he had managed not to lop off a limb in his sleep, at that.

The trail of fresh blood was getting more difficult to discern among the old stains and dusty debris, but he found—curiously—that if he held out the sword before him, the drops and smudges took on a luminous blue sheen in the glow of the runes.

"That's fortunate," he mused. "Thank you for your help..."

Fishbiter shivered faintly in his grasp with a hum of ringing metal.

It almost sounded pleased.